The Babysitter

J Crew

Rebecca

My shaky hands grip the steering wheel as thumping rain pounds the roof of my minivan. I'm not supposed to be here but I am and I can feel the rage. I play the scenes over in my head, the times when he was working late at the office or had to go on a quick, two-day emergency meeting. Was he screwing someone? I feel like an idiot. I'm that girl. The one who thinks she has a good thing but is actually blind and oblivious. I wonder how many women he's cheated with? How many of them are our friends? I immediately think of Jenna, our neighbor who frequently asks Andrew for help to move furniture. Or Krystal and how she always leaves her dishes at our house and Andrew takes them back to her at some random time in the day.

More thoughts play their way into my consciousness and pieces fall into place. That woman from the Christmas party who threw her drink in his face. He was probably screwing her. Images and scenes unfold like a great unveiling. I am living a lie. I have been so immersed in thought, that I don't realize I've exited my car and walked to the front door. The porch light is off and I'm soaking wet now. My makeup streams down my face but I can't tell if it's from the rain or tears. It isn't until my ears register the 3 firm knocks from my knuckles that I realize where I have driven. Am I standing in front of Tom's house? Holy shit! What am I doing?

I turn on my heels to make for my getaway but it's too late. Tom opens the door.

"Rebecca?" He says, "is everything okay?"

"Yes, Tom," I reassure, "everything is fine. I had a question about the Johnson job. But nevermind. I don't know. I'll be going."

"You're soaking wet," he says, "did you fall in a river?"

I wave my hand at him in a careless gesture.

"This is nothing. I'm fine really."

"Come inside and I'll get you a towel. You're going to get sick that way," he says and guides me by the hand inside.

I stand in the entry, shivering. I suddenly can't stop my chattering teeth from clipping. I guess I'm a lot colder than I thought.

I take the place in as I rub the warmth back into my arms. It's not what I expected. I suppose I envisioned a more country-boy, redneck general contractor kind of thing. Boot scrapers by the door or 12 point antlers on the wall.

But it wasn't like that at all. Hanging by the entry was a painting with a spotlight on it and it gave the room a certain depth I hadn't anticipated. I walk through the house taking everything in. This wasn't the home of some general contractor, laborer, it was the home of an art geek with a refined sense of culture. This place could easily be directly out of Franklin Street Loft's catalog. It had open rafters, brick walls, hardwoods and stainless steel. I was geeking out when Tom walked up behind me.

"Here, dry off," he says and hands me a towel, "and take these. The bathroom is around the corner," He says as he hands me folded sweats and a hoody, "you should get out of those wet clothes."

"Thank you," I say "your house is.." I stop not sure how to describe my shock.

"Not what you expected?" Tom says.

"No," I say, "Sorry. I'm sorry. I should just go," I turn to the door when he stops me.

"No, don't," he says, "I want to talk to you. I'm sorry for what I said. It wasn't my place to say anything and besides, it's all speculation. I'm sure Andrew is-"

"No," I say cutting him off, "It's okay, really." I take the clothes and head to the bathroom.

Amazingly enough, they fit, and they're girls clothes. Strange. I exit the bathroom and Tom is sitting on the sofa in front of a freshly stoked fire.