Page 82 of Back for Seconds

“June.” He was adopting that familiar, bone-chilling tone. “Let’s not overreact, ok?”

“You can’t manipulate me into being calm. Not this time. You can’t manipulate your way out of this—this whole situation you created. Why aren’t you happy, Brian? Why are you here?”

“Because!” He threw his arms up in frustration, like I was just such a huge idiot. “I liked my life here.”

“You just didn’t like me.”

He rolled his eyes, shook his head. “If you—and your family—could believe it, this actually isn’t about you.”

Oh, fuck. Ouch. Those words actually set me back on my heels. For a moment, I forgot to breathe. “Then answer my question—how much?”

“What your brother did to my van is not about—”

“I’m not arguing with you. You do not get to have any more of my life, do you hear me? You stole the last year, and you get nothing else. Give. Me. A. Number.”

“Brian?” A heavily pregnant woman was standing at the front door, arms pointlessly scrubbing at her shoulders, like that might protect her from the cold. She looked different from the mousy brunette with thick gums and a button nose I’d spent months stalking on social media. She looked extremely different, actually. This woman had a wide face, short curly hair. Was it possible that she’d gotten a perm? Invested in dental care?

Then the woman stepped forward.

“No…” I balked. “NO WAY.”

“June, don’t—”

“That’s a whole-ass new woman.”

She flashed me a weak smile. “Sorry, are you…a postal worker?”

“Do you know who I am?” I didn’t wait for her response—I didn’t even really spend time investigating her facial expression as she traded googly eyes with Brian. I pushed past him and put my foot on the first step that led to their porch. “I’m Brian’s ex-wife. The one he cheated on with…well, with a different woman. A woman he knew before he met you.” I grinned at her. Not a happy grin. A grin where all my teeth were showing and my eyes were crossed and maybe my nose was bleeding. “And then, I guess, he left her too. And then found you pretty soon after. Fast enough to, you know, plant a flag.”

She recoiled slightly, stepping further behind the screen door as she said, “Brian, what the hell is going on? Who is this woman?”

“Who am I?” I let out a cold laugh. “What a question! I’m you in a year, sweetie. Get ready for it.” I whirled around, turning back on Brian. He also recoiled. What a little bitch. “I totally get it now. I get all of it. You’re pissed about the minivan because you never told her you cheated on me, right?” I threw my head back and released an enormous cackle, straight from my diaphragm. And then I kept laughing, until I was screaming.

Doors opened. Heads poked out of picture-frame windows.

And Brian kept repeating in a watery, weaselly voice: “Please get off my property.”

I snapped my head back up, cutting my laugh-scream off at the quick. “You—” I pointed at him. I was a mad woman. Deranged. Temporarily destroyed by an adult man who collected carabiners. But not anymore. I was back, baby. I was so back. “You are actually evil, Brian. You’re an evil, evil man stuck in the body of a little-dicked middle manager who likes craft beer and axe throwing—”

I would have kept going, but my rant was cut short by the sound of rubber skidding on asphalt. I whirled around.

Oh no.

Sal was hanging out of the window of his LeSabre, a churlish grin on his handsome face. “Good morning, assholes.”

Goddamn it.

In a moment of early predawn weakness, I’d texted Sal. I’m going to settle this shit with Brian, I’d written. He hadn’t taken this as a continuation of our conversation over Christmas dinner. No, he’d seen it as an invitation.

“Sister.” Sal was out of his car, leaning back against its heavy body, arms folded over his chest. “Don’t do anything stupid. Blondie’s not worth it.”

The muscle in Brian’s jaw jumped. “I’m not blond. And both of you need to leave right now.”

“I’m calling the cops,” his pregnant semi-wife announced before disappearing into the house.

“Go for it, sweetheart.” Sal pushed off the car and crossed the lawn, kicking a plastic Santa out of his way. “How was your Christmas, you filthy fucking cheater?”

“W-what’re you doing?” Brian stuttered, arms open in disbelief—kind of like he might hug my brother or maybe, I don’t know, summon Zeus to strike us down.