Quash this mate shit with Cal
DELETE my Fetder account
I knew I’d have to deal with the false-positive mate thing with Cal as soon as I walked through the door to park my suitcase and change out of my Victoria MLA suit into my summer mayor uniform—jeans and a ribbon shirt from the local shop owned by Wade’s second maul husband, where we sourced all official Bear Mountain mayoral gifts.
Probably before I even got a shower.
My standing practice was to wait until I got into the office to confirm the few to-do list items I’d assigned to Wade, my brother and underworked Bear Mountain assistant.
I’d see Takoda at the Christmas Eve Totem Tree Lighting Ceremony I was hosting, so that could wait.
And since the talk with Cal meant I wouldn’t have the morning free, as originally planned—thanks, surprise text—I decided to push the Zion conversation and the sensitive MP meeting until after the festival.
My thumb flicked through my phone as I rearranged everything in the time.lytic productivity app my human ex had recommended.
That only left...
My thumb hovered overDELETE my Fetder account—an item that had already been pushed from June 24th, and before that from May 24th.
If she hadn’t reached out after seven months, she probably wasn’t going to. Meanwhile, compulsively checking the app every day had quietly added up to hours of wasted time.
Cal’s false-positive was a sign. This had to stop.
I opened the app and checked my messages one last time.
Hi, Cindy wants to connect!
Hi, Olive wants to connect!
Hi, Destiny wants to connect!
And so on, and so on. Twelve alerts had come through since yesterday on the four-year-old profile I’d only reinstated because I was drunk and feeling petty on New Year’s.
I’d wanted her to see I’d moved on.
Even if I hadn’t.
None of the alerts were from her.
I deleted the twelve hopefuls without even checking their profiles and tapped our dormant message thread one last time.
Her last message still read:
Thanks for dinner. It was delicious, but I won’t bore you with a description because I know you’re cutting calories for reasons I still don’t understand. (BTW, here’s an article about the rise in bodybuilding dysmorphia I read inPacific Monthly—it’s a gift link, so don’t worry about the paywall. I get 5 per month: [Linked Article]). Anyway, headed up to our room. Can’t wait to see you tomorrow morning. Heart hands.
Underneath that was my unsent reply:
I’m sorry about how I ended things. I fucking miss you. Can we talk? I’ll try to explain why I
The message stopped there. Because I knew I shouldn’t…couldn’tallow myself to send it.
