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While the cats chowed down on kibble and canned food, I raided the freezer. Two heaping spoonfuls of chocolate ice cream later — Tristan’s junk food — I didn’t feel any happier or sadder. So I made some tea and returned to my recording booth.
When I was nineteen, I’d met a woman who made her living as a narrator. She did commercial narration and was trying to break into audiobooks. I’d never considered being an audiobook narrator but was intrigued. After all, I’d been in chorus and drama all through high school, so why not try this? I’d signed up for a class, which led to a couple more classes. I put together a demo reel and was booking gigs within weeks.
Turned out, I was pretty fucking good at it. Now, five years later, I had a handful of awards for my work, an agent, and contracts with multiple bestselling authors and New York publishers.
I checked my email. Drew had approved the four new chapters, just like he’d signed off on the rest of the novel. I sent him the chapters as I finished them so he could give me immediate feedback before I got in too deep. I didn’t do that with all my authors, but Drew was unique … in more ways than one.
I sat in the booth, put my headphones on, and started recording again.
“A busty brunette with stars in her eyes and endless thighs,” Neutron Jon said to the man behind the bar at the Cobalt-Five Dive. “She’s unforgettable.”
“I know just the woman.” The craggy bartender jerked his chin toward the end of the bar.
Jon’s gaze followed and there she was, Juno Galore, in a tight red dress with blue hair and a smirk twisting her lips. She raised her glass and her middle finger in his direction.
An hour later the rough file was finished. I wasn’t entirely happy with the performance. It felt flat. But I didn’t want to rerecord the whole thing just yet. Sometimes when I thought my narration was shitty, if I sat on it for a day then listened back, it turned out to be fine. So I saved the file, planning to come back in the morning and clean it up or rerecord if it really sucked that badly.
When I stepped out of the booth, I noticed Tristan’s Seahawks scarf and his anorak hanging on the coat pegs in my hallway. “You know what?” I muttered. “Fuck you. You’re outta here.”
While fetching empty boxes from the attached garage, I spied his goddamned bike still hanging on the wall.
“Idiot,” I muttered, “why the hell didn’t you take that when you left?”
I hauled the flattened boxes into the house. It took a little searching to find tape, but soon I was packing everything that asshole had brought into my home.
The first thing to go was the nasty-ass protein powder and bulk-up bullshit powder he kept in the pantry. How many fucking flavors and varieties of that crap did one man need? Hell if I knew or cared. Into the box all of it went. So did his sugary cereal and a box of sandwich cookies, a shit-ton of vitamins and minerals that, I swear, he didn’t actually take. He just bought them to make himself feel like he was being healthy.
“Fucking hypocrite.” He had some frozen and refrigerated crap. I wanted to get rid of everything, but I was too nice to chuck it in the trash. I organized it onto one shelf in the fridge and one in the freezer, figuring I’d pack that last. Next, I pulled all his dirty clothes out of the hamper in my bedroom, threw that in a box and added his razors, shampoo, soap and deodorant. I made another trip downstairs to the garage for two more boxes, dropping the filled ones on the second-floor landing.
Only the family room remained. The TV was his, and he could have it. I didn’t watch television that much and he’d fight me for it. He had a bunch of fucking fitness magazines, and those went in a box with a couple more caps, two pairs of shoes and his hiking boots, his iPad, and his Ultimate discs.
Once I was done, I checked every room for anything I’d missed. When I was sure I had it all, I sat on the couch. I should text him to come get his shit, but I really didn’t want to see him again. Maybe I could put it in front of the garage when I knew he was coming and he could pick it up. “Yup,” I said, chewing my lip, “that’s what I’ll do.”
But I stared at the phone. I just didn’t have the energy to talk to Tristan tonight.
Instead, I texted my mom.
Hey. I just kicked Tristan out.
Her reply came almost immediately.
What? Why? What happened, honey?
He was a dick. Didn’t get the vacay tix & called me Zaftig.
Oh, honey, I’m sorry. Are you okay? Do you want to come up here for a few days?
No, I’m good. Just wish I figured out what an a-hole he is sooner.
Well, you always want to think the best of people. You know that about yourself. You’re trusting and generous. I don’t know who you get that from. *wink wink*
Ha! True, Mom. It’s all your fault.
Moms always get blamed. I guess that’s just part of being a mom.
I guess. Anyway, just wanted you to know PV is off & I’m gonna eat a ton of junk food tonight.
Please don’t. You know that’ll make you sick.
