Her reply box bubbles. It doesn’t take her long:
I’m sorry it’s not a joke. I can’t be with you. Please respect what I want. This is what I want. I won’t change my mind. Believe me this is best for both of us
I respond immediately:
Let’s talk about this. In person. Don’t do this by phone. If something’s wrong, let’s talk about it. Please at least give me that opportunity. Are you home right now?
Her reply is just as quick:
No I told you I’m out of town for a few days. If you love me, you’ll respect my decision. I’m turning my phone off now.
I respond immediately, violating the number one rule against using names:
Lauren, please. Talk to me in person. Or call me
She doesn’t respond. No bubbles.
Lauren, please. If YOU love ME you’ll at least talk to me
Again, no response. No bubbles.
Lauren, I’m begging you
I hit “send.”
This is how you treat someone you LOVE??????
I hit “send.”
And then, after a few moments, a response:
I don’t love you. OK? I never did. I needed someone different after a bad marriage. You were my bridge. But that’s all you were. Harsh, I know, but you made me say it. Please don’t contact me again.
I move out of texting and go to the phone. I call her number. The robotic voice tells me that the cellular customer I am trying to call is not available.
I don’t leave a voicemail. I call her again. Same robotic voice.
I call her again. Same robotic voice.
I call her again. Same robotic voice.
I return to text messages. My pulse pounding, my hands trembling, I send one last text:
This isn’t over
69
Vicky
People may pay more attention at night, but it’s still easier being a woman out on the streets of Grace Village. And what’s the big deal if you’re only stopping for a quick moment or two on the sidewalk in the middle of a somewhat busy street like Lathrow Avenue on a Sunday evening?
I can see why someone like Lauren would like living around here. Pretty trees hanging over the streets, big houses on wide lots. Peaceful and quiet. And I could also see why someone like Simon, in the next town over, resented a town like this.
Speak of the devil. The pink phone pings again, another text from the old boy:
Lauren, please. If YOU love ME you’ll at least talk to me
Hey, life’s a bitch. Another text from him:
Lauren, I’m begging you
Yeah, well, keep begging. I hold the pink phone in my hand and give him some more time. Keep begging, fella.
This is how you treat someone you LOVE??????
Apparently so.
That’s four consecutive texts from him. Time for Lauren’s final knockout punch:
I don’t love you. OK? I never did. I needed someone different after a bad marriage. You were my bridge. But that’s all you were. Harsh, I know, but you made me say it. Please don’t contact me again.
I hit “send,” the phone belting out a thwip as the message carries forth to Simon’s phone. Yep, pretty harsh. But Lauren the Gold-Digging Skank is capable of saying something like this, isn’t she? Sure she is.
The phone rings. I let it ring.
It rings again. I don’t answer.
Again. Let it ring, let it ring, let it ring . . .
Again. No one’s going to answer, Simon. The question is, are you going to send another text? Are you going to let Lauren get the last word? C’mon, sport, you have it in you.
The pink phone pings, another text from the man of the hour:
This isn’t over
I press down the “power” button and watch the pink phone’s screen fade to black. I walk south, glancing at the gangway on the south side of her house. The window into the kitchen still open. Lauren really should be more careful.
I keep walking, happy to end on that last text from Simon. He’s right. This isn’t over.
But it will be in twenty-four hours.
70
Simon
Three in the morning. Technically Halloween. Vicky’s down for the count, sleeping peacefully in the bedroom. Me, I can’t sleep, I’m too amped up. I need to run, but it’s too early, even for me.
I stare at the green phone. No, not here, not now.
I don’t want to wake Vicky, so I go downstairs and pace through a dark house. I shiver from the cold, or probably nerves, I don’t know, but I’m so cold, like some invisible wind is whipping through me.
I pace, rubbing my arms, and think. Or at least I try to think. I can’t keep settled.
Deep breath. Calm, Simon. Deep breath.
The phrase “It is what it is” is the only sentence we speak where we could, but don’t ever, ever use contractions. Nobody says, “It’s what it’s.”
Deep breath.
The phrase “only choice” is an oxymoron.
“Laid” is pronounced like “paid” but not “said” and “said” is pronounced like “bread” but not “bead” and “bead” is pronounced like “lead” but not “lead.”
Deep breath.
No. No. The old tricks not working, not working at all. I can’t make my mind do anything but remember. Remember your words, Lauren, nineteen years ago, and the look of pity on your face when you said them.
“I assume you weren’t planning on us getting married,” you said to me.
And then you laughed, a small chuckle, like even the slightest possibility of a relationship with me was humorous, obviously so. It was a joke to you. I was a joke to you.
You didn’t care. It didn’t even bother you.
Then, after swinging your wrecking ball, you left. At least you had the decency to leave.
And I was willing to let it go. It took a long time, it was hard, it was brutal, actually, but I said okay, let it go, put it behind you, and I did, Lauren. I put you behind me. I never forgot about you, not for one day, but I put you behind me.
But then you came back. And you didn’t even tell me. You just came back here like it didn’t matter, like nothing you did back then made one bit of difference and you could just stroll back here and, y’know, fuck it if I lived in the next town over. And that club, that country club, no I never go, I’m just a legacy member, but you knew my family belonged there and you had to think you might run into me there, but that didn’t stop you from going, did it, Lauren, going every day, because you didn’t care, did you, Lauren? Because it’s all about you. It was never about anyone else but you.
I wish I hadn’t seen you that day in May. Five seconds, Jesus, five seconds different that day and I probably would’ve missed you, I would’ve never known you were back.
I twist the gas starter on the fireplace in the living room, sit close to it as the fire pops on, burns the firewood with a cackle. I put out my hands. But I can’t stop shaking.
I pick up the marriage certificate. Acta de Matrimonio, the act of marriage. Nombre Simon Peter Dobias. Nombre Victoria Lanier. Fecha de Registro 2012-11-3.