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His reply:Jenny, I don’t think so. I’m really sorry about everything that’s happened, but I really don’t think that’s a good idea. I hope you understand.
Her:Your sure Jack? I could tell her a lot more about what happened between us. Do you want me to do that?
Him:I don’t know what you’re talking about. Again I’m sorry about everything that happened. I wish you the best.
Her:You want to catch up for coffee?
That’s the last one he responded to as far as I can tell:Again Jenny I don’t think that’s a good idea. I’m sorry. I’d appreciate if we didn’t correspond anymore.
That’s when her tone goes right up.I dont give a shit what youd appreciate Jack. Im going to tell her everything that you did to me. By the time Im done shell have you arrested.
And then ten minutes later.
I’m sorry I didn’t mean that. I just miss you.
I think of the emails Bronwyn told me she received and how she got off easy, compared to what Jack had to endure. In his case, they come every second day, sometimes every day, sometimes ten times a day, and sometimes there is a gap of a week and I don’t know if it’s because he hasn’t saved them or if she hasn’t emailed. But Bronwyn was right. She’s completely insane. Her tone ranges from begging to see him and apologizing, saying she hasn’t been well and she doesn’t know what she’s doing, but she misses him so much and she dreams about him. And then the next one will be absolutely horrifying.
I’ve called all your clients. I’ve put out reviews of your business on all these websites I could find. I said dont hire him hes a psycho. He is a sex addict. He tried to rape me. I’m taking him to court. You should not enable men like that.
And it goes on and on. She forwards copies of emails she has sent to at least a dozen engineering companies in the state, with the same kind of claims.
I am suing Jack Blackman for sexual harassment. Do not trust him, do not contract him, do not employ him. You will regret it. He is not to be trusted he is a double-crossing piece of shit. Just ask his wife. He’s done it before, to other girls he worked with. I lost my job because of him. That’s why I’m suing him.
And then:You think I give a shit about your wife you piece of shit? I saw on her Instagram that she left you. She is with another guy now. You have no idea how happy that makes me.
And then a few days later.You wanna catch up? Your free now.
And then:I want money you piece of scum. I wont stop until you give me money.
And then:You shouldnt have messed with me. Youve only got yourself to blame.
It’s shocking. Horrible. A barrage of hatred from a deranged, unstable, unpredictable young woman. I understand why Jack has been so reluctant about putting anything on social media. Why he has not been able to get a job. Why he is constantly on his phone, constantly barricading himself in his office. He must be monitoring review sites and trying to stay ahead of whatever she might be telling prospective employers about him, and, clearly, it’s not working.
I think back to all those weeks when he was distracted, absent. Staying up late and not getting up till noon, when every attempt on my part to do something together as a family was met with an impatient rebuke, like I was wasting his time. How he’d sit at his computer till all hours, his eyes red from looking at the screen, and every time I walked in, he’d close the browser, the document, the email, whatever it was.
Every time I’d suggest dinner out, he’d say we couldn’t afford it. If I suggested a weekend away camping—we could afford that, surely—he’d say he was too busy, even though he wasn’t busy, notweekend-busy. And yet he loves hiking, fishing, camping, which is where Charlie gets it from. If you asked Charlie today, right now, what her perfect day was? She’d say camping in Curly Creek Canyon. Or Sweet Forest. Go hiking, see some wildlife. Find some animal footprints on the trails. About a month ago, I came home early to find him sitting in front of the TV, scrolling his phone, a tumbler of bourbon on the coffee table, not even on a coaster. He’d just found out he missed out on another job, he’d said. I sat down next to him and put my head on his shoulder. “Let’s forget about all that for the weekend. Let’s go to Vashon Island. It’s not far. We can stay in the cabins where we stayed last time.” And when his shoulder twitched I wasn’t sure if it was on purpose, to make me sit up, but he didn’t stop me when I did, and when I looked at him he’d curled his lip like I’d just suggested a trip to the hazardous waste facility. But then he caught himself and smiled. “I’d love to, Laura, but I’m too busy this weekend,” before going back to his phone.
I scroll to the end of the email trails. There’s a lull that begins about six months ago. Again, I have no idea if he deleted other emails or if she gave up, but the last one is from a month ago.
I saw her today, that bitch your fucking
Is that me? Am Ithat bitch your fucking? A prickle of fear makes me shudder.
* * *
Later, as I slip back into bed next to him, I wonder how he can bear to sleep with yet another young woman, considering what the last one put him through. Jenny Smith is dangerous, that’s obvious. What if she finds out? What if she comes after his family?
Then I wonder with a start, is it me,that bitch your fucking? Or…No. It couldn’t be Summer. They didn’t know each other a month ago. It couldn’t be.
Could it?
THIRTY-ONE
I spend the night planning in my head how I’m going to fire Summer. I imagine what I could say.The problem, you see, is if you stay, I can’t guarantee I won’t kill you. I saw your text, I know what you’re up to. You’re not even going to deny it?You think you’re special? I thought I was special. There’s always an agenda with Jack.
Maybe it’s best if I don’t tell her the real reason. I’ll say the workload isn’t as big as I’d expected and I’ve decided I can handle it by myself. I wonder if she’ll believe me, considering I’m either leaving early or when I’m there I’m so distracted I barely get anything done.
I get up early so I don’t have to see Jack, knock back a cup of coffee and grab a granola bar which I shove into my mouth in one go. When I drop the wrapper in the trash I notice some of the broccoli bake I made last night. If there were leftovers, I don’t know why Bronwyn didn’t put them in the fridge. She could have had it for lunch. I use a chopstick to poke through, and it’s not justsomeof last night’s bake. As far as I can tell, it’s all of it. And yet she told me herself Charlie loved it. Of course she loved it. It’s one of her favorites.
