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“I know this is random, but is that game here or away?”
“It’s a home series. First game of three tonight. Doubleheader tomorrow since they rescheduled a rain delay game for Monday in Montreal.”
“Thanks. Have a great night.”
I walk into the hotel, sliding my key from my clutch as well as my phone so I can tip the driver. Eighteen missed calls from an unknown number show in successive notifications down the screen.
The text message app notification number continues to grow even as nothing populates the screen.
First things, first. I enter the room and extricate myself from the dress. It’s harder than I’d like with swollen knuckles and limited mobility. Lounge clothes on, I pad down the hall with the ice bucket and fill it up, using the plastic bag to make a pack when I get back in the room.
I climb into the center of the bed and slide my phone across the covers to me.
I tip the driver and head to my browser window. I put Red Sox tickets into the search engine and cue tomorrow’s date. The first game tomorrow is at noon. I buy a ticket, reveling in my “get out of brunch free” card. Well, it’s more like a “get out of brunch a little early and only hear about it until I’m out of the house” card, but still, it’s worth it. I stare at the climbing text messages app notification and open the app.
Unknown number:I’m sorry. I really didn’t mean to hurt you.
Unknown number:I miss you and I need you.
Unknown number:Cassandra doesn’t have to know. It’ll just be between us.
Unknown number:Why are you ignoring me?
Unknown number:This is starting to piss me off. You took things out of context, you know.
Unknown number:I can barely swallow. You shouldn’t have swung on me like that. I’ll have a bruise. How am I supposed to explain that?
Unknown number:Why couldn’t you ever be easy? Why is everything such a fight with you?
Unknown number:Do you enjoy being a cunt or are you just naturally great at it.
Unknown number:I don’t know why I waste my breath. You were never worth the trouble.
And here we go.
Unknown number:Fucking defective bitch.
Block.
Yet another number I have to block. I may need to ask the phone company if they can block a whole area code. Aside from my parents, that is.
Not that they would believe me if I were to tell them why I was changing my number. Again.
They call it flighty.
Oh, the joys of being the disappointment of the family.
I skim the messages again.Fucking defective bitch.
Maybe. But better than being your wife.
* * *
I dress in the only clothes I brought aside from my cocktail dress. They’re appropriate for brunch with my parents.
I leave my bag with the hotel valet and grab yet another hired car for a ride.
This time, when I arrive, I don’t knock. There’s no one here to open the door for them and the pretense of needing servants can be left behind.
