“Huh?”
“His train from Tacoma is delayed, so he wanted you to know that he’ll be even later than he thought. Oh, and apparently someone stole his phone, so he wants you to pick up a new one for him tomorrow morning.”
I looked at my watch. “Tell the caterer to hold off on serving the cake.”
“Will do.” She walked away, and I couldn’t help but feel slightly suspicious about Dave’s excuse. Even if the Tacoma train was running late, Dave had multiple ways of getting to this party as soon as possible. Services he’d used before.
Executive Car. Uber. Tram.
And I couldn’t think of a single payphone that was still in existence.
“Excuse me for a minute, Chelsea,” I said. “I’ll be right back.”
I made my way through the crowd, stopping and smiling whenever someone asked until I made it to my gallery’s office.
I pulled my cell phone from my drawer and scrolled to Dave’s name.
It rang once, it rang twice, it—
It sounded as if it was close.
Confused, I walked over to my coat and saw a blue light flashing inside the right pocket. I ended the call and pulled it out.
I must’ve grabbed it by mistake this afternoon.
I started to put it back, but a new message alert sounded.
Unlocking his phone, I opened his texts.
555-768-2143: My pussy is still dripping wet from last night … Are you still coming over?
I stared at the message for several seconds.
Not wanting to jump to occlusion, I attempted to scroll up, but no other messages existed on this thread.
I let out a breath and helped the horny stranger.
555-768-2143: Sorry. You have the wrong number.
Within seconds, she texted me back.
555-768-2143: I get super excited when you don’t add the “Never text me again” afterward. LOL. Very smart and believable if *she* ever saw it. What are you doing?
555-768-2143: Delete all my messages and answer my new text in Calc.
The hairs on the back of my neck stood at full attention. My heart begged me not to pry any further, but logic refused to let me back down.
What the hell is ‘Calc’?
I closed the inbox and returned to the home screen. No apps appeared when I typed in “Calc,” only a calculator.
Clicking on it, I realized this app wasn’t for math at all. Instead, it was full of threads between Dave and this woman’s soaking wet pussy.
Apparently, her name was “Heather Wren,” and her threads with Dave stretched for over six fucking months.
Not wanting anyone to bother me while I read the rest of these, I put on my jacket and stepped into the alley. Then I leaned against the bricks.
HeatherWren: I’ve never felt for someone what I feel for you. I hate that someone else tied you down first. Do you still think that you and I are meant to be together?
What the fuck?
I didn’t dare answer her. Instead, I clicked on an older thread.
Dave: I love the way you taste in my mouth.
HeatherWren: I wish I was the only one you were tasting …
Dave: Me too. For what it’s worth, I prefer your brand on my lips.
My heart sank into my chest.
I couldn’t bear to read more of that conversation, so I tortured my heart with another.
Dave: Once I celebrate the 1st anniversary with Harlow, we won’t be able to do this as much. She’s mentioned wanting a baby, so you and I will have to use condoms.
HeatherWren: Boo to condoms. I’ll tolerate them for you, though. Do you want a baby?
Dave: I don’t know what I want anymore.
HeatherWren: I think you want to be with someone you love. Not someone who just has a ‘college sweetheart’ title. smile emoji (I don’t want a baby. Ever.)
Dave: Remind me to give you an extra kiss tonight.
HeatherWren: Only if it’s a kiss on my lower lips. Dave: LOL. Where else would it be?
I clicked on another.
Heather Wren: Are you still having your anniversary party at her gallery this Sunday?
Dave: Yes.
HeatherWren: Can I come over?
Dave: Only for two hours.
HeatherWren: I’m already outside. Open the door.
Utterly enraged, I read every word in every thread—even the ones that made me want to scream. I wasn’t sure how Dave met her or when, but I sensed that this “Calc” thing was only capturing the latter part of the affair.
Has he ever been faithful?
Once I’d made my way through their words, I wasn’t sure I could handle the “plus sign” where they stored all the pictures.
Do it …
Like a masochist, I scrolled through the pictures he sent to her first.
Dick-pics while standing in our master shower, cute smiling ones while cooking in our kitchen, and some of the same sight-seeing ones from business trips that he’d sent to me. Finally, there was one of him blowing her a kiss while he was standing in my gallery. In it, my back was turned.
The sudden sound of the alley door opening wasn’t enough to make me look away.
He had time to send her all these naughty pictures, but whenever I’d asked for one, he’d said, “Dirty pictures just aren’t my thing.”
My top assistant, Ashley, cleared her throat and waved her hand in front of my face. “Um, Miss Harlow? The caterer wants you to check some of the truffle tarts before they’re served.”
“I need you to do that for me.” My blood was simmering, and I had first-degree murder on my mind. “Can you, please?”
“Sure. Is there anything else I can do for you?”
“Yes.” I scrolled through more pictures of the cunt posing in my closet and kitchen, with whipped cream artfully placed on her tits. “I need you to tell Chelsea to hide my house keys. Then she needs to take me back to her place within the next five minutes.”
“I think she stepped out to grab a coffee.”
“Four and a half minutes.” I stopped at a picture of the mistress wearing my favorite bathrobe. “Or, she’ll be witnessing me commit a double homicide tonight.”
“I’ll get her right away.” She rushed inside, and I forwarded every picture and text message to my phone. I desperately wanted to forward them to Dave’s coworkers and employees as well, but I held back.
There was no need for that.
Yet.
Then again, there was no need for any conversation with explanations or any chance at apologies.
I didn’t want to hear denial or rebuild something with the same person who’d blissfully torn it apart.
I was filing for divorce in the morning.
As long as Chelsea prevents me from killing him (and her) first.
The Good Wife
Tyler
You are cordially invited
to a yard sale by Harlow McGuire
Every suit, pair of shoes, and device is $25.00
First come, first serve.
Whatever remains will be burned.
Escala