17. Dollie—present day
Dollie—present day
H ow Shane’s so tired, I do not know. We were up late watching movies, which was his idea and choice. A comedy marathon—in an attempt to soothe my anxiety. However, he’d slept through most of them and slept this morning after a few quick inquiries to wedding venues. And now, he’s sleeping again.
I honestly don’t know how he’ll cope when he goes back to work next week. And I don’t know how I will either.
How will I be okay in this house alone?
His phone, surprisingly, hasn’t disturbed his beauty sleep.
With barely a minute between each alert, it’s buzzed continuously for the last fifteen minutes.
I eye the clock on the mantel with a squint before checking him in the broken mirror above.
That will be leaving this place today, and it can take its bad luck with it.
The blob of paint on the fireplace, the one that landed there as I struggled to open the can with a rusty screwdriver I found in the kitchen, calls to me.
That was how my day started…and it’s gotten no better.
Since then, I’ve stained one of my favorite hoodies and matted my hair.
Shane lies with his legs stretched out, mouth gaped open, and his brown eyes moving beyond the lids like he’s having the most fascinating dream, totally oblivious to the phone on the cushion at his side when it buzzes again.
I sigh.
Returning my attention to the job at hand, another layer of pink hides the letters on the wall. It’s taken me all day—but finally—damn, finally—the lies about me are gone. In this room, at least.
Buzz.
Who on earth could that be?
A thought whirls in my head, jogging memories about my favorite venue getting back to us. Last night, after everything had settled, we’d messaged the little place with the dome and received an automated email saying someone would reach out in the coming days.
This could be it!
A fantasy trails behind in my mind of me in a puffy princess dress, the palest pink and glittering as the sun kisses it through floor-to-ceiling windows.
Shane, in a black suit, his smile boyish and the tears in his eyes, adorable. He stretches out his hand to me and?—
Buzz.
The damn phone interrupts my reverie, but all the excitement is left behind.
Setting my paintbrush carefully along the paint can, I brush my hands down the giant sweatshirt I wear and creep across to the phone. With each step, I’m careful to avoid the crystals I still have scattered around the room from this morning’s blessing.
Shane gave in and took me to get them before we started working on the decorating. And by we, I mean me. But that’s fine. He took me for the crystals, I’ll happily paint alone in exchange.
The smile on my face is wide and growing as I pick up the phone that is always placed screen down and swipe to unlock it.
Four messages and six notifications from an app I don’t recognize sit on the screensaver of me. Excitement leads me to click into his message app, ignoring whatever game he has in the background and all its update requests.
One conversation is marked as unread.
The lady’s name is Olive.
Fast fingers open the message before my eyes scan the snippet on display.
Slowly, my jaw lowers, heavy with shock. My eyes widen, and tears sting them.
The phone moves in my blurred vision, and it’s only then that I realize I’m shaking.
Shane still sleeps on the sofa while I stand at his side. The pounding of my heart blasting against my ribcage hasn’t disturbed him.
I blink down at my hands, expecting the messages to read differently when I open my eyes again. But the painful truth is still there, laughing in the face of my ten-year relationship.
My lips seal, like that will keep the pain inside of me.
It doesn’t, and I can’t be here, in this room with him.
A step back places my foot on what must be my sharpest crystal.
I wince and hop away as the crystal tumbles.
With my blood soaking through my sock and my foot in one hand, and Shane’s phone in the other, I stay silent as he stirs.
Please, don’t wake up yet.
When he doesn’t open his eyes, silent steps avoid any more crystals as I edge to the back of the house. I check every corner for shadows, but in the natural daylight, I’m alone.
The crack in the kitchen window taunts me, but I ignore it, skulking around the corner into the bathroom.
I push the lock into place. It’s old and probably won’t keep anyone actually out if they try the door. So, I sink to the floor and sit against it.
Unlocking the phone again, I flick back to the start of the conversation between Shane and Olive.
A cold tear rolls from my eye.
Shane:
I thought this might be easier to chat on than the app.
Olive:
It is.
Shane:
And you know I wanna chat with you all the time.
Olive:
Oh, really. What would your girlfriend say?
Shane:
I doubt she’d care. We hardly speak.
