It was David.
“Belinda, I owe you an apology. Not just for last night, but for a lot longer than that. Can I send you something? You should see it.”
I typed back, “Send it.”
The screenshots came through in a long, unbroken stream.
They were group chat messages, months of them.
The screenshots came through.
In them, Richard described my accidents in detail.
Calling me broken. Calling me lazy. Sending laughing emojis when the other guys chimed in.
Then, three days before the party, a message stopped me cold.
“Boys, when I pull out the pack tonight, I need big reactions. Loud. Like you’ve never seen it. She needs to feel it. Trust me, it’ll be legendary!”
Instructions. He’d sent them detailed instructions.
Richard described my accidents in detail.
David’s next message came in.
“I muted the chat weeks ago because I couldn’t stomach reading it anymore. I didn’t scroll back until this morning. That’s when I found the message from three days ago. If I’d seen it in time, I would have warned you. I’m sorry that it took walking into your living room for my eyes to finally open. I should have said something the first time.”
I scrolled up through the screenshots again.
David’s next message came in.
Richard, who fancied himself a comedian, describing my recovery as “an inconvenience.” Coaching his friends on when to laugh, how loud, and which face to make.
Every small joke I had forgiven rearranged itself in my head. All the small jokes Richard had made at dinner tables, birthdays, and the pediatrician’s office.
Every one of them, I now realized, wasn’t a slip.
They had been a rehearsal.
Don’t miss
Coaching his friends on when to laugh.
