‘How many times do I have to tell you to get this stupid car serviced?’ Juila fumed from the passenger seat. ‘Now we’re going to be late!’
‘Oh, please,’ I scoffed, ‘we were going to be late anyway, thanks to your “fashion fiasco”!’
‘It was a fiasco!’ she snapped back. ‘Because you didn’t go to the dry cleaners’ when they were open to pick up my dress!’
‘I couldn’t go because I had the car booked in for its service!’
‘Then why are we currently on the side of the road?!’
We both glared angrily at one another, illuminated by the dashboard and the rhythmic clicking of my hazard lights. I was the first to break the stare, with a deep breath that closed my eyes. I let it out slowly.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said, as calmly as I could, ‘that my actions have caused you to become upset.’
Script-perfect, just like the therapist said, I thought to myself, trying not to let the smugness play across my face too obviously.
She matched me with her own deep breath, bringing her hands together.
‘I forgive you.’
‘What?’
‘I forgive you,’ she repeated.
‘You’re not going to apologise too?’
‘You’re the one who couldn’t even look up a log book service mechanic! Raceview has tons of decent mechanics!’ she all but screamed. ‘It shouldn’t be that hard!’
‘It’s not my fault you have such exacting standards!’ I shot back.
‘For what?!’ she asked, puzzled. ‘For a mechanic?’
‘Yes!’ I said. ‘They have to be perfect!’
‘They do NOT,’ she scoffed. ‘They just have to be good.’
‘Go on then,’ I laughed. ‘Go on, find me a decent car service mechanic local to Raceview. I’ll book it in right now.’
‘Oh, don’t be ridiculous,’ she rolled her eyes, even as she was bringing her phone up and typing furiously. ‘They’ll all be sh—a-ha!’
She thrust it in my face.
‘OI!’ a little voice called out from the backseat – our daughter crossing her arms, fuming at us. ‘I knew inviting you to my recital was a mistake!’