“I MISS YOU, JER.” Ashley sighs through the phone. I’m battling through early morning traffic and, honestly, that’s the last thing I want to hear. “I can’t believe you haven’t called me in almost two weeks.”
A pickup cuts me off and the driver has the guts to give me the finger. I press the heel of my hand against the center of the steering wheel. My aggravated horns temporarily drown out Ashley’s complaints.
“Jerrison! Are you even listening to me?”
“Baby, yes I am.” I plant my hand on the horn again. “I’m just-” “Busy?” She scoffs.
“It’s the truth, Ash.”
She makes an aggravated sound. I imagine her dark eyes rolling. Imagine her short nails tightening over the cell phone. She’s probably propped on her bed, glaring into the sunshine pouring from her grimy windows, white curtains curling in like talons.
“You’ve been giving me that excuse for so long.” Her brusque tone melts into one of impatience. “When you said you needed two months to sort yourself out, I didn’t think it meant not even taking my phone calls.” There’s a crack in her voice. Is she crying? “Everything’s falling apart, Jer. I need to talk to you.”
“It’s been crazy over here too, Ash,” I snap. Traffic slows to a crawl.
At this rate, I’ll be late for my appointment with Doc.
“You’re not even listening to me, Jerrison.” Ashley’s tone grates my ears. When we first started dating, she was sweet and understanding. A
couple months of going steady and she’s turned into a demanding toddler. “Why am I always the last person on your list?”
“Woman, didn’t you hear me?” I growl. “You’re not the only one with crap hitting the fan right now.”
“If you’re going to be like that, then why don’t you just break up with me?” Ashley shrieks.
My eyes jerk from the road to the dashboard. I shake my head. “You don’t mean that.”
“What do you expect me to do, Jer?” Her voice crackles with pain. “It’s hard enough that we have to sneak around. Now you expect me to trust you when you tell me we can’t see each other for two months.”
Concerned, I croon to her, “Baby, what’s going on?”
“It’s my dad. He’s asking for money again and I…” Her breath whooshes over the phone.
“How much?” I ask.
She huffs. “I’m not asking for a handout, Jer.”
“It’s okay. Just give me the number and I’ll wire it to your bank account.”
“I don’t need it,” she insists.
“Fine. Then I’ll send you enough for his rehab.” “What?” She squeaks.
“Consider it my gift to you.” I drop my voice to a husk. “I miss you, Ash.”
“I miss you too.” She hesitates. “I love you.” My eyes widen.
I clear my throat and sidestep that confession as if it has a contagious disease. “Two months will go by faster than you think. As soon as it’s over, we can be together.” I swing into the parking lot beside Doc’s shop. “Look, Ash. I have to go.”
“Bye, baby.”
I put my phone away and stride into the garage. Sunshine pours through the windows. Light falls against the rust-bucket where Doc’s head is buried.
I rap my knuckles on the taillight. “Morning, Doc.”
He straightens and observes me. Calloused hands run through a rag. His overalls bear familiar stains. I could easily trace the pattern on a piece of paper if I wanted to. His goatee boasts a sprinkling of grey hair and I wonder if it’s from the stress of trying to fix, not only cars but people too.
“You’re here,” Doc says.
“That’s pretty obvious.” I lean against the car door. Cross my ankles. Doc narrows his eyes. “You made your choice?”
“It’s over.” The lie rolls off my tongue.
Doc studies me as if he can see past the disguise. I try my hardest not to squirm but, beneath his intense gaze, I feel like a kid caught cheating in class. My poker face is all that stands between me and discovery. I lean into it, casually brushing off my T-shirt as if I don’t have a care in the world.
“You’ve ended all your other relationships?” I dip my chin.
Technically, I’ve put them on pause. Whether Doc agrees with that or not is really none of my concern. I’m not here because I want to change my lifestyle. I’m here because Fuentes is holding my feet to the fire and my wife is fanning the flames.
To satisfy them both, I’m subjecting myself to Doc’s insane principles. Doesn’t mean I’m going to stop enjoying myself.
Doc’s eyes narrow even further.
I swear, that man rattles me. Every blink of his eyes is like a camera snap. A lens that captures another angle of my soul. Another piece I try to hide. Like a clock ticking out the time, I can only hold my breath until he moves on.
Finally, he gestures to the toolbox. “Wrench.” Relieved that he bought it, I rummage through the box.
“Why are you here, Jerrison?” Doc’s eyebrows furrow, tightening as he studies a tablet with the image of a vehicle’s compression system.
I squirm. “Because I want my wife.”
“And what is your end goal?” Doc peers at me over the top of the tablet. “To win her back.”
Doc nods in approval.
I release the breath I didn’t know I’d been holding.
