AIMEE + JARED, pt. 8

A serial short story: the penultimate installment

Read part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6, and part 7.

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I knew I needed to call Cal and tell him what I’d just unearthed. I knew, first and foremost, that he’d want to talk about us and that I’d need to succinctly, forcefully push that to the side for now.

Tabitha’s left the bar and I sit by myself in silence, eating a burger and fries. I order another—the patty had been thin, the fries sparse—feeling lightheaded from the conversation, from the whiplash from non-monogamy to polyamory, from sonograms to surrogates.

I pay my tab and walk next door to what I think is a park, but it’s a cemetery.

On a bench, I’m sent right to voicemail. “Cal,” I begin. “I need to talk to you about something. It’s not what we’ve been talking about, it’s something else, something big, and I’m feeling fucking crazy. Call me back.”

Bile rises in my throat and maybe it’s acid reflux from my double dinner or maybe it’s the very possible reality that Cal is over my shit. I flip it on its head—if he hadn’t responded to me for days, I’d have broken up with him. Hard.

I call him again, right to voicemail again. “Hey.” My voice feels quite small now. “I’m sorry for ignoring you. Please call me.” I consider saying I love you, worry it’ll feel manipulative.

But what if he’s the version of himself I’ve only just uncovered—an asshole like E.J. in acetate glasses? I text him. It goes green. Has he blocked my fucking number?

“Cal,” one last time, but with anger, “call me back right now or we’re done.”

I will myself not to cry and, against my better judgment, call Aimee, who’s ready with open arms and delighted by the opportunity to shit on a man. At her place, a Lana record underscoring our back-and-forth, I tell her about the allegations against E.J. and her eyes widen as she whispers: “I knew he sucked. Like, even when I thought I was interested in him, I didn’t mean it because I knew he sucked.”

I tell her I know something new about Jared and Tabitha but she doesn’t flinch.

“Do you wanna know?” I ask.

She sighs. “Honestly, not really. I’m kinda over it,” and stands to flip the record.

And I take her at her word. There’s a new suitor now and she searched his name on the group, finding nothing. Before they even went out, she crafted a post of her own, seeking referrals. Rave reviews flooded the comments: a really nice guy and I used to work with him, he’s the real deal!

I’m happy for Aimee, that all of this is over, that signing an NDA from a mysterious woman was, to her, a proper end to a casual relationship.

But I resent her for pulling me in.

And I resent myself more for staying.

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On the train ride home, everyone’s in couples and triples, heading home after their Saturday night plans have wrapped. There are kisses on cheeks and waves through the windows as friend groups peel off, stop by stop. A couple exits in front of me and I watch as they amble without ego, their heads touching every couple breaths, hands clasped instead of intertwined—two dolls with Barbie-grips, made for each other.

I watch TV on the couch, hoping my roommate will come home soon, tumbling in with stories from a wild night out, the creatures they encountered, taking my mind off of things. I light a mostly-smoked blunt from the coffee table, sucking the taste of burnt paper more than anything else. I fall asleep to commercials for prescription drugs, all with names that sound like permutations of Gen Alpha baby girls, with x’s and y’s, all ending with a soft a.

When I wake, someone’s pounding on the door. In a semi-high haze I stumble over, expecting to see my roommate through the peephole.

But that’s not who it is at all.