Chapter 28
Doug
“What do you mean you don’t know who sent those texts?” Doug’s ass was throbbing where Bennett had just plucked out the BBs—none
too gently, by the way—but this new development was a welcome distraction as he buckled his mud-encrusted belt. It wasn’t
just old Dougie who’d brought the drama! “Like, did you ask?”
“Of course I asked,” said Bennett. “They didn’t answer.”
“Why did you believe them, man?”
Bennett looked at Doug like he was the crazy one. “Because why would someone make that up?”
“I can think of so many reasons,” said Doug, numbering on his fingers. “To fuck with you. To fuck with you. Oh, and also,
to fuck with you.” He spread his hands expressively. Am I wrong?
“Gee, thanks, Sherlock,” said Phelps dryly.
“I assume you looked up the number,” said Doug.
Bennett gave him a look. Dude was angry. “Of course. It wasn’t listed.”
“They could have used a masked phone number. You use your own phone but it, like, goes through a proxy number. That’s impossible
to trace . . . Unless they used a service to get a permanent proxy number. If this individual was up to shady shit on multiple fronts, maybe they still have that number, you know? Here . . . Lemme see the texts.” Doug reached out his hand. “Please tell me you haven’t deleted them.”
“They’re five years old at this point, so . . .” said Bennett, unlocking his phone and passing it to Doug.
“Give me a key word. Something to look for. What did the first text say?” He thumbed open Bennett’s messages and popped the
cursor into the search bar.
Bennett hung his head. He ran his hands through his hair. “Olivia cheated on you? Something like that.”
Doug typed cheated. Bada bing, bada boom. He read silently. Phelps moved so he could read over Doug’s shoulder.
Anonymous: Thought you’d want to know . . . Olivia cheated on you with Phelps.
Bennett: WTF? Who is this?
Anonymous: Someone who cares
Bennett: How do you know?
Anonymous: I saw them together
Bennett: Could there have been some mistake?? Also who is this? I’d prefer to actually talk.
Anonymous: I know what I saw. There was no mistake.
Bennett: Either say who you are or stop contacting me
Anonymous: I’d want to know if it was me. Just trying to do the right thing ????♂?
“It was a chick,” said Doug, passing the phone back.
“Why?” said Bennett.
“The shrugging emoji. If you wanted to disguise your identity, you’d use the opposite gender. Also, the grammar is too on point for it to be a dude.”
“Which means it was Hellie or Jenn,” said Bennett.
“There were more people at that party,” corrected Phelps. “Remember? Kylie stopped by to pick up the boys. She lingered for
a drink. Then Ted stopped by with those two girls . . . What were their names?”
“The figure skating teacher from Chicago!” said Doug, clapping his hands together once. She was cute. “Candy? Carly? And—”
“Priscilla,” Phelps completed. “The—”
“Flight attendant,” said Doug. How in the hell did Ted Kristos get chicks of that caliber to go out with him? Then again,
how had Phelps gotten Allie?
“They didn’t even know us,” said Bennett. “They wouldn’t care.”
“Well, it wasn’t Hellie,” said Doug. Under her girlish look, his wife had balls of steel. A surge of affection washed over
Doug. “She would’ve signed her fucking name. She would have been like, yo, this is Hellie, guess what I saw? Naw, man . . .
This reeks of Jenn.”
The woman responsible for two new holes in his body. It figured.
“How do I find out for sure?” said Bennett, furrowing his brow and looking at his phone.
“Why do you need to know for sure?” said Phelps. “Who cares at this point?”
“It’s not complicated,” said Doug. “Text this number back when we’re all together.
If it’s a masked phone number, you’re obviously fucked .
. . but if it’s a permanent proxy? You’re in luck.
See if her phone dings. Long shot, fine.
But it’s your only shot. Unless you can torture her into a confession .
. .” This was a mildly amusing thought. What kind of Facebook post could Jenn make out of that?
So blessed to have come through this trial by fire . . .
“Okay, Sherlock is earning himself some points,” said Phelps.
Doug shrugged. His knees were starting to hurt so he sat down on the coffee table without thinking. Pain.
“Ow!”
“We should get back to the party,” said Phelps. He checked his phone, then slapped his forehead. “Fuck! We missed midnight!”
Doug checked his own phone, a little mud splattered on the edge but otherwise fine. Yep. Quarter after twelve.
“I guess we can pull up a Mountain time zone broadcast,” groused Phelps. “Have a redo at one.” He rubbed his face. “Of course I miss fucking midnight at my own party.”
“Relax, Cinderella,” said Doug. “You’re not a pumpkin yet.”
