The next day, Tasha comes over. I leave the two of them to their girl time to inspect the house and the studio in the back, then make a list of what I want to have repaired. Since Becca said the house was where she grew up, she probably doesn’t want it remodeled too much. I should leave any major changes up to her. And this way, it’ll be easier to make it look like Margaret’s just doing some minor maintenance.
I put Marie on the project, since I can’t be seen looking at bids and talking to contractors.
–Marie: You must be really into this woman to put this much effort. You never did before, not even for your mother.
I raise my eyebrows. Has she been tracking how I treat the women in my life, including my own mom?
–Me: Mom has her own boyfriend for that sort of thing.
I don’t want to be the kind of spouse my dad was. Sparkly gifts and vacation packages, all carefully chosen by how expensive they are rather than how much the other person might appreciate them. He still sends her presents from time to time when he remembers, mainly to show whoever she’s with how much better he is by comparison. It’s a petty—and fruitless—competition.
–Marie: Yeah, but you didn’t with Ashley.
I go still for a second, stunned and pissed off Marie brought up my ex-girlfriend. My bandmates talk about her sometimes when they want to make a point—but not Marie. It’s a topic I don’t let her bring up. Ever.
–Marie: Oh my God, I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to send that. It was Siri!
But she totally thought it. And said out loud. Otherwise, Siri wouldn’t have known to text it.
–Marie: Don’t fire me! I’ll never mention her ever again. I’m actually going to delete her from my memory immediately. I’m very good at selective amnesia.
I snort, then shake my head.
–Me: I’m not going to fire you. Just don’t talk about her again.
–Marie: Got it. You’re the best! I’ll start on the house repair right now! Bye!
I start to put my phone down, but a new email alert pops up. I don’t recognize the address. The subject reads, I can’t believe you’re married!
Maybe it’s somebody in my circle wanting to congratulate me, although the news must travel slow wherever they are.
I click it open and skim it.
From: [email protected]
Subject: I can’t believe you’re married!
I can’t believe it! I just came home from an NGO, volunteering in Vietnam, and I get this BS news! When I waited months for a proposal!
What? Who the hell is this? Hopefully not one of my old groupies. I never hinted anything resembling a marriage proposal. Most of them were barely even girlfriends.
And none of them ever volunteered for an NGO of any kind.
And you dumped me like garbage because I made one little mistake. I only did it because you wouldn’t marry me and I wanted to show you I had other options. You were starting to take me for granted.
My mood craters. I don’t need to read the signature to know who it is. Ashley. I blocked her when she emailed me endlessly to take her back, and after a while, she stopped making new Gmail and Yahoo accounts to contact me. Guess the news of my marriage finally reached her, and she’s determined to have her say.
And I don’t believe a word of her “I was in Vietnam on a noble cause” crap. She probably went over to get some beach selfies to post on Instagram and have people fawn over her for being so nobly altruistic. She thrives on that kind of attention. I know because she went to a lot of soup kitchens when we were dating. And made sure to turn each one into a photo op.
Of course, whatever motivates her to do good work is fine by me. But it’s hilarious how she’s bringing it up in this email like it’s proof she’s a good person, and I’m not for ending our relationship.
You think you’re so awesome, Devlin, but you aren’t shit! Your wife’s going to see that, and she’s going to go screw other guys, too!
Not every woman likes to spread their legs to any available dick while they’re in a committed relationship, Ashley. But she already knows how I feel.
I delete the email and block her again. Maybe I should get a new email address. Like [email protected] She might think twice before typing that up. Or maybe I should write another fuck-off song.