Page 67 of My Sweet Dollie, You Have to Love Me
And here is one of them.
Olive.
She stands in a long open coat and knee-high boots, and this woman, who Shane can’t get enough of, makes me feel sick enough to retch.
Black and white tiles stare back at me when nothing comes from my mouth but stuttering breaths. No vomit that could have dragged my heart from my chest. No pain. That’s all still inside me.
A trembling finger clicks the back button, and I brace myself to see her name in his texts again.
But his phone stays on the app, the bright screen highlighting each message.
Pushing myself back to the door, I scroll quickly, seeing name after name… Julie, Anna, Eliza, Laura, Sasha, Wendi. The list is endless.
Each woman has something in common with the last, which is how few clothes they’re wearing.
Familiar faces stand out in the crowd, and it hurts me that I recognize some of these people.
Massaging my chest, I try to shrink the ache I feel there, but my other hand works against me, still clicking buttons on Shane’s phone.
I’m in his notifications now. There are hundreds. Ninety-nine percent of them look the same—all from women who have heart reacted to his love for their pictures. Some of his comments hurt more than others, and one message to a certain woman, where he says he’d like to reenact a movie about a young woman who has little choice of agreeing to a whole year of being some rich guy’s plaything, causes my skin to heat with embarrassment for myself and him.
I click on her for a moment, the woman in her underwear who looks like all the others. Tears land on her almost exposed breasts, and I leave her page.
Another comment makes my stomach roll, and I feel the need to be sick again.
This comment is a quick question asking another of these people when they are returning to another app—another app that he apparently doesn’t have, because this oneisapparentlyjust to call out all the local cheats by revealing their top friends. A crying face is attached to that message, but I hardly see it because of my teary eyes.
I rush from one app to look for another. I only type the letter S into his phone before the app in question pops up.
A clap of sound hits the floor when Shane’s phone falls face down through my trembling hands.
I pray silently to the Goddesses that it’s not broken. There are still things I don’t know.
And I need to know everything.
Flipping the phone over, I see it’s still in one piece, with no cracks or obvious scratches.
I scroll through another list, stopping at a person whose name appears as Just Another Princess.
And the words,just another whore,run silently in my head.
Maybe it’s bitterness, but maybe it’s not, as he doesn’t seem to keep his relationship a secret, and my existence doesn’t stop those who know about me.
With my eyes on thisprincess, I click into their chat.
The last message exchange was a picture sent from Shane’s phone. My eyes roll closed as I click the chat, expecting to see him showing off his body to this woman.
The photo isn’t of him. It’s of my house and captioned,Maybe one day you’ll get to stay in this big, creepy house with me.
She hasn’t answered yet.
I start typing my own reply, but something else in their chat calls my attention. A notification sits at the top, reading: Pictures saved to this chat.
A few swipes later, and I know every inch of this woman’s body.
I let disgust push the phone away from me, watching it slide across the tiles. It doesn’t feel far enough away.
Tears continue to fall, and I let them out, huddling in on myself at the door.
