Bad Mommy(73)

Oh fuck it. I just cried. Hard, and on the phone with the guy who’d pretty much been the cause of me finding out that Darius was cheating.

“I have to tell you,” he said after I calmed down. “Something really strange happened last week.”

“Strange?” I asked. “You’re calling to tell me about something strange?”

“Well, yes. It has to do with you.”

“Me?” I repeated.

“You. It’s always about you.”

WHAT DID THAT MEAN? OH MY GOD, WHAT DID THAT MEAN?

“I’m listening.”

I heard him shifting the phone from one shoulder to the other. I wondered what he was doing.

“I got an e-mail. The address wasn’t legit: wink1986. There was an underscore somewhere in there too.”

“Okay…” I heard a hissing noise, and then the sound of metal on metal. He was cooking.

“This is awkward,” he said. “Hold on a minute.” When he spoke again the hissing had stopped and his voice was clear and focused. “The e-mail had videos in it. Of who I presume is your husband.”

“Darius? What kind of videos?”

Ryan cleared his throat. “They’re of a sexual nature.”

Blood rushed to my head. I squeezed my eyes shut and shook my head even though no one could see me.

No, no, no, no.

“Look, I can send them to you, but I’m not sure you want to see them. And I’m also not entirely sure why someone would send them to me, or how they got my e-mail address.”

“How do you know it’s him?” I rushed.

“It’s him.”

“Okay,” I said. “Send them.”

“Are you-”

“-Send them.”

I hung up before he could say anything else. Then I went to all of Ryan’s social media profiles to see if he listed his e-mail address publicly. He did. But, who could have wanted him to see those videos? Who had something to gain? It certainly wasn’t Darius.

A minute later I got a notification that Ryan21 had sent me an e-mail. I poured myself a drink before opening it. There were three files attached to the e-mail. He’d left the title blank.

I clicked on the first one. Darius—clear as day—sitting backward on the toilet in the spare bathroom, only the bottom half of his face showing. My eyes focused on his dick. It was right there in the frame. His lips were moving. He was saying something. I turned up the sound.

“You have the prettiest pussy.”

The prettiest pussy. Oh my fucking god.

The next video I opened he was masturbating. I closed it before it finished. I couldn’t. The last one he was speaking to the girl—Nicole—or whoever else he’d sent the video to. I turned up the volume once again. He was rubbing his hand up and down his dick, biting on his bottom lip. “She’s gone. Come over,” he said. “I can’t wait to be inside you again.”

You knew it was coming. Everything pointed to it. He was a cheater. He violated oaths he took in his profession, why wouldn’t he bring those addictions closer to home? There were no lines; he had no boundaries. He was this thing that used women. Who had sent me this? Who had wanted me to see? And why drag Ryan into it?





In early June, George sent me a text, saying he wanted to meet for coffee. I stared at it for a few minutes trying to figure out how he got my number. I had no memory of ever giving it to him. Hesitantly, I agreed. I was busy. I didn’t know what to expect. I hadn’t seen either of them since the thing with Darius had come out. Curtains drawn, and cars pulled into the garage like all of a sudden they were hiding from something. I couldn’t be bothered. I needed space from any sort of drama. It was raining bitches and bogs outside on the day I was supposed to meet him. I put on my rain boots and rain jacket and walked the mile to a grungy little coffee place called the Tin Pin. I arrived before he did, so I paid for a tea and carried it over to a scarred table in the corner. Someone had scratched Mona is a whore into the wood. I stirred my tea and glared down at the message. Another example of the fucked up way society viewed women. All the men who slept with Mona were left untouched, while our girl Mona was being called out. I took out the pocket knife I kept in my bag and scratched so are all the men she fucked underneath it.

One of the baristas saw me and said, “You can’t do that.”

“It was already done, I’m fixing it,” I said. She rolled her eyes and retreated back behind the counter.

Freedom of speech was fine. Just get it right, you assholes.

George walked in ten minutes late and dripping wet. I waved him over to Mona’s table, kicking out the chair for him.

“Hi,” he said, shrugging out of his coat.