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My jaw is suddenly locked. I get up from the motel chair with a rapid heartbeat. I pace back and forth, eager to hear her say more, but she’s waiting for me to have an erratic reactive response. I have to hold back when all I want to do is put holes in these walls. They are thin enough for me to create a wall worth of them. I take a deep breath.
“Excuse me?” I try my best to not holler, but I know there’s heat in my voice.
“Uh-huh. I did. And what I saw will definitely not help you in court.”
“And what was that?”
“Oh, your shenanigans! I have detailed photos. The last ones are with you in your truck fucking your best friend’s daughter. The Sasha that was at the wedding is really that red-haired teen girl I saw a decade or so ago. Does that make youfeelgood?”
My head is about to explode.
“Well, she makes me feel good, great, actually. And she’s twenty-five. Courtney, none of this is any of your business.”
“It’s not mine, but it is Dustin’s. He deserves a dad who won’t fawn over his high school girlfriends when he grows up.”
“Courtney, I think you need to really listen to yourself. My business has nothing to do with you. You’re about to marry the man you were fucking when we were married. Remember that? I don’t know if you know, but we are no longer married, and whom I sleep with is no one’s business if it is legal and does not impact any of my loved ones. The last I checked, twenty-five-year-olds are adults. Some of them get married and have their own kids by the time they are twenty-five.”
“It’s interesting that you say whoever you sleep with is nobody’s business if it does not impact any of your loved ones—”
“Right. Like what you did to me. You hurt me. We had a marriage. An agreement. You broke your vows! Do you see the difference?”
“So I guess Braxton knows about this?”
My forehead is getting sweaty now, as are my underarms. I stand before the bathroom mirror, imagining about ten black hairs on my head swiftly turning gray.
“What does that have to do with Dustin?”
She’s silent for a minute while I run water to fill a glass. I chug it as if lost in a fucking desert.
“It’s your community of friends and family. It’s important to have strong, trustworthy relationships when raising children. I know, poor Freddy, you’ve had such a troubled childhood that it may be hard for you to sustain healthy relationships that are best for your child or even yourself, so—”
“Courtney cut the crap. What? Are you sleeping with your therapist now?”
“I beg your pardon, I—”
“You’re so obsessed with me and what I have going on that you’re searching for pockets of drama you can pull from. I think it’s best that I speak to my lawyer, and I hope you have one yourself. I know it sucks, but we still have to communicate for Dustin’s sake. Calling to tell me you hired a private investigator is overstepping. Our child is about ten or so states away from me. Nothing I’m doing in this town is impacting him directly. Get out of my life, Courtney! You’ve always wanted me out of yours.”
I hang up and clench my phone so hard. I have to let this go. But how and fuck! I put my phone down and punch the air about a good ten times. My shoulder blade aches as I know I’ve punched too wildly because my anger is red fucking hot.
But not as hot as the intense banging on my front door.
“Open up, Freddy. Open up!”
It’s Braxton. It’s Braxton, and he sounds livid. Suddenly my entire body has a skyrocketing fever. I’m a complete disaster knowing what’s coming. When we were kids, Braxton used to blow up all the time. His temper was the largest in our foster home.
“Braxton, I’ll let you in if you calm down!”
I peer out the peephole, and all I see is his large red ear. I take a deep breath as I try to gain composure to deal with whatever he’s going to give me. I can picture him trying to knock me out, but fortunately, he’s not as young or in shape as me, so I have that on my side. I also have the bearings of this room on my side, as well as the edge to calm just about anyone down. At least, that’s what I’ve been told.
I have no other choice but to open the door. It’s Braxton, for crying out loud.
As soon as I do, he bursts right in with his twelve-gauge shotgun in his right hand. His hazel eyes are mad as they blaze right through me, and his anger is so hot that it coats the room with it.
“Chill. Chill. Chill. Don’t shoot, brother. You don’t want to shoot!”
He can’t shoot me. He won’t shoot me. Right?
“Don’t tell me what to do! You don’t get to say a goddamn word!”
