So I saw myself out of that situation because it was the right thing to do, and clearly, it was for the best because you are the WORST kind of human being.
You are beyond irredeemable.
Please, if for some insane reason you happen upon me again, do us both a favor and walk the other way. I promise to do the same.
Best wishes—
Astaire
* * *
Sitting up in bed, I click on the lamp beside me and fire off a response.
* * *
FROM: Bennett.Schoenbach@SchoenbachCorp
SUBJECT: RE: re: re: re: re: Condolences
Astaire,
Best wishes? Seriously? What kind of uninspiring mind fuckery is that? I thought you were a professional manipulator? Surely you can come up with something more original than best-fucking-wishes.
But I digress.
On the extremely off-chance that you aren’t a gold-digging con-woman, then you owe me an enormous apology as well as an even bigger thank-you.
I’m sure you’re wondering why, so allow me to explain. When I took it upon myself to approach your date to let him know with exactly whom he was dealing, I strolled up to him from behind—where it just so happened I was able to catch a glimpse of the dick pic he was in the process of sending to another woman.
It’s an image I would pay an ungodly amount of money to un-see, but seeing how we’re lightyears away from that kind of technology, I’ll have to hope and pray that one day the visual of his five-inch uncut ‘gem’ will be wiped clean from my memory. Perhaps someday, I’ll be able to eat button mushrooms again without that nauseating graphic flashing through my mind.
Until then, like I said … you should thank me.
Also, while we’re on the subject of your date, I feel it’s only appropriate to point out the fact that you clearly have a type—only tonight’s doppelgänger was a bit of an insult to the rest of us tall, dark, successful, and impossibly handsome types because it was in talking to the poor bastard that I was able to glean that the twenty-thousand-dollar watch on his wrist was, indeed, a fake.
Perhaps you’re thinking, “But Bennett, I don’t care if his watch was real or fake, we were having a lovely time and that’s all that matters.” To which I would say, “Authenticity is everything. Believe people when they show you who they are and not when they tell you who they are.”
Anyway, you’re welcome, Astaire.
Yours in advice (nothing more, nothing less),
Bennett
* * *
I hit ‘send’ and toss my phone aside.
My body bakes beneath the covers, my legs restless and aching to move. I fling the covers down, pace my room, and head down the hall to pour myself a Lagavulin, something to help me ease back into a relaxed state—if that’s even possible at this point.
I’m not sure what the hell my problem is.
I’m not normally this wordy, at least not when it comes to women. I find the less you say, the more impactful the message, but it seems like whenever I’m dealing with her, I can’t shut off. Uncontrollable word vomit. Every-fucking-where.
I’m sipping my nightcap when I keep picturing her teary-eyed face, the way she said “move” through gritted teeth before disappearing into the bathroom. Half of me firmly believes all of this is a ruse. An expertly-crafted ruse.
The other half of me is beginning to wonder …
And that other half is also fixating on the fact that she went out on a date with a cheap imitation vanilla version of me—a version of me that made her smile ear-to-ear, bigger than she smiled last Saturday when I gave her shit for being the ray-of-fucking-sunshine that she is.
Trudging back to my room, I swipe my phone off the bed and refresh my email.
* * *
TO: Bennett.Schoenbach@SchoenbachCorp
FROM: AnonStranger@Rockmail
SUBJECT: RE: re: re: re: re: re: Condolences
Bennett,
I had a bunch of things typed out but I deleted them.
My adoptive mother had this saying: hurt people hurt people. You’re clearly hurting—and maybe hurting me makes you hurt less.
I don’t want to be a couple of misunderstood strangers fighting on the Internet.
Something tells me we’re both better than that.
If you need a friend, someone to talk to—here’s my number: 555-667-8265.
Sincerely,
Astaire
* * *
I close out of my email, darken my phone screen, and turn off the light.
Reverse psychology doesn’t work on me.
I don’t need a friend.
And I sure as hell don’t need her.
Seventeen
Astaire
* * *
“Hi there.” I pass Jane in the hallway Friday afternoon. She gives me a smile and a nod but doesn’t say another word—which is what she’s been doing for a full week now.
I can only imagine what Bennett said to her nephew to make him bolt out of Fino, which means I can only imagine what she thinks of me now …
It’s been eight days since I sent Bennett my phone number, and I haven’t received so much as a confirmation email or text of any kind—not that I expected him to take me up on that offer. Someone like him isn’t going to say, “Gosh, you know what? You’re right. I’m unhappy and I sure could use a friend!”
Men like that don’t do vulnerability.
They’re insulted by help, affronted by the assumption that they’re lacking in any way, emotional or otherwise.
But I haven’t a single regret, and I’ve slept like a baby every night since. The email I almost sent in place of that one was nasty and bitter and frankly, written from a dark place inside of me I never knew existed.
I couldn’t bring myself to send it. They weren’t things I’d ever say to anyone to their face, so typing them in an email seemed cheap and low.
Heading to the teacher’s lounge to run off a few copies before my kids come in from afternoon recess, I slide my phone from my back pocket while I wait for the antiquated machine to collate and staple. Only the second my screen comes to life, I’m greeted with a text from an unfamiliar local number and the words: CALL ME.
Stomach twisting, I realize this could be a number of people … but in my heart of hearts, I have a feeling I know exactly who it is.
And he’ll just have to wait.
Eighteen
Bennett
* * *
“About damn time,” I answer when she calls me at a quarter past six Friday night. I mark my page in Plato’s Republic and rest it beside my whiskey.
“Bennett?” Astaire’s voice is a confused brand of sugar-sweet on the other end. “I thought that was you …”
“I’m going to text you my address. Come over at eight.” Texting someone to have them call you so you can tell them you’re going to text them seems infuriatingly convoluted—but I wanted to make sure we were on the same page, wanted her to know my invitation is serious, and I wanted to guarantee my invite wouldn’t be ignored.