“You have two packages of jasmine rice in your cart, and you’re asking me about Frito Pies and nachos?”
“Just because I buy it today doesn’t mean I’m cooking it today.” She sounded exasperated. She looked at me, shaking her head again. “What’s up with you today?”
“I already told you.” I lowered my voice. Even though nobody else was in the aisle, I didn’t need wandering ears listening in. I leaned in and reminded her. “I’m. Frustrated.”
Kelli’s eyes were both amused and piteous at once. She wanted to laugh, yet refrained. I was grateful; now wasn’t the right time to do so.
“We’re going to stop at the MCX; you need some Sweet Bitch in your life.”
“I need something stronger than Sweet Bitch,” I shook my head. Moscato was nice, but these days I could finish a bottle a day on my own.
“Fine. We’ll get you some Svedka, get some gummy bears, and have a grand old time. Cooking, drinking, and talking until our husbands get home.”
***
Kelli grew up in a big family, with three sisters and four brothers. She learned to cook by spending lots of time with her mother, and possessed flair for seasoning in ways I had yet to master. Her seafood recipes were amazing. In fact, that’s what she was making that day while we sat back and talked: baked shrimp and crab legs, based upon a recipe she pulled off Pinterest.
Once she seasoned the crab and shrimp with Old Bay, garlic, and a mixture of chili spices, she put the jasmine rice in the rice cooker. I sipped a strawberry Cosmo made from the Svedka and began boiling water for simple syrup. She’d use it to create her mango lime lemonade, which she’d make from scratch. (Now that’s a recipe she did share, but I’ve never perfected.)
Jordan and Karter, Kelli’s son, would not be home for several hours. Kelli didn’t work, and it was my day off, so I took the time to really diffuse. I’d been a ball of anger, hurt, and confusion, wrapped up under tight threads of numbness.
We made our way to the living room. Kelli’s house had a Mediterranean flair to the design. The home had rich brown furniture, but the walls were a gorgeous deep teal color. There was a picture of Kelli and Kristopher, as newlyweds, hanging on the wall, between family pictures. The photos were below one of those wall appliqués with clichéd quotes on them. Theirs in particular said, “The Love of Family is Life’s Greatest Blessing.”
“So,” Kelli said, sinking down into one corner of the espresso-colored leather sofa. She set her strawberry lemonade, splashed with vodka, on a rich cocoa coaster. “Spit it out.”
Her words were straight to the point, no nonsense. Her tone of voice was quiet, contemplative. She wanted me to speak, uncensored, without the fluffy dance around the problems, and she would listen without interruption.
I leaned back on my side of the sectional, my fist anchoring the side of my head as I spoke. I recanted the experiences of the last few months. I explained that I felt my husband pulling away from me, how I attempted in many ways to be understanding of his busy schedule, and ultimately how powerless I felt over the situation. I nearly came to tears when exposed the cold behavior that followed my attempts to seduce him last week, and how much icier he’d become since that experience.
“I just don’t understand why my marriage feels so empty?” Shaking my head in disbelief, I pressed. “Why doesn’t he see the break in our relationship? I feel like I’m alone in noticing this.”
After a prolonged silence on my behalf, Kelli asked, “Have you considered he’s potentially having an affair?”
My heart sunk into my stomach when she said that. “No. I never considered it. Hollis has always taken our marriage – and any of his obligations – quite seriously.”
“Yes, most cheaters take their obligations seriously,” she replied, taking another sip of her drink. She looked me dead in the face, her classic features emanating stone seriousness. “He’s showing signs of an affair.”
Kelli’s tone clipped a tiny corner of my heart. Though she generally gave sound advice in general, something told me she wasn’t just tossing out level assertions. She was speaking from experience. I was scared to press the issue, but it was too late to switch the conversation. Kelli was always a straight shooter, unwilling to let me discard the reputable truth that would spill forward, even if I attempted to place our attention elsewhere.
She counted off the symptoms with each of her fingers, identifying them individually as she spoke.
“Hollis’ inability to be affectionate, his unwillingness to talk, all of this time spent at work all of a sudden... Natalia, I hate to break it to you, but honey, those are all key indicators of a cold, hard military affair happening under your nose.”