When I Was Out of Town For a Few Days, My Wife Immediately Invited Her Ex To Our Family Dinner...

When I Was Out of Town For a Few Days, My Wife Immediately Invited Her Ex To Our Family Dinner...
The silence wasn't empty; it was heavy, pressurized, like the air in a room right before a backdraft. I walked down the hallway, the sound of my boots on the hardwood echoing louder than I intended. I knew every squeak in this floor. I knew which motion sensors were currently blinking red in the corners of the ceiling, tracking my movement.
I rounded the corner into the kitchen.
My wife, Tara, was standing by the island. She wasn't cooking. She was leaning back against the granite countertop, a glass of my Pappy Van Winkle bourbon—the bottle I was saving for our tenth anniversary—clutched in her hand.
Next to her stood the owner of the F-250. He was exactly what the truck promised: six-foot-three of flannel and bad decisions, with a beard that looked like it harbored fugitive crumbs and a baseball cap pulled low. He was halfway through a slice of pizza. My leftover pizza.
"Rylan," Tara breathed. She looked like a deer in headlights, if the deer was also holding a forty-dollar glass of whiskey. "You said... Friday."
"Tuesday," I corrected, dropping my laptop bag on the floor with a heavy thud. "I said I'd be back Tuesday. But then, I suppose time flies when you're drinking your husband's liquor."
The flannel giant swallowed his pizza bite with a difficult gulp. He puffed his chest out, a reflexive dominance display that might have worked on a smaller man, or perhaps a Golden Retriever. "Look, buddy, let's just calm down."
I laughed. It was a dry, scratching sound. "Buddy? You're parked on my lawn, eating my food, and standing next to my wife. We aren't buddies. We aren't even in the same zip code of acquaintance."


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