That night, while putting Brendan to bed, I decided to check his phone. What eight-year-old has a phone? One whose mother was trying to compensate for his lack of a father during Christmastime. My son assured me he would only make calls in an emergency. He used it to play with his apps and watch YouTube. He didn’t have any social media accounts, of course, but he’d often take pictures and text them to me or Ben’s mother. Brendan always used voice to text so that his messages didn’t contain typos.
As of late, he’d been texting Simon—a lot.
In fact, he’d apparently sent Simon a photo diary of our entire day.
Shit.
There were picture texts of Jonathan and me walking on the beach, taken from behind. He caught another snapshot of me laughing at something that Jonathan was saying.
Shit!
Simon: Hey, buddy. Interesting pictures. Who’s that guy?
Brendan: That’s grandma’s neighbor, Jonathan. He took us out to lunch. He looks at Mom like Miss Santoro looks at you. Yuck!
Simon: Wow, well keep an eye out on your mother for me, okay?
Brendan: Okay!
Shit. Shit. Shit.
Why did I even care if Simon saw these? But, I did. I knew enough to know from the brevity and tone of his response that Simon was upset. Don’t tell me how I knew that from a simple sentence, but I did. I could only imagine what that would have felt like if Brendan had sent me the same photo of Simon and some woman.
We had two more days left here in Florida. It didn’t feel like I could wait that long to explain this to Simon. I felt like we needed to talk about more than just Jonathan. I didn’t even know what I would say. I just needed to see him, needed to clarify things once and for all and also make a decision about our living arrangement.
That night, while Brendan and my mother slept, I called the airline and changed our ticket.
We’d be flying home tomorrow.
I emptied the drawer of all my boxers. Just the essentials for now. I would have to come back gradually for the rest of my things.
Calliope gave me shit when I told her I needed to crash with her and Nigel for a while. Mainly, she was mad because I wasn’t being frank with her as to the exact reason why I was moving out of Bridget’s. I assured her it would only be temporary until I could find another place. I already had two appointments to see apartments in Providence.
I still needed to decide how to address my moving out with Bridget and especially Brendan, but I knew I couldn’t spend another night here. It wasn’t fair to her, and quite honestly, given my reaction to seeing the photos that Brendan had sent, moving out would also be in my own best interest.
I fucking lost it, and it wasn’t pretty. I’d been in the middle of a hectic shift and was barely able to function the rest of the day.
When she’d first arrived down to Florida, I was bloody loving flirting with her over text. And even though I knew I should’ve been taking advantage of the separation more productively, I found myself counting the days until her return.
But when Brendan sent me those pictures from their day out, I was gutted. It had taken me several minutes to even respond to the poor kid.
Seeing her with that guy—it put me over the edge. He looked older, like someone ready to settle down. That was exactly what she needed. Yet, I couldn’t get over my own selfish anger, which was irresponsible and unfair. I had an urge to get on a plane and interrupt whatever was going on.
So utterly disappointed in myself for even considering that, I came to the conclusion that the only option was to physically remove myself from this living situation. If I couldn’t change my feelings, then I could, at the very least, change my environment.
It was now or never. Once she returned, I wouldn’t ever have the bollocks to do it.
Zipping my suitcase, I heard a car door shut outside. I looked out the window, which was covered in droplets of rain.
It was Bridget. Fuck. What was she doing home?
The front door slammed shut, and then came the sound of her footsteps nearing my room.
My body went rigid as I braced for her arrival.
She appeared at the doorway, looking sunkissed and fucking gorgeous.
“Simon. You’re here. We need to talk.”
“What are you doing here, Bridget?”
She leaned her neck to see behind me and noticed the large black suitcase.
“What’s going on? Why is there a suitcase?”
“I thought it would be easier if I—”
“Moved out before I came back? You weren’t even going to discuss it with me?”
“Of course, I was going to tell you.” I looked down at her neck and could see a bit of the tan line at her shoulder. “Shit, Bridget, I wasn’t expecting you back today.”