The Weight of Good and Bad

Nobody’s all good.

Take my boyfriend, for instance. Many people think he’s good—maybe even great.

His ex-wife, while not entirely convinced he makes a good husband, does believe he’s bound to achieve extraordinary things. His son, Charlie, well he’s innocent and sweet and thinks the sun rises and sets with his father. Citizens watching the news may believe he’s working on important things for the greater good.

But they don’t think about the other shoe. The people his work will affect. They don’t know what I know.

Earlier today I watched from the damp sidelines of a grassy field while he coached Charlie’s soccer team. His hands-on approach is enduring, kneeling down to bring the six and seven-year old’s together in a little huddle, and encouraging them to give it their all and be proud—no matter what.

The mothers sitting in their folding chairs, bundled in fleece hoodies and fuzzy boots, swooned over his approach. “He’s such a great dad,” one said. While another chimed in with, “The kids are so lucky to have him as a coach.” It was only when one mother added, “He’s single right?” that an unwanted anger bubbled in my belly.

No, he’s not single. He’s with me. I get to run my fingers across his lean body and perfect biceps at night, nobody else. He shares his deepest, darkest thoughts with me—only me. And when he thinks of undressing a woman, he thinks about me.

I’ve infiltrated everything, including his heart. The problem is, there was never any guarantee I wouldn’t suffer the consequences of love. And how couldn’t I? He’s an amazing person.

But he’s not all good.

“What flavor would you like?” he asks me now, running his hand along my back.

Every Saturday we come here, to a frozen yogurt shop just around the corner from the park. It’s a celebration of Charlie mostly. But I’d be remiss to say I don’t enjoy it.

“Just a small cup of chocolate today, please.” I peer up at him, our eyes meeting. In another world, another dimension, he’d be everything I want. I’d allow myself to be in love—to let him sweep me off my feet.

He gives my shoulder a squeeze. “Alright,” he says, then leans over to meet Charlie at his level. “You want to help me today, little man?”

“Yes Daddy,” Charlie shrieks, bouncing from his seat and up to the counter where he peers at all the toppings. To him, this is magical. His innocence is refreshing.

What Charlie doesn’t realize is the world isn’t full of magic. It’s full of technology his father is creating. And it’s deadly. If it lands in the hands of the wrong person, it could kill many people. My people.

I peer out the large opening to the little outdoor square. There’s a band setting up for an outdoor concert today. I watch as several chairs are set up, and the musicians dressed in polyester suits prepare their instruments and organize their music sheets, clasping them to their stands.

“I’ll be right back,” I call as I step toward those in the square.

I walk among the crowds, stopping next to a trumpet resting on a metal chair. The owner of the instrument steps between me and the brass object. “Careful,” he says, warning me.

“Have you tried the yogurt?” I ask.

“Pistachio is my favorite.” He nods his head toward the two I came with, now sitting at our table.

“Break a leg.” My gaze doesn’t leave his as I begin my retreat. “Don’t forget the notes.” Then I turn swiftly and sit down next to my man.

Since my back is to the band, now ready to play, I slide my chair across the tile to sit as close to my boyfriend as possible. He smiles at me as the metal grinds the tile, like nails on a chalkboard. Now I have a better view.

My stomach twists and turns, and though I’m unable to take a bite from my own yogurt cup, I coo, “Dive in Charlie.”

A hush settles over the small crowd as the hum of the tuning instruments vibrate through the courtyard. The conductor then steps to the front of the musicians, lifting her wand and holding until it’s time to begin. When she sweeps it through the air the flute begins to play.

The trumpet player lifts the instrument to his lips, and a horribly loud shriek comes through the brass. Everyone’s eyes fall on the musician who’s made a horrible mistake, while I slip a tiny packet from my pocket and sprinkle a deadly powder across the frozen yogurt of the man I’ll never kiss again.

As the crowd settles and the band gets back on track, he scoops a large bite of his yogurt and nudges me with his elbow, “You better eat yours before it melts.”

“I’m so sorry, my stomach’s not right,” I say, feigning illness. “I think I’m going to head home early.”

“Do you want us to come?” Concern crosses his face.

“No, you and Charlie stay. Have a good time.” I grab my purse and walk to Charlie’s side of the table. “Be good,” I say, pecking his cheek. “And eat your yogurt before your mom gets here to pick you up.”

As I walk away relief washes over me. Charlie doesn’t like pistachio—he won’t touch his dad’s frozen treat today. Behind me the crowd shrieks as a loud thump of a body hitting the pavement startles them. I don’t turn back. I simply pick up my pace, as a tear streaks down my cheek. The life of a spy is what I’ve chosen, no exceptions, no escape.

Nobody’s all good, but nobody’s all bad, either.