Their situation was far from baffling, like a kind of hangover that lasted into the next year. Bea was clearly looking for some form of escapism, but whether I could offer any legitimate support had yet to be determined. I enjoyed the conversation, picking each response apart before replying in kind, never using an excessive amount of exclamation points, despite her frequency. “Now if there’s one thing in the world that trumps the golden rule, something you should follow no matter what, it’s this: Never Fuck With Another Man’s Livelihood.” Some drill sergeant dressed like my father and Uncle Sam pointed with a disapproving glare as I considered how little I cared. Clearly Kevin wasn’t doing something right, but the fact that he was even a small part of the equation made me second-guess all of my diminished moves. I’d never been the other guy; always the first, the one they ultimately decide to cheat on. That didn’t make me a cheater necessarily, just a piece of shit. “So are you still down for meeting up this afternoon around 1:00?” We’d set a dirt mall on the fault line of our two counties as a destination; just a friendly get-together with few preconceived notions. My text lingered in broken space for a good hour before she replied. “Can I maybe get a raincheck? It’s been a really long day already, if that makes sense?” My motivations to continue any form of communication soon diminished as another string of videos flooded her feed. Kevin digging through boxes in a closet before photographs of knick-knacks on bookshelves, third and fourth place ribbons strung to the loose arms of action figures. Then a selfie of Bea in a teal bikini, lying on an inflatable donut in an aboveground pool with a black border collie smiling in the background. She fell asleep that night to “Christine” on her laptop; a shirtless Kevin snoring into his pillow.
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