Page 53 of Catfish

My assistant gives me a feeble smile. “Thank you.”

I nod. “Send an invitation to my parents and siblings.”

An immediate confused look washes over her face. “I’m sorry?”

“You heard me correctly, Em. My mother is going to get in regardless, by climbing through a window or rolling in by means of a suitcase. Might as well have her enter like we are all one giant, happy family.”

“Are you sure?” I bow my head. “Like, really sure?”

“Yes.”

“Have you been drinking this morning?”

“Em.”

She holds up her hands. “Okay…want some coffee?” I shake my head, the folder in my hand itching for me to either toss it across the room or delve into.

To learn more and become more enamored or cut my losses and just let this go.

Let her go.

You know it’s the right thing to do.

“Let me know if you need anything,” Em voices at the door. “I’m ordering lunch around one.”

I give her a thumbs-up as she leaves the room, leaving me to the various amount of questions I’ve had about Reagan since we’ve been speaking for well over two weeks.

Our conversations are short, random at times, but she hasn’t asked for us to go on a date, so I’ve conjured up in my mind that we’re just friends.

Friends that imply my still wanting to know what she tastes like and looks naked.

I’m a man.

One with needs.

One who hasn’t fucked anything but his hand in…let’s not talk about that.

Pulling out the few sheets of printed paper in the manila folder, I skim the first one.

Reagan Mae Shelton, born in Daphne, Connecticut and has an older brother named Marty. Went to high school at George Washington High and graduated with a two-point eight GPA. Suspended from school twice, both for fighting with other students. Her mother, Lily Shelton, has been in and out of the hospital over the course of twelve years for chemo and radiation treatments at St. Joseph’s Hospital and the VA Hospital in Riverview.

I skim through her mother's medical records, stage three breast cancer, numerous ER visits for pain, and dizziness. Five years ago, she was reported to have passed out in her garage and was found by her neighbor the next morning. This past Thursday was her mother's reported last chemo treatment.

So that’s why she went home.

Reclining back in my chair, I rub my chin with my index finger. She didn’t talk about her mother much. Seems to not enjoy pity or sympathy. Any other girl would word vomit that predicament faster than Charlie Sheen can say “winning” after three lines of coke.

I skim for information on her father, but his name isn't on the birth certificate.

Living in Daphne would've been rough, it's below poverty level. Legislatures in the past have campaigned how they want to turn the city around, but nothing ever happens to it. A cop dies there every couple of months, along with dozens of residents. It's run by a bunch of meth heads and cocaine pushing thugs.

Thankfully, her mom lives in Riverview now, which is a big step up. Reagan’s business must be doing very well.

Diverting through the rest of the report, I skim jobs she had as a teen, the places she eats for carryout on a regular basis, but when I get to more people that are linked to her, my heart omits a beat.

She was engaged—at twenty-two.

Then her fiancé’s name hits me like a fist to the nuts. I stare at the first and last name, waiting for it to transform into someone else’s—anyone else’s fucking name.

---