Best Day Ever: A gripping psychological thriller with a twist you won’t see coming!. Kaira Rouda
unlock the door, pulling her inside our second home behind me. It makes me hot just thinking about it. I’ll slip my arms around her waist, pull her close to me as I lean in for a kiss. She’ll press against me, opening her lips, as I feel her knees buckle. I’ll swoop her up in my arms and carry her to the couch in the family room. It’s new, we haven’t even broken it in that way, the way we would have when we first met, when the attraction was stronger than common sense. The thought makes me smile.
A sweaty guy in a white tank top and green apron waves some plastic-coated menus in the air in our direction, and says, “Over here.”
I squeeze Mia’s waist and whisper in her ear, “Do I know how to wine and dine my wife in style, or what?”
Mia laughs, perhaps her first genuine laugh of the day, as I walk behind her to a corner booth, perfect for two. Perfect as long as you’re both thin, I should say, trying to slide into my bright red seat, barely clearing my stomach under the Formica tabletop bolted to the wall and draped with a green-and-white-checkered plastic tablecloth. I’ll breathe shallowly and be fine. I like this corner booth, even though it is sized for tweens, my back to the wall. I can see everyone coming and going. I might not be sporting a tank top revealing my guns, but don’t worry. I can protect my wife from whatever could possibly come our way.
The walls and ceiling are painted green and someone has hammered a white lattice checkerboard pattern on the walls. The place is dripping with sports memorabilia. Ohio State football dominates, alongside mementos from any other Ohio sports team the Sloopy’s staff deems worthy. They know their customer here, that’s for sure. Ohio State and the rest of the pennants are a vibrant and colorful scarlet and gray contrast with the green-and-white decor. It’s a look that couldn’t be replicated but somehow works in this small restaurant. It comes across as quaint and, at this moment, extremely cozy—especially around my midsection. I should listen to Mia more when it comes to my diet.
“Good call,” Mia says, seeming to relax. She smiles her big smile and looks at my belly. “Are you okay in this booth? You look a little snug.”
I’m going to consider her comment a show of concern, not snark. “I’m fine. It was nice holding you. We should do that more often,” I say. I almost believe I see the circle blush on her cheeks, almost.
“Mmm,” she says as a specials menu is dropped on the table. The waitress who tossed it appears to be a student from an area high school. Charming hot-pink stripes streak through her long brown hair. She has a tattoo circling her right wrist and a shiny round nose ring in her left nostril. I wouldn’t let her come home looking like this, not if she were my daughter. I wouldn’t let her come over if she was a friend of one of my sons. It’s a good thing I just had boys. Yes, I know boys can get tattoos, dye their hair and pierce various appendages. Mine won’t.
“What can I bring you two to drink?” she asks. If she were chewing gum, the whole effect would be complete.
“An iced tea, please,” Mia says. “No sugar. No sweetener.”
“Same for me,” I say, although what I really want is a Tito’s Vodka on the rocks, no fruit. But alas, Lakeside is dry, so I must wait until I’m inside my cottage to have a drink. Yes, it’s a dry community filled with drinkers. We just carry our roadies around in plastic cups and pretend it’s Coke. The hypocrisy is amusing, and somehow, right. Unfortunately, it’s only noon. Back in the heyday of advertising, long after Mad Men, but before the advent of more human resources–driven rules, hours-long liquid lunches were the name of the game. It was what you did to entertain clients, land accounts or just hang out with the other guys. Those were the days.
Of course, if you were trying to work your way up, as I was in the early days of Thompson Payne, you never actually drank as much as you seemed to be drinking. No, you made sure your boss’s glass was never empty, you were quick to light the end of his cigar and you always told the funniest jokes. I kept John laughing up until the door swung closed on his face. It’s just what you do in advertising.
“How old do you think she is?” Mia asks, clearly referring to the pink-striped creature fetching our tea.
“Likely only in high school, still living at home, terrifying her parents, who have lost all control of her. Scary, right?” I say. I’m finding it harder to breathe in this booth, the more I think about teenagers and tattoos and project both onto my little boys. My boys as teenagers is something I’ve imagined with an equal mix of hope and dread. They already know, even at six and eight, they would never be allowed to come home with a tattoo. They know my rules, at least as much as I can impart at these ages. No tattoos. No girlfriends who have tattoos. No swearing. No back-talking. Ever. Throw the football like a man, a perfect spiral. Always. They live in a dictatorship, not a democracy. End of story.
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