by Tara Sivec
Even though things haven’t been perfect, I was still here, doing what I needed to do to be a good wife. And all this time, he’s had one foot out the door. I want to scream and rage at him. I want him to feel my wrath and like a complete asshole for doing this to us and talking so casually about things being easier, when there is nothing even remotely easy about ending a marriage. I want to show him that I am strong, and smart, and a good goddamn wife that he’s going to seriously regret leaving.
“If you pulled your dick out and flopped it down on the table right now, I would laugh. I would laugh sooooooooo hard,” I growl at him, knowing this isn’t exactly the strongest or smartest thing I could say to him at this point in time.
I’m not in the greatest frame of mind right now. Don’t judge me.
“I don’t know what that means. You know things haven’t been good between us for a while. It’s not like this came as a complete surprise, Ember.” Brandon slides his hands into the front pockets of his black dress pants and rocks back and forth on the balls of his feet.
With what I’m assuming is—oh, I don’t know—complete fucking surprise written all over my face, Brandon slowly shakes his head at me.
He. Shakes. His. Head. At. Me.
Like he pities me for not seeing this coming. My brain is screaming at me to wake the fuck up. To say something, anything that makes sense and doesn’t make me look like the idiot he clearly thinks I am right now. Tell him he’s throwing away the best thing that’s ever happened to him. Tell him he’s making the biggest mistake of his life. Say something to make him feel guilty for doing this to Lincoln. Stand your ground, lift your chin, and let him see you are strong, and smart, and you’ll be just fine without him. Give him a parting shot that will make him weep and wish he could take back what he said, because you’re so amazing.
Stalking across the kitchen, I stop right in front of him, pointing my finger at his face.
“You titless whore. Fuck fitted sheets!”
CHAPTER 1
I’d Rather Stick My Hand in a Cow’s Ass
Fifteen months later
“You look like horse shit.”
I glare at Brooklyn as I hold my cellphone out in front of me, seriously regretting that I answered her FaceTime call.
“Weren’t those the first words my brother said to you when you guys saw each other again after twelve years?”
“Only after I told him he smelled like horse shit. And look how happy we are now. Tough love. It works wonders,” she informs me, brushing her long, shiny, dark brown hair off one shoulder.
Grabbing a lock of my ratty, blonde hair that has fallen out of my messy bun between two fingers, I bring it up to my nose and give it a whiff. When the smell doesn’t make me wince, I nod to myself and let the long strand fall back down against the side of my face. It only slightly smells like the load of laundry you forgot to put in the dryer after two days of rotting in the washing machine. The coconut-scented dry shampoo I sprayed on this morning before taking Lincoln to school is currently edging out the decaying body smell, and really, that’s all I could ask for.
“Ember. What the fuck is that on the front of your sweatshirt?” Brooklyn’s right eye takes up the entire screen on my phone as she leans forward to try to get a better look at what she’s seeing.
Glancing down at my chest, I notice the spot she’s looking at. Grabbing the front of my hoodie, I bring the dark brown stain up to my mouth and lick it.
“Chocolate. Most likely from the Reese’s Cup family. You know how I like to eat all the chocolate from the top and around the edges first,” I explain with a shrug, trying to remember when I had a Reese’s Cup last.
I think it was Monday. Possibly Tuesday.
“I can’t believe you just licked the front of your shirt.” Brooklyn sighs as her full face comes back into view on my screen. “For all you knew, that could have been shit.”
“Why in the hell would I have actual shit on my sweatshirt? Now you’re just being dramatic.”
I’m mid-eye roll when I suddenly remember when I had chocolate last.
“Monday!” I shout excitedly. “The chocolate was definitely from Monday. Brandon sent me a text saying he had to cancel his night with Lincoln, because he had to go out of town for work at the last minute. Lincoln got upset. I smoothed everything over with a trip to the dollar store and all the candy I could afford. The Dollar Tree, where everything is actually a dollar, and not Dollar General, where things generally never fucking cost just a dollar. Anyway, we pigged out on chocolate, Airheads, and Fun Dip, and played a hundred rounds of Uno until he forgot about being sad.”
“You know it’s Friday now, right?” Brooklyn asks softly.
Whatever. Who cares if I’m still wearing the same grungy hoodie and leggings I had on four days ago? It’s not like it’s a crime or anything that I haven’t exactly learned how to forget about my sadness in the last year and a half. Lincoln’s happiness comes first. That’s my job as a mother. Something my ex-husband still hasn’t quite mastered, unless he’s throwing money at our son.
When I glance back down at my chocolate-stained sweatshirt—and seriously consider bringing it back up to my mouth for another lick—I realize this is probably what rock-bottom looks like. And tastes like. And smells like.
True to his word, Brandon moved out the night he told me things weren’t working. While I’d been cleaning up after dinner, he’d been packing a few suitcases instead of making our fucking bed. I was so numb and completely blindsided that I just agreed to whatever he wanted after that. “It would make the process faster,” he said. “It would be easier on everyone if we file everything as uncontested,” he said.
