Page 37 of Catfish

Me: I haven’t been on since the night we spoke.

Chase: Delete it.

Me: I’m sorry, are you my long-lost daddy?

Chase: Not my thing.

Chase: I prefer you just moaning my name.

Me: There’s that confidence.

Chase: Think about it.

Chase: Because there’ll be no more cookies until you do.

Speaking of cookies, I open the bag of his favorites and examine them.

There could be arsenic in them.

He could bust into this house and assault me after one delicious bite.

I’m literally taking cookies from a stranger.

Pushing the cookies aside, I eye them as I take a sip of my milk. My stomach growls again, telling me to take a chance.

That we might not make any stories on the local news tonight.

Which makes me wonder how many Mr. Montgomery is doing this morning after his eventful night.

Me: I will if I win another bet.

I pull up Google and key in Holden Montgomery, and it doesn't take long at all to find post after post about "the anniversary party that turned scandalous." Clicking on a few posts, I skim them, looking for our business name, and release a heavy exhale.

Nada damn thing, thank God.

Chase: Boston doesn’t play New York for another few weeks, what else is there to bet on?

Me: Don’t worry, I’ll think of something.

My phone suddenly rings, displaying an unknown number, which can mean several things. New clientele or, the worst option, the wrath of Mayor Montogomery's call to bitch me out.

“Hello?”

“Hello?” My heart begins to sprint at the sound of his voice as my jaw trembles into a worked up sob.

“Marty?”

"Hey, Tsarina." I don't stop the tears from hitting my cheekbones, or the wrecked intake of my inhale as I grip the phone for dear life.

I haven't heard my nickname in months. The special one that he came up with when we were kids because he had an obsession with history and didn't want to call me a princess like everyone else. It had to be unique, had to be elegant and fitting according to him.

“Oh my God,” I choke out finally. “How are you?”

"Don't cry," he soothes in that tone that always made me cry more.

My brother is my rock. Been there through every tough and bitter time. And the fact that he’s not here, and hasn’t been for years, make those burning tears fall more abundantly.

When Mama was so sick that she spent nights in the bathroom with the door locked wrenching her guts out. When she started to thin, and I convinced myself that she was going to die and leave us alone. Marty always righted me, always convinced me to be strong.

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