Charlie's Angel

26

The atmosphere in the car was thick with anger and fury. I could feel the heat radiating off of Chris in waves, warming up the whole car. Something was wrong, but he wouldn't tell me, so for the moment I was along for the ride.

The phone call didn't sound good at all, which would probably explain his sudden change in demeanor. All of his actions were quick, and he almost broke his keys by the way he yanked it to the right to start the engine. His back was rigid against his seat, eyebrows scrunched together in concentration to get things done correctly, and his palms were gripping the steering wheel tight enough for his knuckles to protrude and drain of color.

Two things I gathered from his phone call–which were very bad.

One, his sister was back. But she wasn't due back for at least another month or so. Which could possibly mean that something happened to her. I didn't want to just speak negatively so quickly, but what else could it mean? Surely her duty wasn't fulfilled or whatever and they didn't need her anymore, right? That's not how things happen, right? But looking at how angry Chris was, I couldn't help but think the worst. Something was wrong with her and that's why she was home so early. She had had an accident.

The other thing–probably what I'm most afraid of–is his mother. He was taking me to her house, and I was going to meet her for the first time. I wondered if it was too soon to be meeting each other's parents, considering we had no titles. And I was technically still married. And I especially didn't want to meet her with three hickies that came from her son on my neck; I didn't want to risk getting on her bad side–especially not on the first day. This was bad all the way around.

I didn't exactly know how to ask what was going on, because Chris really didn't look like he wanted to talk. Or breathe, for that matter.

So I sat in the passenger seat wordlessly, with my hands folded in my lap, and let him drive me to wherever his mother lived. My heart was in my throat, and I could only imagine how he felt. Sweat was beginning to form on his forehead, and he was eating away at his bottom lip nervously.

"C-Chris?" I whispered.

He didn't take his eyes off the road, "What?"

Okay, that was a bad idea. I remained quiet for the rest of the ride.

His mother lived in an expensive neighborhood in Marietta. Every house–two-story and up–had either a Lexus, BMW, or some other expensive car in their driveways. His mother was living well, I could tell. I smiled in relief at that, too, wishing my mother was living the same.

He pulled up to a two-story white house with black shutters and black front door. The lawn was well kept and a healthy green color, and on one side of the pathway that lead to the porch were rose bushes. A shiny black Escalade was sitting in the driveway, along with a van that looked like it transported the handicapped. Shit.

Shit, shit, shit.

Chris parked outside the street so that the van could leave easily, and he waited in the car a while. A silence settled between us and my heart was beating rapidly. And when I looked over at him, he was still chewing on his bottom lip.

I didn't have any words to soothe his anxiousness, so I slipped my hand into his lap and stroked the back of his palm with my thumb. He stared at our hands for a moment before looking up at me. His eyes blank, face stale.

"If you want me to stay in the car, I will," I murmured steadily, my eyes filling with tears.

He had been so happy earlier this morning, like he was on top of the world, but now his whole world came crashing down. And I couldn't do anything to comfort him.