Lauren, please. If YOU love ME you’ll at least talk to me
Again, no response. No bubbles.
Lauren, I’m begging you
I hit “send.”
This is how you treat someone you LOVE??????
I hit “send.”
And then, after a few moments, a response:
I don’t love you. OK? I never did. I needed someone different after a bad marriage. You were my bridge. But that’s all you were. Harsh, I know, but you made me say it. Please don’t contact me again.
I move out of texting and go to the phone. I call her number. The robotic voice tells me that the cellular customer I am trying to call is not available.
I don’t leave a voicemail. I call her again. Same robotic voice.
I call her again. Same robotic voice.
I call her again. Same robotic voice.
I return to text messages. My pulse pounding, my hands trembling, I send one last text:
This isn’t over
69
Vicky
People may pay more attention at night, but it’s still easier being a woman out on the streets of Grace Village. And what’s the big deal if you’re only stopping for a quick moment or two on the sidewalk in the middle of a somewhat busy street like Lathrow Avenue on a Sunday evening?
I can see why someone like Lauren would like living around here. Pretty trees hanging over the streets, big houses on wide lots. Peaceful and quiet. And I could also see why someone like Simon, in the next town over, resented a town like this.
Speak of the devil. The pink phone pings again, another text from the old boy:
Lauren, please. If YOU love ME you’ll at least talk to me
Hey, life’s a bitch. Another text from him:
Lauren, I’m begging you
Yeah, well, keep begging. I hold the pink phone in my hand and give him some more time. Keep begging, fella.
This is how you treat someone you LOVE??????
Apparently so.
That’s four consecutive texts from him. Time for Lauren’s final knockout punch:
I don’t love you. OK? I never did. I needed someone different after a bad marriage. You were my bridge. But that’s all you were. Harsh, I know, but you made me say it. Please don’t contact me again.
I hit “send,” the phone belting out athwipas the message carries forth to Simon’s phone. Yep, pretty harsh. But Lauren the Gold-Digging Skank is capable of saying something like this, isn’t she? Sure she is.
The phone rings. I let it ring.
It rings again. I don’t answer.