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I had a choice to make. Either cut my losses by driving away, or wait around for her to return and risk being rejected. It took me all of about two seconds to decide: I was staying put. If there was even a one-percent chance that Clara was feeling the same way about me as I was about her, it was worth risking rejection. She and I had connected, I was sure of it. And for once in my miserable life, it was real. A woman can fake an orgasm (don’t ask me how I know that) but she can’t fake a pounding heart. She can fake a sigh, but she can’t make her whole body shiver. I didn’t think she was madly in love with me, but she felt something. I wasn’t going to turn and walk away just because I’d spoken a few poorly chosen words.
Pulling my spare key from my pocket, I pressed the unlock button and climbed into my car. There were now three parking tickets on my windshield, but I didn’t care. All I cared about was Clara. She had to return eventually, and I would wait for as long as it took.
Which, knowing the New York City public toilet situation, was going to be a while.
In the meantime, I decided I’d listen to a little music. I started searching for my phone. It wasn’t on the passenger seat, where I thought I’d left it. I bent over to look under the seat. Not there, either. It was when I was sitting back up that I noticed something.
A bird-shaped keychain.
For the love of God. Three hundred miles round trip. Six hours in total. Anger, laughter, tears, windshield theft, cupcakes, and Porta Johns galore. What was it all for?
It was for a spare key. A spare key that was good for shit.
Clara’s keys were still stuck in my ignition.
I had just dropped my idiot head onto the steering wheel when I heard my phone ping from inside my glove box.
Opening it, I grabbed my phone. On the screen was a message that said “16 new notifications.” I was shocked. While I got plenty of texts during the workweek, my Saturdays and Sundays were pretty quiet. So imagine my surprise when my phone pinged again a moment later. And then a third time.
Gran. That had to be it. She’d been in the hospital for a week and I hadn’t even visited her yet. And now she was dead and her only grandson had let her die alone. Panicked, I opened the most recent message. It wasn’t the hospital telling me Gran had died of loneliness and it was all my fault. It was from a college buddy I hadn’t spoken to in over a year.
Holy shit man your old man’s going to flip. I feel for you, good luck, buddy
What the...?
I pulled up the next message. It was from a douchebag programming colleague whom I’d specifically instructed never to contact me if it wasn’t a coding emergency.
Nice, dude. Worth every penny if you ask me
Why were people sending me these cryptic texts? The next was from a number I didn’t even recognize.
Ian I’ll do you for free!
There was a link, and I stupidly clicked on it. It was a naked selfie of a woman I’d never seen before and never wanted to see again, naked or otherwise.
I read the next text. It was from Dad.
A hotel, Dummy. She books a room. You book a room an hour later. Then you go to her room instead of yours and no one’s the wiser. Did that 100K a year prep school I sent you to teach you no life skills?
Dad’s bizarre message, like the one before it, had a link. I clicked on it, desperately hoping it wasn’t another naked selfie.
It wasn’t a naked selfie. It was worse. It was a headline:
Ian Dunning Caught Red-Handed with Prostitute!
Beneath the headline was a picture of me in my car. Clara was standing outside the door in her tight red shirt, torn stockings, and five-inch heels, looking very much like the drunken prostitute I’d first imagined her to be.
And I was sitting in the driver’s seat handing her cash out the window.
Shiittt!
I heard a loud knock. I looked over to see Clara standing outside my passenger side door, frantically gesturing for me to open it.
“Ian,” she cried, “open up! I just peed on something!”
Just this once, I hoped I was hearing her right. I would much rather listen to her tell me about how she’d just peed on a fire hydrant than hear what she’d have to say if she saw our picture on the internet.
I had to think fast. But I had never been what you’d call cool under pressure. And at the moment, I was pretty sure I was having a full-fledged anxiety attack.
