Page 6 of Right Number, Wrong Man
I regretted my meltdown immediately. I didn’t want a soul to know I’d been cheated on because it felt like it was somehowmyfault.
Was I not sexy enough? Not young enoughanymore? Not beautiful enough? If I wasn’t such a pervert with my fucked-up fantasies, would Mike have been faithful?
My marriage going down in flames was the perfect ammunition for Colt to publicly humiliate me like he did with that spider prank in school, but he promised to keep my secret.
To my surprise, he actually did.
Colt also offered to take care of Mike’s estate, and I happily stuffed all my husband’s shit in boxes for him to pick up. I banished everything that belonged to Mike from my apartment. Just looking at his things made me feel dirty because the truth about his affair was worse than I first thought.
After the police investigation, I got Mike’s phone back and found texts and emails from more than just one other woman. There were dozens of girls, barely old enough to go to college.
I’d never been so disgusted. It suited me to let Colt take care of everything.
Then in spring when I lost my job as a legal secretary because the IRS audited the firm, Colt offered me work at theRetro Reel, the old movie theater he bought and renovated. It’s definitely not because he’s such a nice guy. He’s the opposite, but he’s also dutiful to a fault and he probably feels a sense of familial obligation since I’m his widowed sister-in-law.
I took the job because free popcorn and free movies are too good to pass up and the commute is thirty seconds. TheRetro Reelis just across the street, below his apartment.
No, I don’t believe Colt has anything to do with this glitch. If I restart the app, it’ll be gone.
Heart in my throat, I close the chat and open it again.
No. No. Fucking no!
Read.
I scroll up, fingers flying past videos of me pleasuring myself with an arsenal of different toys in every room of my apartment.
Read. Read. Read. Read. READ!
They’re all read!
I jump up. My bare feet slap on the hardwood floor as I pace.
The phone company must have given the number to a new customer. Why didn’t I think that this could happen?
I smack my forehead.
I’m such an idiot. Ahornyidiot!
What the hell am I supposed to do?
I could ignore the incident and hope it goes away. If I get called out though, I can’t deny that it’s me. My face is visible in every video.
I could claim that it’s another woman who looks a lot like me. There is that wacky theory that every human has a near identical lookalike somewhere on the planet.
I groan, cradling my head in my hand. No, that won’t work either.
The tattoo on the inside of my right forearm identifies me as me. No other woman looks like meandhas a tattoo of a slasher knife with a heart-shaped, pink drop of blood dripping from the blade.
I could throw the phone out of the window or smash it with a hammer or—but that still won’t unsend those texts.
An apology!
I snap my fingers.
Yes, an apology would be appropriate. I bombarded some poor, unsuspecting soul with a very detailed view of my private parts. Multiple views. From all angles. In full color, close up, and with sound.
Saying sorry is the least I can do—even if they’re freshly washed and shaved private parts.
