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Taryn
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I have my keys out and am startled when I see someone standing in the shadow of my door. It appears to be a woman but it’s dark and I’m really tired and maybe still a little buzzed from the beers we were drinking at the park.
I freeze in my tracks, gripping my pepper spray. “Who are you?” I ask shakily.
She appears out of the shadows. She’s taller than me with wavy blonde hair up in a high ponytail, perfect skin and cheekbones, and a small waist contrasted against breasts too large for her tiny frame. Her eyes are pretty but behind them, they look like they hold a cruelness.
“I’m a friend of Carter’s. I came here to let you know that there are things about him you should know,” she says calmly. “He’s not who you think he is.”
“Well, I think you should leave, whoever you are. Now move so I can get into my condo,” I say with more bravery than I feel. This woman looks unhinged.
She pulls out her phone from the pocket of her one-piece pantsuit and swipes a few times before holding it up to me. Right in my face are photos of her and Carter doing very sexually explicit things that I couldn’t even imagine photographing, let alone keeping.
“Carter’s my fiancé, we’re getting married in the fall. I know he’s been fucking you on and off, but he’s just using you. I’ve forgiven him because I know he’s just trying to get it out of his system before he locks down a commitment with me, but since I’m pregnant with his baby, I’ve decided I’ve had enough. I’m gonna need you to leave him alone. Okay, Taryn Andrews? He doesn’t love you and never has.”
My body reels in shock. This cannot be happening.
I shove the phone out of my face and push her out of my way. “Excuse me.” I shakily unlock the door.
“Don’t confront him. He’ll just deny it,” she says in a mocking tone. “I’m serious. He’ll say, ‘oh that’s my ex, she’s crazy.’ But I’m not. I’m the mother of his child.” She rubs her flat belly and shows me an enormous diamond ring on her hand.
“Go away,” I whimper. I stifle a sob and hurry into my condo, locking it behind me and then slumping down the door with my face in my hands.
What am I going to do?
***
Like the mature person I am, I call and leave Lisa a voicemail first thing in the morning, telling her I have food poisoning from a July Fourth barbeque and that I won’t be in. Since it’s Tuesday, I’m not sure what excuse I’ll have for the rest of the week, but I’m definitely not going in to work and facing Carter.
How could I?
I lie in bed, my body and mind exhausted, having barely slept, and cried myself to sleep. How could he do this to me? The photos she showed me flash in my mind’s eye.
He’s just getting it out of his system...
I’m pregnant with his child...
He’s just going to deny it and say I’m crazy...
That part made sense. She definitely seems unhinged.
Did Carter take this girl to the Mile High Rooms too? Maybe he met her there?
I can’t do this.
I flop the covers to the side and get up, going into the kitchen to get some water and painkillers. My head is pounding and I can’t think straight. I remember the time Carter was here and I was so drunk.
Drink water and take Tylenol.
Drink slowly or you’ll puke...
I’m not even drunk. I’m just sad. Upset. Even Tylenol bottles are reminding me of him. I can’t escape him.
“Shit,” I say, swallowing the tablets and heading back to bed.
What am I going to do?
Look for another job, that’s what.
But I don’t have the energy to bring up Indeed and start searching. I can’t imagine a job where I wouldn’t see Carter every day. Even if it’s just a hallway hello or the flirtation in his eyes as he looks at me.
The love.
He said he loved me. I told him I love him, too. And I meant it with my whole heart. How could he say that to someone while having a secret pregnant fiancée on the side?
When does he have time for this crazy bimbo?
Is he crazy, too? A monster?
My mind furiously pulls up all the memories we’ve been making over the past three months. If he’s engaged to her, why is he spending the Fourth of July with me? Taking me to golf outings and introducing me to his buddies? Taking me to the Mile High Rooms? Confiding in me about the problems this Jim guy is having with the app?
Maybe this crazy fiancée of his doesn’t listen? He just uses me for sex and pillow talk to vent?
I think about his house. There’s not one single photo of this lady anywhere. Maybe it’s his secret other house. A guesthouse. Come to think of it, there weren’t a lot of real personal photos of anything except him and Eric in high school and a photo of the three of us at my graduation.
That reminds me that I’ve known Carter for a very long time. He’s not the secret-girlfriend-on-the-side type.
Is he?
Do I really know him that well?
A part of me wants to email Eric and ask him to call me so we can talk about it. To see if he thinks Carter is capable of this. But then, that would require me to confess what we’ve been up to the past few months and that was not a conversation to be had over the phone.
But if it’s over between Carter and me... why not?
My brain won’t turn off. I need to stop this. I head to the shower and decide I’ll spend the day at my mom’s and tackle the back patio where she has entirely too many lawn ornaments and old sunroom furniture that definitely needs to go.
As I get out of the shower, only feeling slightly better, I see I have a text and a missed call.