“Gaining the wife is the goal. In the same way, to an athlete, winning the trophy or getting the prize is the goal. But what happens if, after he wins, he sits down and says ‘I’ve gotten the trophy’.”
“He’d probably stop exercising.” “And what will that result in?”
“Losing his skills.” I lean over the car’s hood. “In that case, he stops making me money.”
Doc doesn’t laugh. His eyes slide off the table and bore into me. “When an athlete wins his first race, his thirst for the sport is only just beginning. He’ll train even harder, set higher goals for himself, and create an excellent exercise regime just to get incrementally better than his best.”
“It’s addictive. That thirst to win.” I see it in my own business.
“Answer this, Jerrison.” Doc sets the tablet down and takes the wrench from me. “How do you, as a sports agent, know when an athlete is committed?”
I drum my fingers against the car. “He’ll wake up earlier than anyone else and train. He won’t let any distractions get between him and his workouts. He’ll be disciplined in what he eats, when he sleeps and even who he hangs out with.”
His lips tilt up. “Interesting.”
Finally. I’ve got the old man grinning with me instead of at me.
“An athlete,” Doc wrestles with a stubborn bolt, “will work extremely hard for a whole year, maybe even two years, to enter a competition that lasts one hour. Sometimes, it only lasts a couple minutes. Yet, they pour their life into preparing for those three minutes. That’s how you see commitment and dedication.”
“You’re speaking my language, Doc. Now, what’s your point?”
His eyes meet mine. “Those constant acts of commitment make you develop muscles. Your body sheds all fat. You get increased strength and endurance.”
It hits me then. Where he’s going with this. What he’s about to say. “You’re making a comparison between an athlete and a man in a marriage.” “There are two commandments in a marriage.” He lifts a thumb and forefinger. “Commitment and communication, but commitment is the most important commandment. Like an athlete preparing for a competition, if
you work on commitment, you’ll stay in good shape.”
Guilt creeps up on me. I shake it off with an angry bark. “Doc, I told you that I’m here because I chose my wife. If you’re accusing me of lying…”
“I’m not accusing you of anything.” His voice hardens. “But even if you were lying to me, I still appreciate that you’re here. My hope is for you to become the athlete that doesn’t give up after he’s won his first competition.”
“I’m committed to my wife, Doc. If I wasn’t, then I would have divorced her years ago.”
“How are you committed?”
The question gives me pause. I hate that it takes me so long to think about it.
“Not divorcing is not enough of a commitment. Imagine an athlete signing up for more competitions even though he’s stopped training, lifting weights, and practicing his skills. He’ll lose every match.”
“You’ve made your point,” I grumble.
Doc grapples with another part of the engine, dismantling the rusty pieces one by one. “A man’s commitment is required almost more than anything else.” He sets the wrench back into my hands. “If I asked your wife for evidence of your commitment to the marriage, what would she tell me?”
“I’m sure she would say-”
“Not what you would say.” Doc wipes the sweat on his brow with the back of his hand. “What would your wife say about your behavior?”
I swallow. Hard. What would my wife say about my level of commitment?
I can’t run from the mirror he’s holding up because I’m pinned in a corner. He used the familiar to get his point across. My world. My language. I know athletes and competitions like the back of my hand. But seeing a man’s commitment to his craft is one thing. Acknowledging it in the context of my marriage is another.
I wiggle a finger in Doc’s direction. “Oh, you’re good. You’re really good.”
“That’s enough for today.” Doc moves over to his mug of lemon water.
Pours. Takes a sip. “Here’s your next assignment.” “Give it to me.” I beckon him.
His lips quirk. “Consider yourself married in terms of fidelity but, outside of that, consider yourself dating your wife.”
“Dating?” I tilt my head.
“That means you shouldn’t be getting intimate.” The way his eyes slice through me reminds me of Harriet’s dad. “Not with your wife. Or any other woman.”
“Doc, I already told you that I broke up with those girls.”
His lips flatten into a thin, disbelieving line. “It’s important that you decide, right now, what you want. I can’t help someone who doesn’t want their wife.” Doc lifts a metal tool. “The spark plug can only ignite the fuel if it is flammable. But if someone pours water in the tank, the spark plug can do nothing to help. I am simply a spark plug. I can’t ignite what isn’t there.”
“I want my wife. This is the third time I’ve said it.”
“Then stop talking and start proving it.” He nods to the office.
I stomp away. “I know. I know. I’ll leave my payment with the secretary.”
“And Jerrison?” Doc calls. I stop. Face him.
He stands in a pool of sunshine, one hand gripping the wrench. “You never told me what she’d say.”
“Who?”
“Your wife. What’s her evidence that you’re committed to her.” He pauses. Studies me. “Does she have any?”
“I don’t know,” I croak.
What would she say?
I think of Ashley. Of Cindy. Of all the other girls before them. Something tells me, my wife wouldn’t have much good to report.