“So . . . we’re okay?” said Phelps, looking at Bennett.
Bennett sighed as he worked his lanky form to standing. “I mean . . . what you did was not right, let’s be fucking clear on that point, but . . .”
“Let’s focus on the fact that I am not the father of your child and we are all very happy about that,” said Phelps. “And honestly,
I don’t know what this says about our friendship, but the fact that you thought I fucked your wife and then kept being friends
with me for five years? It’s either mad props, or . . .”
“You’re insane,” filled in Doug. If he thought for a second that Hellie had slept with one of these douchebags, there would
be literal hell to pay. What was Bennett thinking, being quiet about this for five fucking years?
It was absolutely beyond Doug. Just like it was beyond Doug how people like Bennett and Olivia kept living their boring domestic lives, year in and year out.
So depressing, every time Bennett talked about his job, his life.
He thought of Hellie with the BB gun, and her unstoppable energy as she busted up those plates.
He thought of how, if she ever cheated on him, he’d have to either kill her or kill her boyfriend, because that was love, man, that was passion.
Everything else was just depressing indifference.
The image of his wife, so petite and fierce, surged up in
his mind, and another wave of affection made him weak in the spine. Especially when he remembered how after pulverizing those
plates like a heroine in a video game, she turned and kissed him. She tasted sweet and delicate, but she was a badass.
You know what? Hellie loved him. And he loved her, more than squares like Bennett and Olivia could ever understand. He remembered
their wedding day. He was twenty-four when they got married at his mom’s church. Hellie’s dress was huge, like a frosted cupcake.
She carried grocery store roses. He wore a gray three-piece suit and Chuck Taylors. The reception was in the basement and
they had Chick-fil-A that Bennett picked up. Will, his best man, gave the toast, and went on about what a treasure Hellie
was, which was the truest thing Will had ever said, and Phelps MCed and led them all in the Electric Slide. He and Hellie
danced to “Landslide”—he heard it playing in his head as he remembered the texture of the wedding gown and her skin under
his fingers . . . Stevie Nicks crooning the line about the ocean tides and the seasons of life . . . aah. That was a good
day.
He wasn’t thinking straight. He’d been angry at Hellie on their way to the party. He’d gotten a little nutso. But that kiss . . .
it reminded him that she loved him. Suddenly he felt certain that if he came clean about what happened at EdgeTech this morning,
she would be on his side. She’d realize her ultimatum didn’t apply. Why hadn’t he realized how simple this could be? Why hadn’t
he wrenched that fax out of John’s stubby hand, run home with it, and told her the truth?
But it wasn’t too late. His life didn’t have to end at dawn or whatever poetic bullshit he’d been noodling about.
He’d been all over the place emotionally, but now he saw clearly: he had a rock star wifey, just like he’d always told anyone who would listen, and now he would come clean.
About the job, not the cocaine, because that might make her very upset, though she had taken his tequila shots surprisingly in stride.
Then, together, they could figure out how to ruin John and his ugly wife—
His stomach growled. The salmon and the mousse weren’t playing well, or maybe it was the tequila . . . or the cocaine . . .
Either way, things in bowel-land were most definitely not copacetic right now.
“Man, I have to take a shit,” said Doug.
Bennett laughed.
“Now?” said Phelps. “Can you even sit down on a toilet seat at this point?”
“I’ll one-side it,” Doug said, “and unless you want me to shit on your couch—”
“Let’s get back to the house,” said Phelps. “Anyway, you need some clean clothes, and we need to see if Allie saved us any
Jell-O shots.”
“Hey, one more thing . . .” Bennett said to Phelps. “Did you really keep Will’s fifteen K? After the restaurant?”
“What the—Dude, no,” said Phelps, making a face. “I gave that back. Where are all these accusations coming from? Did you guys all get together
beforehand and decide to make tonight into the all-you-can-eat Phelps Fucking Barbecue?”
“What fifteen K? Like, fifteen thousand dollars?” said Doug. He could use some money, if Will was handing some out.
“Nothing, nothing,” said Bennett. “Sorry. Forget I said anything.”
They exited into the cold night. Doug had to limp. Phelps and Bennett were walking more stiffly than usual, with a little more distance between them, but they’d figure their shit out, right?
“You know, it’s not a bad life,” said Doug, because all of a sudden he was feeling quite cheerful, in a philosophical kind
of way. The high of the drama, the slight threat of destruction, was just what he’d needed to remember what was important
in life. Now he had a plan that made actual fucking sense. He’d use the facilities, and then he’d pull Hellie aside and tell her the truth.