Free Eight Minutes by Lori Reisenbichler

of rules about how Toby can’t watch TV, then you can’t get pissed if I notice that you’re not even living by your own rules. Jeez! That’s all I’m saying!”
    “That’s not all you’re saying.” I bend to pick up the dirty T-shirt nearest me. “At least have the balls to go ahead and say it.”
    “Fine,” he hisses, as he picks up a pair of jeans and throws them back in the corner. He takes a deep breath, and his voice is almost back to normal. “Look. I know this John Robberson thing freaks you out. I don’t get it, but it doesn’t bother me. I don’t feel compelled to fill in the blanks. But you do. And you can’t explain why.”
    With my back to him, I mutter under my breath, “Because I care about our son.”
    “Oh, that’s right. Thank you for that.” He stops moving. “I am so fucking clear on that point, you don’t need to keep throwing it in my face. Got it. You care about our son.” His voice is low and even. “And you don’t give a rat’s ass what I think about anything having to do with him. Got it.”
    “Because you won’t even entertain the idea that something is going on with John Robberson that you don’t understand.”
    “I don’t feel the need to understand it because I don’t feel threatened by it.”
    “Well, I do. Need to understand it,” I add.
    “Look at you, Shel. You’re already not acting like yourself. You’re freaking Toby out and you don’t even notice. You’re freaking me out and you don’t even care. Get a grip on this.”
    John Robberson is real , I want to scream at him. I’ve got a good reason to freak out. But I don’t say anything. This is not the time. I could produce John Robberson in the flesh right now, and Eric would still deny his existence. I have to play the long game. I stomp into the bathroom and brush my teeth until my gums bleed.

CHAPTER TWELVE
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    DO CAVEMEN GET REINCARNATED?
    O n Saturday night, Eric and I go to a party with some of our friends from the old days, most of whom are still single and a few of whom are married but don’t have kids yet. Toby is thrilled for a night with the babysitter. I wear a vintage dress with a big skirt. After our argument, things have been tense between us. It’s important that we go out and remember who we are.
    We head to downtown Phoenix, where our friend Ian lives. It looks dirty and unfriendly. I realize I probably haven’t left Oasis Verde for months. We pull up to Ian’s new loft and park in a lot that requires a security code.
    “What do you think the crime rate is here?”
    “He says his next-door neighbor is a policeman.”
    “Well, I guess that helps. Where would Toby play? He has no grass at all.”
    “Ian doesn’t have kids, remember?” I appreciate his tone of voice. I can tell he’s trying. He squeezes me close in a hug as we walk to the door. I press my cheek to his chest, glad to be out with him again, acting like an adult. He’s wearing a cool retro-style plaid shirt and khakis and smells good, like sandalwood soap. He even trimmed his mustache, and it’s not so bad. For a mustache.
    He grew that damn mustache after his accident. At first, he didn’t shave at all, and when I finally refused to let his scraggly face near mine for a kiss, he started to shave experimentally. He tried a goatee at first, but I couldn’t help snickering at it. I convinced him it was the mullet of the new millennium, one of those trends all those shaved-head guys were going to look back on and regret. So he turned it into a soul patch but said he felt like he was trying too hard. Hipster central. He wanted to be different. Nobody has a mustache anymore, he said, as he shaved off the little tuft under his lip. At that point, I was thankful he’d already shaved off his sideburns, because nobody has pork chops anymore, either.
    He talks to it. It’s funny; he looks in the bathroom mirror and says things like, “There you go, sport,” like it’s his long-lost friend. I have to admit,