Fake?
Even though that’s where my mind was about to leap right before she called me, hearing it said out loud sounds pretty nutty.
“What do you mean?” I up the volume on my phone so I don’t miss a single syllable.
“What I mean is the picture was extracted from a video you can find on the Ruskovian version of YouTube. In that video, your boyfriend merely kissed the blonde’s hand. He never put a ring on her finger. And, according to the research I’ve done, I don’t believe he’d met her before that day, or since. She’s a Ruskovian singer, and kissing her hand was either just a sign of respect or a minor flirtation that didn’t lead anywhere.”
Blue’s every word is like a slap in the face. “She’s not a royal?” I mutter.
“No more than you and I.”
“But the ring—”
“Photoshopped in,” she says. “It’s done well, but at my agency, we have tools that let us see through such BS.”
Fuck.
The jealous text I sent Tigger. And that voicemail. If he hadn’t ghosted me before that, he certainly will now.
“Will you take this from here?” Blue asks. “Or do you need my help getting back at Waldo?”
“What do you mean getting back at Waldo?” I ask, but I already know what she’ll say.
Waldo did this.
He Photoshopped a picture of Tigger.
Made up a fake engagement to break us up.
In fact, he’s been pretending to be my friend for the entire year and a half that we’ve known each other, just waiting for a chance to pounce—and not in the sexy Tigger way.
“Oh, sorry,” Blue says. “I forgot to mention. It was him. Since he was the source of the image, I took a look at his work computer and saw the Photoshop files.”
I grit my teeth. “In that case, no, thanks. I won’t need any help getting back at Waldo. Trust me.”
She nods solemnly. “Let me know if you change your mind.”
“Will do,” I say and hang up.
If Waldo hadn’t been a friend until today, I would let her help me—and she could do something really evil, like put him on a no-fly list.
Not that I’ll be much kinder, given what he did.
Feeling almost dizzy from all the revelations, I text Tigger once more:
Can we talk?
No reply.
I call him and leave a new voicemail. “I’m sorry about before. Call me.”
As I wait for Tigger to call back, I hurry over to my computer and locate a picture I’ve been saving for a particularly evil prank—a huge collage of micropenises with various STDs.
Gagging, I email the image to Waldo. Then I unlock his phone and save the image locally before selecting everyone on his contact list and texting them the micropenises with the following caption: “Where is Waldo’s?”
I email the same thing to everyone he knows, with the exception of contacts that have the same work email as he does—because I’m not a total monster—and then I use the social media apps on his phone to tweet it, post it on his Instagram, pin it on his Pinterest, and make it his profile pic on Facebook.
Taking a break from revenge, I check my phone.
Nothing from Tigger.
Where the hell is he? It’s afternoon now, and his meeting was at eight. Any meeting, no matter how long, would be over by now—which means he’s purposefully not giving me a chance to explain.
Put another way, I blew it.