This is hopeless.
I know Sienna is right. I need to get a lawyer and let them handle reaching out and informing Everett of the situation. But I can’t afford that, and I’m certainly not pulling any favors from the lawyers I just so happen to be related to. No, the further they are from all this, the better.
Deleting the message. I try again. However, it isn’t any better the second time around.
Bea Walsh: Hi, we met a couple of weeks ago, I wore your jersey to a game, and then we met again at Club 52. I could really do with talking to you and I’d really appreciate it if you could get back to me.
Without overthinking it, I hit send, throw my cell onto my bed, and stalk to my bathroom to get ready to sleep.
Despite the nap I had between finishing at the salon and going to the game tonight, I’m exhausted.
I tell myself not to do it. I beg myself to put my cell on charge and crawl into bed without looking.
But I can’t do it.
The second I open Instagram, my heart sinks, because not only isn’t there a reply, but it hasn’t even been read.
Am I surprised? No, of course not. I can only imagine the number of messages a man like Everett has in his request box. I have no doubt that the kind of messages he receives are way more inviting than mine.
Maybe I should have added a picture of my tits. That might have helped trigger a memory.
Or not. He’s probably seen so many that they all blur into one.
Before I can stop myself, I start digging.
The Vipers won tonight; there’s no way they won’t be out celebrating.
I find a bunny account, and right there in the stories is exactly what I was expecting.
My stomach twists painfully as I tap through the images.
When I find him, my breath catches, and tears burn my eyes.
It’s stupid. I don’t want him. I don’t care that he’s got his tongue down some girl’s throat.
I just…
“Fuck,” I breathe, closing my cell and angrily wiping at my wet cheeks.
I hate that there’s a small part of me that has this stupid, fickle hope that maybe, just maybe, this could all work out. That my little one could have two loving parents, a family, the kind of life I never had.
It’s pointless, though. That isn’t our destiny.
Abandoning my cell in the sheets, I curl up into a ball, wrap my arms around my stomach, and sob.
I have no idea what time I eventually fall asleep, but it’s late, and I wake up just as tired as I was the night before.
Days pass and nothing changes with my message. When I get frustrated, I send another in the hope it might change things. But it never does.
My messages are just sitting in his request box, along with thousands of others, no doubt.
I can’t help but wonder if there are other women out there in the exact same position.
I guess the chances are high. We’re talking about a man who has a different girl on his arm every night; these things have to happen eventually, even with all the right protection in place.
As the weeks pass, and the date of my first ultrasound looms closer, my stalking of the man who put me in this position becomes increasingly obsessive.
Looking at where he’s been, or more importantly, who he’s been with, becomes a huge part of my day. Every night I lie in bed trying to find out everything I can. I tell myself it’s so I can figure out a way to get to him, to tell him, but I’m aware I’m lying to myself. And each morning, I grab my cell, cancel my alarm, and check his socials again.
