Page 8 of Dear Debbie

“Actually…” Debbie scrambles to her feet anxiously. “I didn’t have a chance to make you lunch yet. I can make it now though. Would you like a sandwich?”

Debbie always packs me lunch. I never asked her to do it, but as soon as we got married, she declared that to be one of her responsibilities. I couldn’t say no, since whatever she made was always a hell of a lot better than what I’d get from the food cart or some drive-through.

This is the first time in our marriage that she hasn’t had anything packed for me. It leaves me feeling strangely off-kilter.

“That’s okay.” I don’t want to let on how hurt I feel that my wife forgot to make me lunch. I’m a grown man, and it seems ridiculous to say it out loud. “I’ll grab something at the strip mall near the office.”

I round the table to give Debbie a kiss. I don’t think I’ve ever left the house without kissing her goodbye, and that’s one ritual we won’t be forgetting today. I press my lips against hers as I lower my hand to her back, feeling the curve of her delicate rib cage through the soft fabric of her dress.

As our lips separate, Debbie looks into my eyes. “Good luck with Ken.”

Yeah, I’ll need it.

I parked in the driveway yesterday, so I leave through the front door to get to my car. I lock the door behind me, which is a reflex drilled into me by Debbie. We live in a safe neighborhood, but she always says that an unlocked front door is just asking for trouble.

“Mullen!”

I pull my key out of the lock in time to see my neighbor, Brett Carlson, standing on our front lawn, his boots crushing the green grass that my wife has spent so much time keeping lush and healthy. I don’t know how Debbie does it. She’s some kind of plant genius.

“What’s up, Brett?” I say, stifling my irritation about the grass.

That’s when I notice the way Brett’s teeth are clenched together. A muscle under his right eye twitches as he takes a menacing step toward me. He looks pissed. I’ve never been in a fistfight before, but I’m worried it’s going to happen for the first time today. Right now.

“The electrician is here,” he spits out at me. “She didn’t just snap off the switch. She destroyed the wiring too.”

What the hell is he talking about? “Wiring?”

“My fuse box,” Brett clarifies. “Your wife snuck into my basement last night and wrecked it.”

At first, I think he’s got to be joking, so I laugh. But the furious expression on his face quickly makes the smile drop off my face.

“What are you talking about?” I shake my head. “Debbie didn’t do anything to your fuse box.”

“Bullshit. She’s the one always complaining to the cops about my music.”

It’s possible that’s true, but still. The accusation is outrageous. I’d think Brett has been drinking, but I don’t smell it on him. “You’re wrong.”

“I’m not wrong,” he says, “and let me tell you, Cooper: you better keep a close eye on that wife of yours.”

I roll my eyes before I remember how much I hate it when Lexi does that. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.” He levels his gaze at me. “She’s dangerous.”

I don’t know what to say to that.

So I keep my mouth shut. Debbie always says you can’t reason someone out of a mindset they didn’t reason themselves into. Thankfully, the electrician comes out of Brett’s house and calls him over, so I’m off the hook. Still, my shoulders don’t relax until Brett is back in his house with the door closed behind him.

For a moment, I wonder if I should warn Debbie about Brett being on the warpath. But that seems unnecessary. His accusation is so outlandish, I’m sure he’ll soon realize that he made a terrible mistake.

6

FROM DEAR DEBBIE DRAFTS FILE

Dear Debbie,

Let me tell you, I just love me some jazz. Nothing beats flipping on the radio and hearing something from Kind of Blue. But bless his heart, my husband won’t let me listen to it! He’s all into folk music, which just ain’t my cup of sweet tea.

But here’s the kicker: If we’re in his car, he says that since he’s driving, he should get to choose the music. Fair enough, I say. But when we’re in my car and I’m driving, he says that since he earns more money than I do, it’s technically his car, so he should get to choose the music then too! Tell me that ain’t the biggest load of hogwash you’ve ever heard!