The Divorcee Murder Club

Cincuenta Y Uno ~ 51

              In movies and books, full moons turn men into werewolves, but tonight, it’s turning us into assassins, and despite my past, I don't know if I'm ready for this.

So, I’m sitting on my stoop, waiting for Jackson to pull up to the apartment, and scrolling through social media to distract myself. Every once in a while I'll look up Celia to spy on her latest posts. I'm surprised she hasn't blocked me yet. Then again, she probably wants me to see her bullshit life. The photos are always the same of her and Ramona doing couples' stuff like posing at a restaurant all snuggled up, but the latest pisses me off. The caption says, Happy Anniversary, baby. I can't believe it's been twenty years.

Twenty fucking years.

Celia has no shame flaunting the fact they were in a relationship during our marriage.

And the comments are even worse.

It's filled with congratulations, and someone even hashtags, couple-goals.  Stomach acid coats my tongue, so I swallow a few times to prevent the puke from rising, but when I look away from the screen, I see Evan.

"What the fuck..." I say under my breath.

This is unexpected, but perhaps the distraction I need to stop doom scrolling through Celia's posts like a pathetic loser. His jacket collar is turned up, and he approaches like a married man about to proposition a hooker on Eddy Street. 

“What are you doing here?” I ask.

“I came to drop off what’s left of the flyers…” he says. “Why are you sitting out here?”

“Waiting for Jackson.”

“Oh…” he rubs the back of his neck. “Where ya going?”

If I tell him we’re going for drinks, he’ll want to tag along, and if I tell the truth, he might be crazy enough to join that too. The guy is like a lone wolf looking to rejoin the pack, but I still don’t know if we can trust him.

So, I lie.

 “To the police station. To see it they have an update on Alma.”

“Kinda late, isn’t it?”

“Well, when Jackson gets a wild hair up his ass, I don’t question it.” 

“Right…” Evan shoves his hands in his pockets and stares at the ground. 

Aside from the sound of the city coming to life with honks, and a distant siren, we share an awkward silence. He should just walk away, but I doubt the flyers are the real reason he’s here.

“What are you really doing here, Ev?”

“I’m sorry,” he pipes up, then clears his throat. “I’m sorry about how I acted that night at Chloe’s. You guys went into fight-or-flight mode and did what you thought was best to protect her. I get it now. After all, don’t people say that if you’re a good friend, you bury the body and ask questions later?”

 “Sure.” I shrug.

“I overreacted.”

“Or you reacted like any rational person would.” I shrug again. “Most people would call the cops, so you weren’t wrong for freaking out.”

“Maybe.” Evan nods, his gaze still at his feet. “But, Chloe is one of my best female friends, and I was ready to get the cops involved, which means she would be in jail right now. So, you and Jackson did the right thing. We protect each other, right?”

“We try.”

“I know it’s been a while since we’ve hung out, so… feel like grabbing a beer, and being like old times?”