My Big Fat Fake Wedding(120)

“She’s talking about Kevin. That’s him.”

She gasps, turning the phone to look closer. “Holy shit, honey. Are you sure?”

I nod, tears already pooling in my eyes. “I’m sure.”

She puts her phone down on the table and comes around the table to hug me. “Shit. Shit. Shit. I am so sorry. I told you that douchebag doesn’t deserve someone like you. You’re too fucking good for him.”

I sniffle, nodding, but deep inside, I know that this is always how it goes. Every single boyfriend I’ve ever had ended up cheating on me. I’ve tried playing hard to get. I’ve tried being the good little go-along girlfriend. I’ve even tried being myself, which seems to be somewhere in between, once I figured out who I actually was.

It’s even worse in bed, where I’ve tried being vanilla, being aggressive, and being submissive. And again, being myself, somewhere in the middle, when I figured out what I enjoyed from the experimentation.

But honestly, I’ve never been satisfied. No matter what, I just can’t seem to find that ‘sweet spot’ that makes me happy and fulfilled in a relationship. And while I’ve tried everything, depending on the guy, it never works out. The boyfriends I’ve had, while few in number considering I can count them on one hand, all eventually cheated, saying that they just wanted something different. Something that’s not me.

Apparently, Kevin’s no different. My mood shifts wildly from self-pity to anger to finally, a numb acceptance.

“What a fucking jerk. I hope he likes being a boy toy for a social media slut, because he’s damn sure not my boyfriend anymore.”

“That’s the spirit,” Elise says, refilling my wine glass. “Now, how about you and I finish off this bottle, get another, and by the time you’re done, you’ll have forgotten all about that loser while we take a cab back to your place?”

“Maybe I will just get a dog, and I sure as hell already have a buzzing rabbit. Several of them, in fact,” I mutter. “You know what? They’re better than he ever was by a damn country mile.”

“Rabbits . . . they just keep going and going and going,” Elise jokes, trying to keep me in good spirits. She twirls her hands in the air like the famous commercial bunny and signals for another bottle of wine.

She’s right. Fuck Kevin.





Derrick


My black leather office chair creaks, an annoying little trend it’s developed over the past six months that’s the primary reason I don’t use it in the studio. Admittedly, that’s probably for the better because if I had a chair this comfortable in the studio, I’d be too relaxed to really be on point for my shows.

Still, it’s helpful to have something nice like this office since it’s a hell of a big step up from the days when my office was also the station’s break room.

“All right, hit me. What’s on the agenda for today’s show?”

My co-star, Susannah, checks her papers, making little checkmarks as she goes through each item.

She’s an incessant checkmarker, and I have no idea how the fuck she can read her sheets by the end of the day.

“The overall theme for today is cheaters, and I’ve got several emails pulled for that so we can stay on track. We’ll field calls, of course, and some will be on topic and some off, like always. I’ll try and screen them as best I can, and we should be all set.”

I nod, trying to mentally prep myself for another three-hour stint behind the mic, offering music, advice, hope, and sometimes a swift kick in the pants to our listeners. Two years ago, I never would’ve believed that I’d be known as the ‘Love Whisperer’ on a radio talk segment called the same thing. Part Howard Stern, part Dr. Phil, part DJ Love Below, I’ve found a niche that’s just . . . unique.

I started out many years ago as a jock, playing football on my high school team with dreams of college ball. A seemingly short derailment after an injury led me to do sports reporting for my high school’s news and I fell in love.

After that, my scholarships to play football never came, but it didn’t bother me as much as I thought it would. I decided to chase after a sports broadcast degree instead, marrying my passion for football and my love of reporting.

I spent four years after graduation doing daily sports talks from three to six as the afternoon drive-home DJ. It wasn’t a big station, just one of the half-dozen stations that existed as an alternative for people who didn’t want to listen to corporate pop, hip-hop, or country. It was there I received that fateful call.

Looking back, it’s kind of crazy, but a guy had called in bitching and moaning about his wife not understanding his need to follow all these wild superstitions to help his team win.

“I’m telling you D, I went to church and asked God himself. I said, if you can bless the Bandits with a win, I’ll show myself true and wear those ugly ass socks my pastor gave me for Christmas the year before and never wash them again. You know what happened?”

Of course, everyone could figure out what happened. Still, I respectfully told him that I didn’t think his unwashed socks were doing a damn thing for his beloved team on the basketball court, but if he didn’t put those fuckers in the washing machine, they were sure going to land him in divorce court.

He sighed and eventually gave in when I told him to wash the socks, thank his wife for putting up with his shit, and full-out romance her to bed and do his damndest to make up for his selfish ways.