I make efforts constantly. He’s the only person I ever communicate with. And he’s never interested in more than a two-minute conversation before he picks up his phone again to talk to someone else.
Olive:
It was the same with my boyfriend.
Shane:
He’s not around anymore, right?
Olive:
He isn’t. ;)
Shane:
Good. Because fuck, I want you.
That message has my stomach ballooning with discomfort. A sickly feeling rushes up my throat, but I swallow it down.
Olive:
Would it be totally weird if I said I know. :P
Shane:
Maybe a little big-headed. LOL.
But you’re too fucking hot. So, it’s understandable.
Olive:
Well, it was kinda obvious you felt that way earlier this month while you and your guys fixed my car for free…
Shane:
Was it kinda obvious that I’d jacked off twice to pictures of you before going into work that day?
There are twenty minutes between his last message and this woman’s next.
Olive:
Don’t. I’m blushing now, and I won’t be able to look you in the eye again when I see you next.
You know, when you bring me my next present and all.
By the way, thank you for the last one. And for not charging me for it, either.
I appreciate it. If you’d like something to appreciate, check this out. :P
A link is attached to the bottom of her message, and I click it, allowing curiosity to kick me while down. It directs me to an app where everyone shares photos of themselves. An app, Shane told me he didn’t have, because it was full of egotistical people who needed compliments to feel good.
And here is one of them.
Olive.
She stands in a long open coat and knee-high boots, and this woman, who Shane can’t get enough of, makes me feel sick enough to retch.
Black and white tiles stare back at me when nothing comes from my mouth but stuttering breaths. No vomit that could have dragged my heart from my chest. No pain. That’s all still inside me.
A trembling finger clicks the back button, and I brace myself to see her name in his texts again.
But his phone stays on the app, the bright screen highlighting each message.
Pushing myself back to the door, I scroll quickly, seeing name after name… Julie, Anna, Eliza, Laura, Sasha, Wendi. The list is endless.
Each woman has something in common with the last, which is how few clothes they’re wearing.
Familiar faces stand out in the crowd, and it hurts me that I recognize some of these people.
Massaging my chest, I try to shrink the ache I feel there, but my other hand works against me, still clicking buttons on Shane’s phone.
I’m in his notifications now. There are hundreds.
Ninety-nine percent of them look the same—all from women who have heart reacted to his love for their pictures.
Some of his comments hurt more than others, and one message to a certain woman, where he says he’d like to reenact a movie about a young woman who has little choice of agreeing to a whole year of being some rich guy’s plaything, causes my skin to heat with embarrassment for myself and him.
I click on her for a moment, the woman in her underwear who looks like all the others. Tears land on her almost exposed breasts, and I leave her page.
Another comment makes my stomach roll, and I feel the need to be sick again.
This comment is a quick question asking another of these people when they are returning to another app—another app that he apparently doesn’t have, because this one is apparently just to call out all the local cheats by revealing their top friends.
A crying face is attached to that message, but I hardly see it because of my teary eyes.
I rush from one app to look for another. I only type the letter S into his phone before the app in question pops up.
A clap of sound hits the floor when Shane’s phone falls face down through my trembling hands.
I pray silently to the Goddesses that it’s not broken. There are still things I don’t know.
And I need to know everything.
Flipping the phone over, I see it’s still in one piece, with no cracks or obvious scratches.
I scroll through another list, stopping at a person whose name appears as Just Another Princess.
And the words, just another whore, run silently in my head.
Maybe it’s bitterness, but maybe it’s not, as he doesn’t seem to keep his relationship a secret, and my existence doesn’t stop those who know about me.
With my eyes on this princess , I click into their chat.
The last message exchange was a picture sent from Shane’s phone. My eyes roll closed as I click the chat, expecting to see him showing off his body to this woman.
The photo isn’t of him. It’s of my house and captioned, Maybe one day you’ll get to stay in this big, creepy house with me.
She hasn’t answered yet.
I start typing my own reply, but something else in their chat calls my attention. A notification sits at the top, reading: Pictures saved to this chat.
A few swipes later, and I know every inch of this woman’s body.
I let disgust push the phone away from me, watching it slide across the tiles. It doesn’t feel far enough away.
Tears continue to fall, and I let them out, huddling in on myself at the door.
My body quakes.