Close Call

Friday night after dinner, I discreetly check my cell phone while R. is watching a college football game on the bigscreen in the family room.

I would love to c u tomorrow kitten. Call u in the am.

I have already made plans to be out all day, telling R. that I’m going shopping. It will be perfect. I text him back.

Call me around 10:30 if u can. Sweet dreams!

I go to bed that night with a smile on my face. But on Saturday morning, his call doesn’t come.

Finally, I cave and call him. He’s working on a side job with his brother and has to visit his father, who is in the hospital recovering from surgery, that afternoon. He tells me in a strange voice that he can’t see me today as planned.

I try so hard to keep him from hearing my disappointment. “That’s okay, another time maybe,” and quickly hang up, crestfallen, unhappier than I ever expected that I can’t see him.

The next morning at work, my cell phone beeps.

U hate me, don’t u?

I grab the phone and head out of my office suite to a secluded stairwell, which is where I always go to talk to him during the day. My fingers tremble as I dial his number. He answers.

“Baby, I could never hate you,” I burst out. “We’ll get together again soon. It’s okay. I don’t hate you. What happened?”

He tells me that his girlfriend intercepted a text message from me that morning.

My heart is racing now, and I can taste sour adrenaline in my mouth. “What do you mean? Which text message did she see? What did she say?”

He brushes it off, tells me it doesn’t matter, but when I press him, he admits that she forced him to take her to the hospital with him to visit his dad that Saturday afternoon. She had demanded to know if he had planned to see me that day, and he said no, so he had to prove to her that he wasn’t with me.

“Does she know my last name?” I ask.

He pauses. “Yes.”

“How? How does she know my last name?” The situation is worse than I thought.

“She saw your business card in my wallet. I’m telling you, this bitch is crazy. She’s like a crazy stalker. She goes through my shit when I leave the room. Goes through my cell phone, too. I can’t wait to move out. She’s a loser. I should’ve never moved in with her in the first place.”

“Why didn’t you delete my text message? You have to be more careful!” I scold him.

“It came through my phone when I was in the shower on Saturday morning, and she got it before I even knew about it.”

When we get off the phone, I immediately call the phone company and request to have my home number unpublished.