Page 49 of Dear Debbie

“Oh.” Shit. “How…uh, how is he doing?”

“You mean after you wrecked his family?” Lisette raises her eyebrows, which are in dire need of grooming. “After you got him to leave his wife, then decided you didn’t want him?”

That’s not an entirely fair assessment of the situation. Edgar and I had an affair about a year ago, and yes, I did convince him to leave his wife of thirty years. But unlike Cooper, who has a lot of compelling physical attributes, Edgar was three decades older than me, seriously balding, with a weak chin and beady eyes. His most attractive feature was the fact that he was quite wealthy.

He failed to mention that the wealth belonged entirely to his wife. He also failed to mention that he had signed an ironclad prenuptial agreement and would be left penniless in the divorce. So really, he completely misrepresented himself to me. I was the victim here. I mean, did he think I was going to still live in a basement apartment, working for a second-rate gym as a trainer when I’m forty? He was delusional if he thought that.

And it’s certainly not my fault that his wife didn’t want to take him back. Or that his three children didn’t want to have anything to do with him.

“He hung himself,” Lisette blurts out.

“What?”

“You heard me.” Her furious eyes fill with tears. “He lost everything because of you, and he couldn’t take it anymore.”

Again, this is not fair. His wife is at least fifty percent at fault. “Is he…dead?”

I calculate in my head how much flowers sent to a funeral home will set me back.

“He’s still alive,” she croaks. “But he has an anoxic brain injury. He can’t walk…can’t speak…can’t feed himself. He’s in a nursing home now and needs twenty-four-seven care.”

“Well, I’m sorry to hear that.”

Lisette looks like she wants to slap me, and I take a step back. “Sorry? That’s all you have to say for yourself?”

My fingers finally locate the bottle of pepper spray, and my shoulders relax slightly. “What do you want me to say? Edgar was an adult, and he made his own bed. I didn’t force him to leave his wife. And I didn’t force him to hang himself.”

“Wow.” She shakes her head as if she’s never met anyone quite as horrible as me. What a drama queen—just like Edgar. “You’re heartless.”

“What do you want from me?” I retort. “What am I supposed to do? Take him back?”

She wipes her eyes with the back of her hand. She’s probably the only person in the entire world who’s sad about what happened to Edgar. I didn’t get the sense he had many friends.

“You could visit him,” she says.

“Visit him?”

She nods. “The nursing home is only an hour away from here. He doesn’t talk much, but he smiles when he’s happy. You could sit with him and hold his hand. It…” She takes a breath. “I think it would mean a lot to him.”

I stare at her, waiting to hear the punch line to what has got to be a joke. She wants me to drive an hour out to some nursing home to hold hands with a vegetable who—full disclosure here—I didn’t even like very much when he was healthy. Physically, Edgar wasn’t my type, but his wealth made him sexy. Once that was gone, my feelings for him deflated.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I snort. “I’m not doing that!”

Lisette flinches. “You don’t have to go every week…”

“I’m not going ever.” I readjust my purse on my shoulder, keeping my hand on the spray bottle. “I’m sorry Edgar couldn’t even manage to kill himself properly, but that’s not my problem. There’s no way I’m wasting even one more minute of my time on him.”

Circles of pink appear on the older woman’s cheeks. “You bitch,” she breathes.

She raises her hand, and now I’m fairly sure she means to slap me. But I’m ready for her. I yank the bottle of pepper spray from my bag, and it turns out that it’s actually quite easy to dispense. I press the button at the top of the can, and a cloud of toxic mist releases into Lisette’s face. She halts with a screech, followed by a lot of coughing and rubbing her eyes.

“Stay away from me, lady.” My voice is firm and devoid of emotion. “If I see your car around here ever again, I’m calling the police.”

She’s still rubbing her eyes, which probably need to be washed out with water. But that’s not my problem, any more than her brother is my problem. What’s done is done. I turn around, go into my apartment, and lock the door behind me.

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FROM DEAR DEBBIE DRAFTS FILE