AIMEE + JARED, pt. 5

a serial short story

Read part one here and part two here and part three here and part four here.

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Jared’s wife, called Tabitha, led us down the street. Like ducklings, we followed, peeping out small talk to each other, guessing we would all grab coffee and a pastry somewhere nearby. As we passed cafe after café, we thought maybe we were heading to her home. Altogether, we took a twenty minute walk uptown.

We entered an unremarkable office building. Tabitha nodded at the front desk attendant, tapped her fob to the elevator, and took us down to a basement that felt like it was four floors beneath the ground.

The elevator doors split open to a conference room-cum-greenhouse. Lined with bookshelves of hydroponic vegetation stimulated by LEDs, it felt both Space Age and New Age at the same time. Wordlessly, we sat around a circle table beneath a rice paper lamp shade. An electric kettle’s kill switch cut the rumble of bubbles—who had turned it on, we couldn’t say.

Tabitha brought a trio of identical glass teapots to the table with clumps of tea inside. As she poured, the leaves bloomed into flowers.

Aimee misunderstood the reverence for inviting silence, and began. “So, I just—"

Tabitha cut her off immediately. “You just nothing.” She corrected. We all sat up a little straighter. “Now, who made the post?”

#3 raised her hand. “I did.”

Tabitha nodded. “And why is that?”

#3 stuttered. “I thought he was seeing someone else.”

Tabitha blinked, as if to say go on, but #3 had nothing. “So you were under the impression that this was a monogamous relationship.”

#3 shrugged, “I mean, we never said that explicitly, but—”

“Right. And you,” Tabitha turned to Aimee. “Your comment, that he’s your boyfriend. When was that agreed upon?” Aimee looked at her lap. “Exactly.”

Where did this woman get off? Was this the point, to humiliate her husband’s mistresses? Put them in their place? Take us to her creepy vegetable dungeon to sign NDAs? I tried to catch Aimee’s eye, but she was still avoiding any contact.

“So, girls, I’m afraid what we have here is slander—well, technically libel.”

“I’ll delete the post,” #3 said, taking out her phone, “it’s just us, I don’t think there are any girls, anyway—”

“There aren’t,” Tabitha whispered. “He told me about you, but you were never meant to learn about me.” She stood, smiling at #3. “Now let me get you the Wi-Fi.”

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We left Tabitha’s with more questions than answers, breathing heavily like our subterranean stint lacked sufficient oxygen. Aimee was crying. #3’s bestie had gotten tough all of a sudden, saying she was going to jump that bitch and throw hands.

I had a voicemail from Cal—unusual. He’d texted too.

A number I didn’t have saved called me ten times in a row, and now once more.

I answered.

“Hey.” The voice waited for a reply while I waited for a pre-recorded scam to try and convince me I had unpaid parking tickets in my hometown.

“It’s E.J. Can we talk?”

TO BE CONTINUED—