Chapter 3 #2
With a sigh, I showed her the message from Deacon, along with my reply. I’d yet to hear anything back from Dingdong Dipshit. I stifled a laugh at Deacon’s secret nickname for Damien. It was fitting.
“That motherfucker,” Jeanie breathed. “Pardon me, that fatherfucker. Either way, what a fucker. So what, Deacon wrote that message for you?”
I shook my head. “No, he saw me glaring at my phone in a rage fugue, asked what was wrong and since the fucks I have left to give about any of it have disappeared, I showed him. Then I asked him if the response was too harsh—I hadn’t sent it yet—and he said no, that it wasn’t harsh enough. But we didn’t change it. I sent it.”
“Definitely not harsh enough. All it is is a reality check. You’re telling him the truth about how shitty of a dad he is and that he deserves every bit of disrespect she throws at him.”
I needed that reassurance. More times than not, through this total nightmare, I caught myself wondering if I was being too harsh with Damien.
Not understanding enough with regards to his later-in-life crisis.
But when he treated our daughter this way …
I didn’t care how he was struggling or if he was struggling.
There was no excuse for his behavior toward Kira. None.
“Thanks,” I murmured, hating every bit of all of this and reflecting on the last thirteen years of our marriage.
He claimed he always “kind of” knew he was gay.
He thought he just “needed” to be straight because life and work in his field were easier for straight men.
So instead, he just “pretended” with me for years.
Pretended to love me. Pretended to want me.
He faked every part of himself. I was a beard to him.
The doting wife, playing a role when I didn’t even know I was in a fucking play.
If he cared for me at all, he would have been honest with me.
He wouldn’t have wasted the last fourteen-plus years of my life.
I should have known something was up when he said he didn’t want anymore children.
That one was enough. He kept saying that we shouldn’t contribute anymore to an already overpopulated world?
A tear slipped down my cheek before I could stop it. Jeanie noticed and wrapped an arm around me. “Oh, honey.” She tugged me close. “He’s a shitty dad. A shitty man. You and Kira deserve so much better.”
“I just feel like the best years of my life are gone.” I faced her. “I wanted more kids, you know? I wanted two kids. So Kira wouldn’t be alone. But Damien only wanted one. So much so that he went and got a vasectomy without telling me”
“Fucking hell,” Jeanie breathed.
“And now, I’m thirty-four, and although I technically could still have kids, I’d need a man for that because no way do I want to be a single mom to a teenager and an infant.
Hormones and colic? Kill me now. Not that I am counting down the days until Kira is eighteen and independent-ish.
They say one of the perks of having kids younger is freedom in your forties, but if I had another kid, I’d be nearly fifty before I was free. ”
“Hell no, you don’t want anymore kids!” Jeanie said emphatically. “As someone who is in her forties, the best years of your life are not gone. They’re right in front of you. Maybe the most fertile years are behind you, and you have perimenopause to look forward to—”
That made me laugh.
“But trust me, your best years are not behind you. You’ve shed the deadweight. Embrace the lightness. Embrace the new life ahead of you.” She gave me a squeeze. “And all the hot, casual sex you get to have now.”
“I’m not even thinking about that right now.”
“Well, you should. Dating apps are a cesspool. Don’t marry a man from a dating app, but they’re great for hookups.”
I glanced at her. “Are you hooking up?”
She shrugged and bit her lip, letting go of me. “I mean … when the kids are with their dad, I’m going on some dates. Mind you, those dates usually involve the guy coming to my house, me tearing his clothes off and getting an orgasm or two before I tell him to hit the bricks, but yeah.”
Chuckling, I shook my head. “I don’t think I could do that. I’ve never been one for hookups or casual dating or casual sex. I’ve been Miss Monogamy since high school. One man, one penis,” I said that last bit as a whisper, “forever.”
“Give me your phone.” Jeanie held out her hand.
“What? Why?”
“We’re going to make you a dating profile.”
I shook my head. “No. No way. I’m not ready for that. I can’t.”
“You are. And you will. Hand it over.”
The woman was not taking no for an answer.
Rolling my eyes, I handed her my phone. She grabbed my hand and used my thumbprint to unlock it.
“We’ll set you up on one where you have to make the first point of contact.
Not one of those sleezy ones where the guys can send unsolicited dick pics straight off the bat.
” She cringed. “And if you get a dick pic, just send a different dick pic right back. I keep a collage of them hidden on my phone in a file labeled Eggplant Parmesan Recipes.”
I’d just taken a sip of my tea, but nearly spat it out in an abrupt laugh that drew some attention from other parents.
“Damien just makes me so mad. Every time he texts—which isn’t very often, but it’s often enough—it’s usually when I’m in a good mood, and poof, that good mood goes up in smoke. Just like my marriage.”
“It’s like he has a sixth-sense about when you’re in a good mood.”
“Exactly!”
“Well, fuck him,” she said, scrolling through my photos. “Ooh, this is a nice one of you. You’re on a hike, I take it? Shows you’re outdoorsy and fun.”
“And I’m sweaty. Look at the sweaty pit stains.”
“Doesn’t matter. I’m using it.” Then she held up the phone. “Smile.”
“What? Why?”
“Because that color red looks smoking hot on you, and your makeup is perfect. You’re looking real fine today, Mrs. Robinson. Now smile.”
I did as I was told, and she took a few shots before saying, “That’s the one.”
“See the difference here, though, is that you don’t have full custody of your kids. You share them with your ex so you have days off. I have Kira full time, and I’m definitely not going to be bringing random app men into my house when she’s asleep.”
“You work from home. Have them over on your lunch hour.”
I gaped at her, but she just grinned.
“There. Read that.”
Reluctantly, I leaned over to read what she wrote for my profile.
Name: Greta
Age: 34
Kids: Single mom. One child.
Occupation: Web designer. Self-employed.
Hobbies: hiking, reading, cooking, swimming, gardening and listening to hardcore gangster rap when I run.
Personal Statement: I like Irish cream in my tea and honesty in my men. Also, squids are assholes.
That last bit about hard-core gangster rap, and my personal statement made me burst out laughing.
Jeanie asked a while ago why I had Damien’s avatar as a squid, and when I told her it was because squids were assholes, she found that hilarious.
She, too, enjoyed listening to filthy hardcore gangster rap when she worked out.
It was just another thing we bonded over.
“Anything you’d change?” she asked.
“You mean, except for the fact that I’d rather not do this at all?”
“Not an option. I mean, do I need a comma somewhere or do you want to add something to your personal statement?”
I let out a long sigh. “No. It’s perfect.”
She hit submit. “And done. No turning back now, lady. You’re going to be getting all your overdue orgasms in no-time.”
I leaned toward her. “I do have an entire drawer of vibrators. Orgasms are not the issue. It’s killing spiders and reaching stuff on tall shelves. That’s the problem.”