Just My Type(10)

Before I can change my mind, I set my coffee cup down, hit Reply, and start typing, unable to hide the smile on my face as my fingers fly over the screen of my phone.

To: [email protected]

From: Ember Hastings

Subject: Re: Shit Mouth Transcription

Sadly, my Google search has confirmed that Crayola does not make the color “burnt hole,” though I have requested they make this change post haste.

I deeply apologize for making assumptions regarding steroids. Full disclosure though, my best friend is still questioning your ability to wipe your own ass. If you can give me freshly squeezed orange juice using only your biceps, I’ll put in a good word for you.

It’s a well-known fact Jon Stewart has the best cleavage. GOD, it’s like you’re not even trying.

You don’t sound like you have shit in your mouth. It’s more like marshmallows, maybe. A giant pillow? What’s big, soft, fluffy, and something you would put in your mouth? Oh, I know. Your over-the-shoulder boulder balls. (GIGGLES) Professional advice: Try sitting closer to the microphone. And E-N-U-N-C-I-A-T-E.

Ember “I Own a Shit-Ton of Guns and Know How to Shoot Them” Hastings

P.S. Let’s say you’re on death row. What would your last meal be?





CHAPTER 4





Snort My Way to Happiness


“…and then I booked us a helicopter tour over the city for tomorrow night, and on Sunday, he’ll get to be a dolphin trainer at the Shedd Aquarium all day. Ember, are you listening?”

I blink a few times at Brandon before nodding at him as he stands in my doorway, droning on about all the fancy, over-the-top things he’ll be doing with our son this weekend. I’ve gotten to be a pro at tuning him out when he does this. It’s better to pretend like I’m politely paying attention than punch him in the kidney and tell him to stop spoiling our kid so much. It was also easy to lose focus on what Brandon was saying, and that’s all because of Shit Mouth.

Why hasn’t he replied back to my email? It’s been four days.

“Lincoln, why don’t you say goodbye to Mom and head on out to the car?”

I bend down and wrap my arms around my little man, squeezing him tight and peppering his face with a hundred kisses before he starts laughing and pushes me away.

Did I cross the line with the whole wipe his own ass thing? I thought he had a sense of humor, for fuck’s sake.

“Ember, I was thinking…” Brandon starts once Lincoln is out the door.

Maybe he was drunk when he sent that first email. And then when I replied, he was all, “What the fuck did I do last night? Goddamn you, tequila!”

“…so make sure you check your email, because I really think that article could benefit you,” Brandon says, to which I smile and nod.

Maybe he’s catfishing me. Maybe him hiring me as a transcriber was all a ruse, and he somehow manufactured the glitch with Just My Type, just so he could talk to me. Oooh, on the show Catfish, how many times is it someone the person already knows in real life? Oh shit. What if Brandon did it? What if Shit Mouth is Brandon?

“Who has better cleavage, Dan Rather or Jon Stewart?” I ask Brandon with a skeptical raise of my eyebrow as I study his facial features for any kind of guilty look.

“Seriously, Ember, are you okay?” Brandon asks, pushing his black frames up the bridge of his nose with his finger.

Never mind. Brandon has no sense of humor. He wouldn’t even be able to fake it that well. Shit Mouth is just a shitty correspondent. Who clearly didn’t appreciate my email and has probably already started the process of finding a new transcriber. Damn, that would have been good money.

“Yep, super. Okay, well, good talk. I need to… do some things,” I tell Brandon lamely as I point my thumb over my shoulder at the plethora of things behind me I do not have to do.

“Just… read the link in the email I sent you. And have a good weekend,” Brandon tells me with a sad, pathetic smile.

Because he thinks I’m sad and pathetic.

And I am. Christ, I am. I just stand here in the open doorway, watching him walk away without saying a word, like I do every single time we make this Lincoln hand-off and he looks at me with pity.

Pity, because I won’t take his money. Pity that I’m “making our son suffer by raising him in this hovel.” Pity, because I hate this city, and all the noise, and all the people, and I’m homesick, and there’s not a goddamn thing I can do about it. Pity that it’s Friday night, and I clearly haven’t showered, I’m still wearing the same messy bun from yesterday, because the ponytail holder got stuck and it’s just too much trouble to try to get it out at this point, and it’s obvious I have no plans.

The old Ember would have told him to fuck right off with the pity. She would have told him nine months ago to stop trying to buy his son’s love and just fucking love him.

But I’m not the old Ember. I’m the new Ember, who changed to make a man happy, and continue to stand here taking his pity and not doing anything about it.

“God, I suck,” I mutter to myself as I slam the door closed, lock the deadbolt, and slide the chain across.

Walking over to the couch, I grab my cell phone from the coffee table before flopping down on the cushions as I make a call, putting it on speaker and setting it back on the coffee table.