Chapter 8: Mama's Boy

Cami

I stare down at my phone in my hand with a scowl that I hope can bore a hole into the phone screen. It would be great if I got that super power right now. Laser shooting eyes. I narrow my blue eyes and concentrate really hard, like I’m a four-year-old determined to will it to happen.

What an ass.

I mean, seriously. What. An. Ass!

My voice drops and I mutter, "Can you put some money in my account?"

I can’t believe he had the balls to just text me that! When it came through this afternoon before Owen went to get my car and move it for me, I almost went into hysterical laughter.

What am I? His mother?

That’s who he should ask. His mother who catered to his every whim our entire marriage. I voice a memory, or rather, a conversation I heard between his mom and him, just because I'm annoyed and need to talk it out.

"I’m hungry for beef stroganoff, Mom. Can you drive the three hours to get here to make it for me? No one cooks the noodles quite like you. Oh, and while you’re here, wipe my ass, too."

"I’ll be right there, honey."

It might not have been to the point of her wiping his ass, but it was pretty out of control, her need to coddle and watch over him every second. And her jumping in a car and driving hours to get to our house just to make him a meal is unfortunately true also. And a bonus: while she was in our home, I was lucky enough to be ridiculed by my lack of kitchen skills, which is a lie, and the fact that I don’t cater to my husband. My eyes nearly got stuck in the top of my head from my eye roll, and, not even kidding here, if he cheated on me with a woman who made him more home cooked meals, I shouldn’t blame him. I’ll never forget the smirk he threw my way or how he hugged his mom and reminded her that she was the best woman he’d ever known. How I stayed married to that immature asshole for as many years as I did is a freaking miracle.

No.

Miracle is absolutely the wrong term.

Idiotic.

Stupid.

Foolish.

Asinine.

I bet if I pulled out my thesaurus I’d find a few other words that work, too.

The hysterical laughter after reading that text quickly faded into a range of emotions that settled pretty strongly on sadness. Not because I missed him. Oh, heck no. But because I am pitying myself. Not something I like to feel, honestly.

Self-pity might be the worst.

It’s a hard pill to swallow that I’m currently in the middle of nowhere feeling sorry for myself. What kind of loser am I? No. I’m not a loser. He is.

"Great. Now I’m arguing with myself," I mutter as I change all the sheets on the bed. It’s just a thing I have about beds. When I was little, my parents went on vacation and came home with a stow away. Bed bugs. It was horrible and awful – everything you would imagine having bed bugs in your home would be.

Ever since then, I have always brought a change of sheets to hotels. And then throw away the sheets like a weirdo because I can’t bring them back into my home.

Just one of the many things that Scott said made me pretty much unlovable. My family always told me my quirks were endearing. Scott said they were annoying.

By the time I signed my divorce papers, I realized I couldn’t let Scott’s opinion of me bring me down. I am who I am. I’m soft spoken and don’t like crowds. I like to eat Chinese food for breakfast and separate the colors of my M&M’s and eat them in the order of the rainbow. I collect ball caps but rarely wear them and can’t go to sleep unless I’ve walked the house and checked the locks five times. I swipe Chapstick on my lips a minimum of fourteen times a day because I hate the feeling of dry lips, I can’t drink out of plastic cups, glass only, unless it’s the absolute only option, and I have a ridiculous addiction to soda. And that’s just the beginning of the list that Scott kept of how I annoyed him on a daily basis.

Some of these quirks could be considered OCD, but it’s what makes me who I am and I’ll no longer be apologetic for it.

As soon as I get the sheets replaced and smoothed out, I dig my phone out of my back pocket and stare at the screen. I have a choice. No one would blame me if I don’t reply to him. Partly because he would be the only one who would know. I doubt if he’s advertising the fact that he has no money without me handing it over to him.

But, I’m curious. When we divorced, there was a settlement. I know how much money he had when we parted so I’m confused as to why he would need anything from me. He’s too much of an idiot to think about using a different password than the one we had when we were married so I’m able to log in to the bank information and snoop.

"What the hell?" I don’t even mutter, I just shout it because that’s what you do when you discover your husband, oh, excuse me, ex-husband, thank goodness, has been spending insane amounts of money on porn sites and, wait for it, male escort services.

How do I know what these discreet charges are actually for? Because in a book I wrote a few years ago, I researched how charges such as these would show up in bank statements, not because I have personal experience. Not that there’s anything wrong with it. I’ve ventured onto a porn site myself a time or twelve. That’s not the point. I use the free sites like a civilized human. I don’t rack up thousands of dollars using the services.

And what the heck is up with the male escort services? Is he, um, gay?