White Space Season 2

tomorrow.”
    Emma said, “Guess what, Houser? Tomorrow we’re going to dinner at my grandpa’s!”
    “Really?” Houser said with a surprised smile. “That sounds like … fun? ”
    “Wanna come?” she asked.
    “Um,” Houser said, meeting Jon’s eyes, as if seeking the proper response. Jon shook his head no, just enough for his friend to take note.
    “No, Honey,” Houser shook his head. “Sorry, but I’ve got some major work to finish up tomorrow.”
    “Oh,” Emma said. “You think they’re assholes, too, don’t you?”
    They all burst into laughter as Jon pulled his daughter closer and into a tighter hug.
    God, I love this girl.

    * * * *

CHAPTER 4 — Warren Conway

    Warren and Melinda sat across from one another at the gigantic dining room table, eating in silence. Again.
    Melinda was poking at her asparagus tips and filet with her fork, taking dainty bites as Warren tore through his steak and swallowed gulps from his goblet of wine.
    “How was your day?” he asked, trying to thaw the room’s unmistakable chill. He wasn’t sure what imagined slight was nested inside Melinda’s skin like a splinter tonight, nor did he have the patience for a fight. He was on edge, and required the sort of relaxation that fit so neatly in a glass. He took another swallow.
    “It was OK,” she said. “And yours?”
    “Fine,” Warren lied, stabbing another nugget of steak. He tried to think of something to say, some way to elongate their exchange, but was afraid that doing so might unspool whatever Melinda was holding so tight inside her. He watched as she ate. He examined the crows feet at the corners of her eyes, the makeup that was just a bit too much, and her hair, which Amanda had cut too short the last time Melinda had gone into Divino. Her newest haircut, coming just two weeks away from the last, made Melinda look severe, and had Warren wondering what happened to the gorgeous, young woman he’d married.
    It wasn’t that Melinda didn’t do her absolute best to maintain appearances. She did. Yet, there was something else, something just under the surface, which seemed to erode her from the inside a bit more each day. Warren wondered how much of her missing soul stemmed from the many mind erasures he’d had the doctors at Conway Medical administer over the years — things seen, conclusions jumped to or drawn, family business he couldn’t trust that she’d be able to keep private, at least not after Melinda had aired a clothesline’s worth of dirty laundry to a few friends after three glasses of pinot six years back. If you can’t trust your wife, who can you trust?
    The doctors swore they had perfected the technique so that they were only erasing memories, but Warren didn’t buy it. Their procedure seemed to strip more from Melinda than memories, wiping her personality like marker from a board, leaving behind little outside an icy woman who seemed more like a distant stranger than a warm, loving wife — a hysterical harpy who would bottle herself so tightly, that by the she time boiled, the eruptions left her weeping for hours.
    Melinda’s eyes drifted up from her plate. For a moment, Warren watched a shadow of her — the Melinda she used to be buried somewhere deep inside her emerald eyes. In that instant, he felt something he’d not felt in years: a longing to leave, go somewhere with her, rekindle fires doused by apathy and neglect.
    Bad years rested on both their shoulders.
    Before the feeling nested into something more, Melinda opened her mouth. “I was at Silvie’s today for lunch,” she said as she swallowed. “She was an absolute horror.”
    Warren sighed.
    “She kept the climate at 68 the entire time I was there, and for no reason. I was freezing, and it was horrible. I asked her to turn it up three times. Three times, Warren. And she refused each time. Once she even lied about it, said the climate was up to 74 like I asked, but my cell said it was 68 when I checked.”
    Melinda’s green eyes flashed as she stabbed her fork with filet mignon, then dropped it into her mouth. She chewed and swallowed. The meat was half-down her throat when she spoke. Warren could see it like a rat in a snake.
    “You know, Silvie lies about everything. Stupid stuff, too. Her cell has a sumo.”
    “A sumo?” Warren looked up, because this was the part of the conversation where he had to at least pretend to care, or else suffer through an even longer stretch of insipid blather.
    “Yes, a