Carter: Why aren’t you answering? Are you that sick? I’m going to leave here and take you to the ER.
I reply immediately: No! I was in the shower. I’m fine. I need rest and fluids. TTYL
The last thing I need is for him to come over here. I’m not ready to face him. I need a plan.
***
“You’ve got to be shitting me,” Christa says, handing me the bottle of wine after she takes a swig.
I lift it to my lips and shake my head. “That’s what I keep thinking.” I set the bottle on the old patio table in the sunroom, where we sit, me drowning my sorrows in Two-Buck Chuck from Trader Joe’s, and Christa yet again being the supportive friend she is. She hadn’t even changed out of her work clothes, sitting on the dirty furniture in her red pencil skirt and black V-neck tee.
“I mean, stupid question, but have you talked to him?” she asks.
I snort and shake my head. “Of course not.
“Hon, maybe you should,” she suggests softly.
“Like the bimbo said, he’s just going to deny it and call her crazy,” I comment.
“Or maybe he’ll admit it and move on.” She shrugs.
I stare at her in horror. “Do you actually think he’s doing this?”
“It’s clear you do,” she replies, grabbing the bottle from me. “You won’t call him. How many times has he called and texted today?”
I glance at my phone, seeing it’s 7:30 p.m. and all the missed calls and unread texts. “Like twenty.”
“He’s gonna go to your house if you don’t respond,” she says.
I grin weakly. “Why do you think I’m here?”
“He’ll show up here then,” she states, taking a long swill from the bottle.
“I doubt that,” I say.
She sets the bottle down. “Give me your phone.”
“Absolutely not,” I reply, holding it closer to me.
“You better call him, or tell him to meet you or something. This is dumb. You’re not gonna be one of those stupid chicks in movies who would have had all her problems solved and the miscommunication cleared up if she would have just talked to the person.” She crosses one leg over the other and quirks an eyebrow at me.
I sigh. “You’re right. I just feel sick because what if he does admit it like you said?”
“Then you’ll have your answer and you can move on. I just don’t see the point in him denying it if he’s truly leading a double life. There’s enough technology out there where you could prove it. Especially with your skills.” She mimics typing on a keyboard.
“True,” I murmur, taking the bottle from her.
She pulls her phone from where it sits on the dusty glass table between us. “In fact, what’s this bitch’s name? Let’s social media stalk her.”
I chew my lip and look at my best friend. “I don’t know.”
“What? She confronts you and you don’t even get a name?” She shakes her head. “You’re fired.”
I chuckle. “I know. I’m more a techie. You’re the investigator.” I snap my fingers. “Hey, I have an idea. Why don’t we ask the building manager for camera footage? Then I can show you what she looks like, and we can do a reverse Google image search on her. Maybe it’ll match enough to get some social media on her.”
Christa narrows her eyes at me. “Or, you could just call Carter and get it over with. What are you gonna do, call off of work for the rest of the week? This is dumb. Just talk to the guy.”
What she says makes sense, but I’m not sure I can bring myself to do it. To hear him say she’s some crazy ex and he’s not engaged or having a baby. Or that yeah, he is and sorry for leading me on.
“I mean, honestly, if it’s all true, when was he planning on telling me? The day before his wedding? When the chick started to show a baby bump? Argh!” I take a big swig from the bottle and realize it’s empty. “Wine emergency.”
She snatches the bottle from my hand. “You’ve had enough. Now, what you’re going to do is take your little ass to work tomorrow, act normal, and then request a meeting with the boss man. Okay?”
“Do I have to?” I whine.
She smacks her hand on the dusty table. “Yes, you have to.”
“Can I do it Friday instead?” I ask like a small child.
She stands, grabbing her tiny little red Coach handbag, and shakes her head. “Absolutely not.” She heads toward the door that leads to the house. “I’ll throw this away on my way out and you will get some damn sleep. Lord knows this should help.” She holds up the empty dark glass bottle.
“I’ll walk you out,” I say.
After we hug goodbye and I close and lock the door, I realize I’m going to have to sleep here or wait a couple of hours until I sober up to drive home. I have nothing here for the morning so I plop on the couch and turn the TV on, hoping to get lost in a movie or show to distract my insane thoughts.
I’ve been sitting here for over an hour. I’ve been so overly tired today but my brain won’t shut off, though I feel close to passing out. I pick up my cell and read through Carter’s messages. He’s been relentlessly calling and texting. In a weak moment of exhaustion and too many emotions, I decide to reply to his text.
Me: I’ll be in to work tomorrow. Don’t worry it’ll be business as usual, I won’t even look at you. Don’t call me or drive by my house. I’m not home. Goodnight.
My finger hovers over the send button and I decide fuck it, before I hit it.
My eyes flutter closed, unable to remain open any longer.