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There was a minute there, before we’d ever even spoken, when I wished I’d met him first.
8
KATE
Another week passes with little change. Every few days there’s a text from Ann—always far too early in the morning—and otherwise, it’s silent.
It’s barely light out when Ann texts today. I need to mute her.
Ann
How’s the job hunt going?
Not so well at the moment.
It’s still early. You’re going to meetings?
Yep.
Have you gone to Hannah’s grave yet?
She really needs to work on her six AM conversational skills.
Instead of replying, I go to Instagram. It was “raft night” for Lucie and Caleb on Saturday, apparently. The two of them are pictured floating in a pool with Lucie’s smiling twins, all of them decked out in glow-in-the-dark paint.
Relationships are always easy at the start. Lucie’s undoubtedly thrilled to have someone stepping in to pay her way, to parent her children. She’s devoting every free second to showing Caleb how wonderful she is. She probably gets up hours before him to do her hair, apply subtle makeup. She’s never too tired to spread her legs when he wants her to, and he’s a fool in the same way all men are because he assumes it’ll last.
Their relationship is a Jenga tower, and it’s time for me to remove a piece or two from its base. It’s only six AM, but no hour of the day is too early for the evil queen.
I begin by creating a website, one that lists signs that don’tnecessarilymean a guy is cheating but are things I have no doubt Caleb is doing.
Does he claim to work long hours?
Does he keep a password on his phone?
Does he insist he’s over his ex, but you have doubts?
Is he unwilling to break ties with his past?
At the bottom of the website, I link to the dark corners a paranoid girlfriend might investigate if it got bad enough—spyware, keystroke trackers, other articles on cheating, the National Association of Private Investigators.
Then I move on to the ads. It’s easier than you might imagine to target ads to just one person or a small handful of persons.
I take every single thing I know about Lucie—her location, that she’s between the ages of twenty-five and thirty, and the mother of twins—and this becomes my audience. I grab a stock photo of a guy whispering into a phone. Then I add a headline:“Is he cheating?”
The ad links to my website.
I doubt it’ll have any effect whatsoever, but it’s a small bright spot in my day, and I really need a bright spot or two right now. I go to the kitchen to start breakfast with my good mood restored, waiting for Beck to finish his insane workout in the backyard.
When he comes in, he scarfs the hash browns and bacon I’ve made as if he’s being timed. I knew kids like that in foster care, the ones who always acted like you would steal the plate right from their hands. In his case, he’s just so hungry he can’t help himself. I want him to slow down. I want him to stay for a while. I wish breakfast involved multiple courses.
He gets a text and when his glance shoots guiltily to me, I know who the sender was. Beck and Caleb text almost daily—usually about sports or just to give each other shit. He turns the phone face-down on the counter and swallows the last of his hash browns. “How’s the job hunt going?”
I shove the bacon around in the pan simply to avoid his gaze. I have no clue if he’s asking because he wants me out or because he’s worried I’m not doing shit to move my life forward. It’s probably both.
“I’ve sent my resume to thirty places and haven’t gotten a single call.”
I wait for him to suggest that I’m aiming too high, that perhaps I should forget about the jobs I’d like and aim for the ones I can actually get: working in a fucking mail room or some entry-level bullshit where a coke habit hurts no one but myself.
