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What if she didn’t dump me? What if she didn’t send those messages? And if she didn’t, then who did?
Rosie had to be lying. She was trying to save face and … and …
But what if …
Amanda’s travel documents. Mum’s scrapbook.
“Holy shit.” I grabbed my phone on autopilot and stormed out, marching to the homestead, flinging the back door open and making for the sideboard with the photo albums.
Pete hot on my heels, begging to know what was going on but I said nothing, pulling out album after album until I had the right one.
Two minutes later, Mum entered the room. “Who left the back door open on this cold day?”
“Sorry, Mrs Turner.” Pete dashed to close the door.
“Sorry, again.” Pete said as I sorted through several printed pages. His face was lined with worry. “I have no idea what he’s doing.”
“What are you doing, love?” Mum asked cautiously. “Have you taken up scrapbooking as a hobby all of a sudden?”
“Ha, no. You know how I told you I never understood why Rosie and I broke up four years ago.”
Mum nodded, cautious. “I think the answer is in here.”
Mum blinked rapidly.
I couldn’t say my accusation out loud. Not yet. The betrayal was too much to think about.
“I’ve been hating Rosie for the last four years, and right now, I need to know this one thing.” I held up one page. “Holy shit.”
I could feel Mum’s eyes inspecting the mess I’d made on the cold floor but I didn’t acknowledge her. The print stamp in the footer of Amanda’s travel documents read: ZANPRINT1: 11 July 2015, 1.24 PM, Page 2 of 13
Here it was. The proof – the Zanettis’ winery printer, with the date and time on Amanda’s travel docs.
“I think this calls for tea,” Mum said, putting the kettle on to boil, and Pete automatically fetched cups.
“Rosie said she didn’t send any messages to me. That I dumped her later on this date.” I stabbed my finger onto the printout’s date stamp. “But it was Amanda who was online at this time. When I was messaging Rosie about how we would share the news with our families that we were together.”
“Tom, how could you possibly remember the exact time you sent a message four years ago?”
I pulled out my phone and opened the album of screen grabs of Rosie and my conversation on that fateful day and then handed it to her. She took it, scanning the messages.
“Because I’ve carried that day and time with me for four years,” I croaked. “I saved them all. I meant to delete them. I never could.”
I’d hated Rosie all these years ago when it had been mysisterposing as her best friend.
“Oh, um, some of these messages are a little explicit.” Mum handed back my phone with a blush.
Oh, god. I’d shown Mum the blow job message. “Sorry, didn’t mean for you to see that.” Someone entered the kitchen just as I said, “I swear I loved Rosie then, and I still do now.”
A collective gasp went up in the room.
Wow, I’d said it. Out loud.
My shoulders drifted down, like I’d finally let go a huge weight.
“Woah,” Pete murmured.
Mum just stared.
