He’s hadhis damn phone on him all day, which makes me even more certain he’s doing something he shouldn’t be doing. He took it into the bathroom to play his Spotify playlist while he showered. He took it to the gym. Left it in his pocket at the coffee house, and it’s still in there, taunting me with its rectangular outline.
“Smells good, babe,” he says, kissing me on the cheek on his way to the fridge. I hear the clatter of beer bottles, the pop of a top. “Ah, what is that?”
“Italian zucchini. The lasagna’s in the oven.”
“You’re gonna make me fat.” He gives me another kiss, this one cold and wet from his beer, and then he walks out to the living room and falls back on the couch. I peer around the corner, watching as he pulls his phone from his pocket. He reads over something, rubs his hand across the top of his head, and smiles before typing something out.Who are you talking to, Justin?And this is why I have to get that phone. Not because I’m crazy or obsessive, no, because I’m smart, and I must fix this before he fucks it all up. This has to be a love story, not a tragedy.
I check to make sure his attention is still glued to that phone before I grab my purse from the end of the kitchen counter. “So, I was thinking,” I say as I rummage around for one of my pill bottles, “we should write a book together.”
“Huh?”
I find the bottle of sleeping pills and unscrew the cap, dumping about four into my palm. “We should write a book together.” I pop my head around the doorframe and smile at him. “You know everyone would buy it wondering if the sex in it is real or not.”
He laughs. And I place the pills on the cutting board, using a serving spoon to crush them into a fine powder. “They would, you know they would.”
“Yeah, well, why stop with a book? We could just Facebook live it, you know?”
“God, you are such a boy.” I sigh as I dust the zucchini with the magic powder that will send him into La La Land while I see what naughty things he’s been up to.
“I’d be down to write one with you, for sure. It’d be mental.”
Mental. I roll my eyes. To write so well, his vocabulary sure is crap.
I finish up dinner and dish up the plates, smiling like fucking Joan Cleaver when I set the table. Justin takes a seat, scooting his chair up to the table as he eyes the Italian feast spread out before him. “Shit, you are perfect, you know it.” He digs into the lasagna and lifts a steaming forkful to his mouth. “You sure you don’t want to stay over again tonight?” he asks.
“Yeah, I need to do some laundry and write.”
Nodding, he stabs a piece of zucchini and crams it in his mouth. His eyes widen and, for a moment, I fear I used too many pills or didn’t add enough oregano to cover the bitter taste up. “Shit, this is good.”
Relief washes over me. “Thanks,” I smile as I take a bite of lasagna.
He eats his zucchini and mine—pregnancy came in handy as to why I didn’t want that little side dish tonight. We’ve just finished cleaning up the kitchen when he yawns, then yawns again. “Too many carbs,” he mumbles as he shuffles toward the couch.
I dry my hands on the dishtowel, watching as he pulls his phone from his pocket and lays it on the coffee table. “Well,” I say, walking over to the couch and leaning down to give him a kiss, “I’m going to go do some laundry, try to write. See you tomorrow?”
His eyes are already lulling shut, but he manages a nod. “Alright, baby.”Ugh. Enough with the baby.“I’ll miss you.” Before I’m halfway across the living room, he’s snoring. I eye him for a minute or two, making sure he’s sound asleep before I walk to the coffee table and snag his phone.
I glance at him as I click on his messenger app. He looks so peaceful, so perfect. He looks lovely, like the perfect book boyfriend. Dark hair tousled, his defined biceps littered with tattoos, all the way down to his faithful dog asleep at his side. I scroll through the messages and my heart smiles, my stomach flutters—our baby must know—not one nasty message. Not one single jazz hand or kissy face. I look back up at him and I want to kiss him. Tell him I love him. I want to go block Ed right now... and then, just to be safe, I check his texts. There’s only two. Mine and... I click on the one without a name and my heart stills, the swirling fog of bliss I’d so serenely been floating through morphs into an angry storm cloud filled with lightening and hail.
I miss you, too.My hand shakes.And what am I supposed to do with this, Justin?
She texted she wants to see you. You texted maybe sometime soon?My heart flops like a dead fish on a sunbaked dock. I breath in and out, trying to reason, trying to make up an excuse. I have to get to the bottom of this, and the only way to do that is:Come over. Now. 212 Water Street. Can’t wait to see you, baby.Jazz hand emoticon.
She says:On my way.
And I pace. I pace and pace and pace wondering whosheis.I swear to god, Justin, if she’s blonde... There’s a knock on the door and you don’t budge. I stare at that door.Tap. Tap.What am I supposed to do? Tell her to come in? I can’t do that. I didn’t think this through. It’s messy and unplanned—it doesn’t fit into the story. None of it does. It should be me and him and our baby, not me standing here while his whore is on the other side of the door. “Justin, baby?” she says.
Ugh. Thatword! I massage my temples, trying to think of what King or Patterson would do, how could they use this fuck up for an epic twist, a heightened climax, a what-the-fuck-moment. With each step toward the entrance I take, my pulse clangs in my ears, my muscles grow tense. “Justin?” she sings through the wooden door. I grab his MacBook on the way to the entrance, clutching it to my chest. I flip the lock, twist the knob, and the door slowly swings open with an eerie creak. Her shadow falls across the floor.
“Uh... ” I see her shadow hesitate. “Justin?” And then she steps in. All I see is blonde hair. Blonde hair. Blonde hair. It’s Amy, Justin. It’s fucking#HavingAGreatTimeWithAmy,and then...
Pow. Whack. Bam.
It’s lights out.#NightNightAmyNightNight