If he mentioned the word “easier” one more time, I was seriously considering stabbing him in the throat with a dull butter knife. Since I didn’t think I would survive in prison, being that I’m barely five-foot-tall and weigh a hundred pounds soaking wet, I stayed away from sharp objects and just went along with everything. One thing I refused to budge on though, was taking any kind of money from him. Somewhere under all of the confusion and hurt, there was still a strong, independent woman who could take care of herself. I got a job working from home doing transcription. It didn’t pay pharmaceutical sales rep money, but with the money I’d been saving for years working for my family’s pumpkin farm, and the money my brother still pays me from time to time when he calls me in a panic because he can’t figure out something I used to take care of, I was just barely able to afford to rent a really small bungalow a few blocks from Lincoln’s school.
My savings account dwindled quickly after that. I had to take on a lot more transcription jobs than normal, and I lived paycheck to paycheck, but I did what I had to do. Any child support money Brandon gave me went right into a savings account for Lincoln’s future. I would never, in a million years, touch that money. Maybe it was stubborn. Maybe it was stupid.
Listening to Lincoln tell me all about how much money his father spends on him whenever he stays with him sometimes makes me feel stubborn and stupid, but I force myself to push those feelings aside, for my son. I don’t let him know how much it kills me that I can’t buy him everything his heart desired, like his father does. I didn’t cry in front of him when Brandon bought him a brand new fucking iPad and a PlayStation for his birthday a few months ago. I didn’t curl up in the fetal position on the living room floor when Lincoln came home from his place last week, with three pairs of the newest Nike basketball shoes on the market, and told me every single detail of how his dad got them courtside seats to the Chicago Bulls game, and he got to meet a few of the players afterward. I didn’t let it get to me that splurging on my son usually consisted of a trip to the dollar store, trying to make it sound like I was the best mom in the world when I exclaimed, “You can pick out anything you want in this entire store!”
Jesus, I’m pathetic.
“You’ve been divorced for nine months, Ember,” Brooklyn states, pulling me out of my thoughts.
/> “Aww, you’re such a big girl now, being able to count to nine!” I reply sarcastically, groaning when I pull myself out of the couch cushions my body has become one with while I worked the last few hours.
“I’m just saying, you’ve been in Chicago for a year-and-a-half now. Three months being miserable in a new city, six months being miserable while you were separated, and another nine months being miserable after the divorce went through—”
“I can do the math, asshole,” I cut her off in annoyance.
“Great. Then you should know that three, plus six, plus nine equals it’s time to get off your fucking ass and stop feeling sorry for yourself and being miserable! What Brandon did to you was shitty. But you’re not dead. Even though you look like a corpse. Have you even left the house since you signed the divorce papers?”
“Of course I’ve left the house,” I huff with another eye roll. “Your nephew has to go to school. And play sports. And there’s this thing he does called eating, which requires me to grocery shop.”
“That’s not what I’m talking about and you know it.” Brooklyn sighs. “You are a fun, intelligent, thirty-two-year-old single woman, who is hot as shit when you actually shower, pull a brush through your hair more than once a week, and stop licking food off your clothes. You need to get out there and get back on the horse.”
Just the idea of what she’s saying sends a full-body shiver through me. I haven’t been single in almost ten years. I’ve heard plenty of stories about single mothers trying to date, and none of them make me feel warm and fuzzy. Sure, I’ve heard all these stories at two in the morning when I took a break from working and watched old episodes of Dateline and Unsolved Mysteries, but whatever. I love horses. I miss the horses from the farm. But there’s no way in hell I’m getting back on that horse anytime soon. I’m a small woman. I would fit perfectly in the trunk of a car. And even though I was a Girl Scout when I was younger, I’m not really all that great at untying knots that have been secured around my wrists and ankles.
“Why are you two talking about horses? What did I miss?” All of a sudden, my brother Clint’s face pops up on the screen behind Brooklyn, and I have to swallow past the lump in my throat when I watch him lean down and kiss the top of her head. As annoying as it is having an older brother whose sole mission in life is to either overprotect me to death or tease me, he’s still my family and I miss him. When our father retired from running the farm and handed everything over to my brother so our parents could move to Florida, it was just me and Clint taking care of everything together on our own for so many years. Next to Brooklyn, he’s my second best friend.
“Calm down, Farmer Joe. We’re not talking about actual horses,” Brooklyn teases him. “We’re talking about how it’s time your sister got laid.”
I can’t help but smile as I watch my brother grimace and fake a few dry heaves.
“Nope. Nope, nope, nope,” he states with a quick shake of his head. “I’d rather stick my hand in a cow’s ass.”
With that, he disappears from the screen and I can hear his boots thumping against the kitchen floor of my family’s farmhouse, where he, Brooklyn, and my nieces Mia and Grace live, as he walks out of the room.
“At least buy her dinner first before you surprise that cow with arm anal!” Brooklyn shouts after him before turning her face back to me. “So, I was doing some research on dating apps, and I think—”
“Oh no! You’re breaking up!” I cut her off, rubbing the front of my phone against my sweatshirt to give the effect of static and a bad connection. “Can’t… hear… you! Call… you… later!”
