She claimed it was Ron who needed to see me working for her on his behalf. But maybe her true purpose was for me to see firsthand what kind of a person Ron is, so that when she’s done, I’ll understand.
Regardless of who her audience was, there’s no question that Meg’s performance was flawless.
***
But in the meantime, a woman like Meg still has to earn a living. I don’t see her selling any houses, just sending me on endless searches for buyers who always seem to vanish before they ever look at a single property, leaving me to wonder if they’d ever existed at all.
As promised, I spend a few hours every evening getting some writing work done. Tonight, while Scott’s watching a baseball game, I’m finishing up a story on menopause and belly fat for an online women’s health magazine that’s 90 percent paid advertisement and 10 percent shitty content.
When I’m done, I turn to the pile of mail Scott tossed there earlier. Several bills and a note from Scott—Your mother called my cell because you haven’t returned any of her calls or texts. Please let her know you’re still alive so she’ll stop bothering me.
I’ve been avoiding her for a couple weeks now. She’d come across a story I wrote—“No Time to Cook? No Problem!”—and her text had stung. Do you really think it’s a good idea to affiliate yourself with content like this? As if I had a choice.
I throw away a few pieces of junk mail and turn toward the bills. When Scott moved in, we’d decided to split them, Scott paying the gas and our cable/internet bill every month while I’d pay the water and power. We take turns paying the rent, and I’m relieved that this month is his turn.
But the arrival of the gas bill makes me realize what’s missing. I flip through the stack again, double-checking, then look in my drawer where I keep all my important paperwork filed, just to make sure I’m not mistaken.
Our bank statements haven’t arrived. Which is odd because they always arrive a few days before the bills, and I always check mine before paying anything. Though we still keep separate accounts, Scott and I use the same bank. Our accounts always post on the same day, and I can’t remember the statements not arriving near the beginning of the month.
My stomach coils, as it always does when something like this happens. Even after two years of Scott being completely transparent, of working the program, it’s still so easy for my mind to leap back again to a time when he’d stay out all night, gambling with friends. To the unpaid utilities and service disruptions. And the loss of my grandmother’s engagement ring, sold to pay his bookie.
We’d worked through it in therapy, and Scott has granted me full access to everything. His bank statements, his cell phone and computer. I used to check every night, but I’ve grown tired of the constant monitoring.
Which is exactly when Scott might backslide.
Through the doorway I check to see that he hasn’t moved from the couch, then open his laptop. A quick search of his history shows nothing unusual. His emails are likewise uninteresting. I wander into the kitchen, where his phone sits on the table, and scroll through his messages and history there.
Again, nothing. His last text with his sponsor, Karl, was this morning at nine.
I wander back into the living room and say, “Our bank statements haven’t come yet.”
He keeps his eyes on the game. “Maybe it’s time to finally sign up for online banking.”
“If you recall, the last time I did that, someone stole $1,000. Do I also need to remind you why online banking is a bad idea for your recovery?”
Scott doesn’t respond, but I can see his jaw flex.
“Where do you think they are?” I ask.
His expression grows defensive. “What makes you think I know?”