Dear Wife(43)

I look both ways, then tentatively press on the gas. “What’s the deal with me, how?”

“Well, you insist on driving, even though—and no offense—you’re not very good at it. You have nightmares almost every night. Screaming nightmares, and yes, everybody at Morgan House hears you. They’re all talking about it. And any time anyone asks you anything even remotely personal, you mumble something vague and change the subject. You won’t even tell me where you’re from.”

“I’m from Oklahoma.” It’s a lie, but it matches the car’s plates so what the hell.

“Where in Oklahoma?”

“A town nobody’s ever heard of.” That, at least, is the truth. Except when it comes to crime rates, Pine Bluff isn’t exactly on anyone’s radar. “A town I’m trying really hard to forget,” I add, trying to shut down this line of questioning.

Martina shrugs. “We’re all running from something, but if we’re going to be friends, you’ve got to at least give me something. That’s how this works, you know. You tell me something about yourself, and I tell you something about me.”

She’s right, of course. That is how friendship works, though I’m not sure friendship is the goal here—for either of us. It certainly wasn’t Martina’s goal when she pocketed Jorge’s kickback without a word to me about it.

And yet...

God, what would it be like to make a friend in this place? In this city? Someone to laugh and share jokes with, a ride or die like the ones I used to have, before you drove a wedge into every single one of my friendships. I like Martina, and the truth is, I could really use a friend.

“I told you where I was from,” she reminds me. “I even told you about my crack-whore mom, and I never tell anybody about her. The least you can do is share a truth about yourself.”

Truth. The word strikes me as funny, and I bite down on a laugh, a big belly guffaw. What truth? So far, neither one of us has been willing to take that first leap and share something completely honest, and I’m sure as hell not going to be the first. This new life, for as long as it lasts, depends on me telling no one the details of my past.

I take a left up the ramp to I-75, which looks like a parking lot. A bumper-to-bumper sea of red brake lights. Exhaust shimmers in the air, undulating waves rising up like heat. I slow to a stop behind a souped-up truck and twist on my seat to face her.

“You told me you were born at Grady Hospital but in an accent that sounds like it came from Mexico. You basically admitted you were Jorge’s client, too. To be perfectly honest, I’m not sure I believe half the stuff that comes out of your mouth. What does an American-born citizen need from a guy like Jorge other than kickbacks?”

She frowns. “What does that mean, ‘kickback’?”

“Like when he paid you a commission for sending me to him. That’s a kickback. And speaking of kickbacks, a real friend would have told me about it, or maybe even shared it. Friends don’t use other friends to try to make a buck.”

“What are you talking about? I didn’t earn a commission from Jorge. Who told you I did?”

The truck in front of us rolls a few feet forward, and so do I, nudging the nose into traffic. “Jorge told me. He said he’d pay fifty bucks for anyone I sent him.”

“What—? Fifty dollars...” Her cheeks flush and her eyes squeeze into a squint. “Per person?”

I nod.

“Oh no.” She shakes her head, hiking up on a hip. “Oh hell no.”

Spouting a steady stream of angry, staccato Spanish, she wriggles her phone from her back pocket and stabs at the screen with a finger. I pick up a few choice words—puta, cojones, mierda—while the speaker burps a rhythmic tone. A few seconds later, Jorge answers with a curt “Yeah?”

She switches to English, her words high and clipped. “Jorge, Martina. What’s this I hear about a commission?”

His voice bursts from the phone speaker. “Who tell you that?”

“Beth. You offered her one when I’ve sent you what, ten people at least? Don’t tell me, all those checks must have gotten lost in the mail. Is that right?”

Jorge’s pause is two seconds too long. “Commission is new. Just started.”

“Uh-huh.” Martina looks at me, rolls her eyes. The first wave of guilt rolls through me, nibbling its way across my stomach. “This is some serious bullshit, Jorge. You owe me like three hundred bucks.”

“Okay, okay. I pay you next time.”

“No, you listen to me. There won’t be a next time, not until I get that money you owe me. Do you understand what I’m telling you? Not one more person until you pay.”

There’s another long pause, then a sigh. “Fine.”

“Fine,” Martina barks back, then disconnects the call. She drops it on her lap with an angry squeal. “I can’t believe he did that to me. What a snake. What a dirty, disgusting snake.”

Guilt flares, heating me from the inside out. If anyone’s a snake here, it’s me. I wrap both hands around the wheel and wince. “I just assumed he offered you the same deal he did with me, Martina. I never even considered...” I shake my head, glancing over. “I feel like such a shit.”

She brushes away my apology with a wave of her hand. “You’re not the shit. Jorge is the shit. He’s the one I’m mad at, not you.”