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And then the words popped up: “If you’re dating a hockey guy named Garrett who was at Firebird on 11/3, I’m sorry, honey. He’s cheating on you.”
The next seconds of the video had him kissing the girl’s neck, feeling her up on the dance floor, dipping her dramatically and then shoving his tongue down her throat. And then they sloppily walked off together.
I watched it about five more times, and the notifications just kept coming. But the tears didn’t.
All I felt was anger lighting up in my entire body.
I’d like to say what I did next was because of the constant notifications. They egged me on. People wanted me to know he was a cheater. People wanted to see my reaction. That’s why they were constantly tagging me, right?
So, I’d give them a show. I had to. To stop the notifications. To show the world that I knew, and that I wouldn’t take his disrespect lying down.
I padded to the kitchen and broke out the expensive bottle of wine that Garrett had been saving to celebrate with after he finally signed a full-fledged NHL contract one day, not just a two-way one with the minors like he currently had.
I popped the cork and took a long, hard swig of dry-ass wine. I loved Moscato, not this red bullshit.
And then I did what any sane girl would do who wanted the notifications to stop. I grabbed the scissors and went Live.
“Hello world,” I hiccupped and took another swig of wine. “I am @Josie-Bosie, the girl you keep constantly tagging in that stupid ass video of my skeezy cheater fiancé— ope, ex-fiancé, I should say.” I rolled my eyes and walked to his huge closet. “Seems only fair I should show you guys my reaction since you’re the ones who enlightened me on this whole situation.”
I trailed the scissors lightly over all his neatly, pressed suits. And then I cut into one. And it feltgood.
I proceeded to cut into every single one of them. I cut the arms off a couple, cut holes into a few, cut the legs off of others. I ruined each and every stupid suit that he loved, cackling as I did it. I paid special attention to his favorite one— the one Columbus purchased for him before his first game with them.
“Am I done?” I sighed into the camera. “No. I’m just hungry now. Snack break.” I was slightly dizzy as I walked to the kitchen and almost tripped. “Ope, little tipsy here, boys and gals.” I laughed as I went to the fridge for food. “Remember though, drinking is only for those twenty-one and up.” I paused and cocked my head to the side. “Did anyone check that girl in the video’s ID?” I asked, then completely ignored the people sending live chats in.
When I looked in his fridge, I zeroed in on the two cartons of eggs and grinned.
“New idea, guys,” I told my live audience, which was growing in huge numbers, but I didn’t care. I was drunk as shit. Besides, it only seemed right. Garrett’s video was nearing a million views, and in my drunken haze, I wanted to beat his numbers. It was amazing how many people were still on their phones at 3am.
I went to his front room closet and pulled out his sheet of synthetic shooting ice and lined it up in his living room. Then I grabbed an extra hockey stick and swiped the eggs off the kitchen counter. I flipped my camera phone and set it on the couch so it could tape me in all my slapshot glory.
I placed the egg on the ice, then stood up and pointed to the framed picture of Garrett and I in the living room. It would’ve been cute if he put it there. He didn’t. I did.
“I’m a figure skater, but I’m playing hockey today,” I said, imitatingHappy Gilmore.“Four!” I shouted right as I used a wrist shot on the raw egg. The egg missed the photo and exploded on the wall. “Damn, missed,” I muttered. “Don’t worry, I’ll get it.” I winked at my phone.
I took wrist shots, slapshots, then switched it up and pretended I was golfing. I rotated the direction of my shots through the room so that each of my 24 available eggs exploded somewhere different.
After my very last egg, I jumped up in happy celebration, then did a little air guitar with the stick. I turned to my phone and dropped the stick like a mic drop. “Now that is how you celly, Garrett. Someone should tell you the whole head down, arms up thing-” I hiccupped, “makes you look like a total asshole, you fuggin’ puck hog.”
I took the very last sip from the wine bottle and then turned off my phone before falling asleep in a drunken mess on the couch.
________
I woke up with a startle. My head immediately pounded. As I slowly took in my surroundings, a blurred supercut of last night came slamming back into my brain.
And that’s when the tears came.
The tears weren’t over losing the guy he became… No. The tears were for the college version of us. The version of him that actually seemingly liked me and wanted to spend time with me and wanted me to go to all of his games in person. The version of us that enjoyed pigging out on Five Guys after a night out. The version of us that enjoyed casual intimacy of hand-holding and lazily sleeping next to each other through the last six years of our lives. RRR—
I had to cut off those thoughts. I couldn’t start romanticizing what we had. Sure, we slept next to each other, but I was never allowed to touch him at night because he’d complain of getting too hot. And while I still loved going out with him, he started questioning what I chose to eat and drink in front of him. And while he used to play with my hair while we watched TV back in our college dorm when we were young, now he just complained when he could see my darker roots coming in. Like, I’m sorry, but what kind of guy even notices that?
The only thing I should’ve been sad about was the amount of time I wasted with him. I should’ve left him in the dust a long, long time ago.
I should’ve listened to all of the warning signs in my brain instead of rationalizing all of his harsh words.
But that realization didn’t stop my tears.
And they didn’t stop as I packed up my shit and took every single reminder of us from that apartment and threw it down the trash chute. The throw pillows I bought him? Gone. The coffee machine I gifted him last Christmas? Smashed. The nice Scotch my dad gave him? Stashed in my suitcase. The few clothes I left here were also thrown down the trash chute because I didn’t want anything of mine to smell like him.