I hear her voice shout through the line, calling me a chicken shit, and I quickly end the call before she can say anything else. Tossing my phone onto the couch next to me, I grab my laptop from the coffee table where I set it when Brooklyn called, and pull it onto my lap.
I quickly log back into my account at Just My Type Transcription and see I’ve received a brand new transcription job in my inbox. When I first started working for JMT, I couldn’t be picky. I took every single job I could click on fast enough that showed up in the master que for all beginner transcribers. It’s basically a free-for-all. You could be online with hundreds of other transcribers at the same time, and you’re all trying to grab jobs as fast as possible when they show up in the que. The more jobs you take, the more money you can make, and the faster you can move up the food chain with the company.
Now that I’ve quickly worked my way up, I’m no longer considered a “beginner” who has to use the free-for-all pool of jobs. Now, the company gets requests specifically for me from either past clients of mine, or because new clients can see my stellar transcription rating on the site.
Under normal circumstances, I would listen to a few-minute clip of the job and decide whether or not I’d take it. Sometimes, the audio is really bad and impossible for anyone to transcribe. Sometimes, clients speak in thick accents I have a hard time understanding, and the job would take twice as long to complete, making me half the amount of money. Two weeks ago, I had to transcribe a three-hour meeting that took place in a coffee shop. Right next to the espresso machine. Have you ever tried to have a conversation next to an espresso machine? Try typing up every single word someone says while you’re listening to them talk next to said machine.
I don’t even bother listening to a sample of this one. When I see how much money they’re offering for it, and that it will require multiple transcribing sessions for the project, each one making me a very good chunk of money I desperately need, I quickly click on the Accept Job button.
Glancing at the time on the top right corner of my laptop screen, I realize I still have a few more hours before I need to pick Lincoln up from school. Just enough time to knock out as much typing up of this first audio recording as I can. I settle back into the couch and secure my noise-cancelling headphones back onto my head as I open the company’s word processing software connected to my account.
There’s a lot of privacy involved with this company, which is one of the things that drew me to it. Other than being broke, desperate, and willing to take whatever job came my way before I started googling, How hard is it to become a hooker and make decent money without a John? Clients have no idea who I am, other than my site username, how many jobs I’ve completed since working for them, how long on average it takes me to complete a job, and my approval rating. Which I’m happy to say is a five out of five stars for every single job I’ve ever taken. The same goes for clients. Unless they specifically state who they are in the audio recording I’m sent, I have no idea who I’m transcribing for. I’ve done everything from board meetings for Fortune 500 companies, to authors who are writing a book and find it easier to talk their story out loud and then have someone else type it up, to PTA meetings.
As soon as I click on the audio recording and it starts playing in my ear, I immediately groan in annoyance. It takes less than fifteen seconds for me to realize this job is going to suck major asshole. It sounds like an interview, which means a lot of back and forth between just two people, and is usually a much easier job than say, ten different voices I have to differentiate between during a board meeting, but I can barely hear the guy talking, and the woman won’t stop giggling.
Think of the money. Think of being able to buy Lincoln a new toy the next time he looks at you with those puppy dog eyes.
I quickly hit Pause on the recording and take a deep breath.
I can do this. It’s fine.
It’s not the best audio in the history of the world, but it’s also not the worst.
Luckily, there’s another perk involved with working for this company, and that’s the super private, super top secret area of the software where I can take all the notes I want and the client never sees them. Little notations I can make to help me remember whose talking when the clients don’t give names, which is absolutely necessary when people are talking back and forth and I need to specify someone new is speaking in the document tha
t is sent back to the client. It would be great if I could always type up that Bob and Sue are the subjects, but more often than not, I have to put things like, “Annoying Squeaky Voice” and “Mouth Breather.”
Rewinding the first few minutes of the audio, I listen to it again before hitting pause once more, so I can add my notes into my area of the software before I continue.
“Okay, Man Who Talks with Shit in His Mouth and Skanky Giggler, let’s see what you have to say,” I mutter out loud to myself.
CHAPTER 2
Shit Mouth
To: Ember Hastings
From: JMT Transcription Team
Subject: System Glitch/Security Breach
Dear Employees:
We have recently been made aware of a severe glitch that happened in our software system in the last twenty-four hours. Unfortunately, due to this glitch, several hundred JMT Transcription clients were emailed private, sensitive information from the backend of our site, including our employees’ email addresses, and a few cases where draft versions of transcription projects were accidentally marked as Complete, and sent out. Rest assured, we are doing everything possible to correct this mistake. We take the privacy of our employees and the work they do for us very seriously. If a client reaches out to you via email, do not respond. Please forward any emails you receive to [email protected].
Thank you,
JMT Transcription Team
“Can we name him Penis Breath?”
Lincoln’s giggle from the barstool pushed up to the kitchen counter makes me pull my head away from my phone and the email I got from work sometime in the middle of the night.
Setting my phone aside, I lean forward and rest my elbows on the counter across from my son. My little mini-me, literally, with the same blonde hair with natural caramel highlights, bright green eyes, and half the size of everyone else his age.