Nobody’s Perfect

Chapter 25

I was sitting in my office minding my own business, following up on the jobs I d applied for and polishing my r sum , when Mitch appeared at my doorway. He wore workout clothes. Of course he was going to continue his new exercise regimen for his equally new lady love.

I ignored him.

Vivian, he said finally.

Yes, Mitchell?

I just wanted to let you know that you win. It ll take me a couple of weeks, but I ll gather my things and move in with . . . He paused.

Tabitha, I said. I already know you re having an affair with Tabitha. I know she s pregnant, too. Congratulations, by the way.

He winced.

Good.

You know, I really had hoped it wouldn t be like this.

For once, he sounded tired, his tone steeped in remorse.

How did you think it would be? I asked softly. You made all these plans that involved me-and some that didn t involve me-and were planning to tell me when? Per usual, you never asked me how I felt. You never gave me a chance to remedy whatever it was that was eating at you.

You never complained about me being in charge before.

Mitch, I don t even want to fight right now. You ve thrown my life into chaos, and I m trying to find a damn job. When the divorce goes through, I won t even have health insurance.

Oh.

Hadn t even thought about that, had you?

Well, no.

Then there s the fact that you planned to sell this house and send me . . . where?

I don t know.

Exactly.

I looked at my laptop screen and pretended to concentrate even though I couldn t. I was so upset that I accidentally deleted an email from Target. He kept staring at me with an anguished look I knew only too well. For half a second, I expected him to call the whole thing off.

And a part of me hoped he would, that we could just go back to what we were before. I could forgive a midlife peccadillo, couldn t I? It wouldn t be the easiest thing, but if it were just . . . sex? We were married, after all, and I had sworn til death do we part, too.

Can you ever trust him again?

No.

Vivian, do you ever think . . . ?

He didn t finish the question, but something in my expression must ve shown him the entire conversation I d just had with myself.

Never mind. I m going for a run, but I ll get everything out of the house soon.

Thank you, I said.

I d won.

But it didn t feel very much like winning.

After lunch I started walking into establishments to look for a job. Everyone had gone to electronic applications, and managers seemed irritated to stop what they were doing to talk to me-if they saw me at all. Well, this was completely different from the last time I d applied for jobs.

The whole thing was an exercise in eating humble pie, and I didn t get to have it la mode.

Two hours into my quest, I decided to drown my dejection with a latte at Starbucks. I looked at the green-and-white cup. I d probably be doing well to make the cost of my coffee per hour. Most places told me they weren t hiring. Target had had the audacity to tell me I was overqualified. I told the manager on duty, a tattooed muscular man named Joe, I wasn t overqualified. Nay, nay, I d been studying that store s layout for years. They d be lucky to have me.

Joe laughed and said he might call me back when they geared up for Christmas. I didn t believe him, so I sweet-talked him into giving me his email address so I could check in about openings at the end of the month. He probably wouldn t answer his emails.

Then again, it would be my luck to be working retail at Christmas.

I shuddered at the thought.

So far, I had looked at a daycare job, but the pay there was too dismal to deal with diapers and would barely cover the gas I d need to drive there and back.

I had stopped at an establishment known for waffles and hash browns but then had a flashback to a high school job where I d worked the breakfast shift at a fast-food restaurant and come home each day with a layer of grease on my arms. I d almost been too afraid to put my uniform in the dryer for fear that I d start a fire.

Of course, I could always look into real estate. Yet another way I could follow in Mom s footsteps, a prospect that didn t seem anywhere near as awful as it might have a month before.

My mind traveled back to the Starbucks where I was sitting at a high bar overlooking the espresso machine. The barista leisurely wiped down both machine and counters, everyone apparently served and chatting. I decided to take advantage of the lull.

Are y all hiring? I asked.

He chuckled. Not at the moment.

Well, it was worth a try.

I d just have to savor my coffee since it would be the last cup I d be able to purchase for a while.

On the way home, I tried a grocery store, a clothing store, and a gas station.

No luck.

Then I went to get my laptop because I had many more job applications to go. Before I journeyed to the soul-sucking sites for job hunters, I checked my videos.

My original video s views had leveled off, but they were still coming in. I d taken the sound off my karaoke video and put it back up, interspersing titles as if it were a silent movie. The video about Parker?

Almost four million views.

Odd, since it was just a couple of pictures and me talking, but who the hell knew what would ever take off on the internet? And Parker was very nice to look at, even if the picture only showed his chest and arms.

A quick glance at the comments told me that several women were enamored of my neighbor. They really were using #MrAlways to talk about him, and some of them were suggesting things that were downright lewd.

You should take it down.

A quick glance at my AdSense account suggested otherwise. These were the views and shares that I needed to get more advertising revenue.

The damage has already been done, hasn t it?

In the end, I left the video up, but I didn t feel great about it-especially not when I saw another comment from OneBadMother49: Stop this insanity, Vivian, or you will regret it.

Was this a threat? Or a statement? If Mitch was behind this account, why would he care about Parker?

Unless Parker was OneBadMother49.

No, it couldn t be Parker because he had barely known who I was when I d made the first video. And there wasn t an ominous or else. It had to be Mitch messing with me. Not that I d give him the satisfaction of knowing he d crawled under my skin.

But that didn t feel right, either. It had to be a random troll. The internet was chock-full of those.

I turned my attention to an article proclaiming my chicken salad meme had just made a Best Memes list on some website. Too bad I couldn t get a nickel every time someone shared it.

Next, I went through my email, a formidable exercise these days. I had all sorts of questions to answer for the Busy Mom Cosmetics people, but maybe it would do me good to get a new look, and I was looking forward to sharing the experience with Abi and Rachel.

Yeah, well Mom wanted to go, too.

I toyed with asking the lady if she minded if we added one more, but this was a contest with a really expensive prize, and I d simply been in the right place at the right time with an assist from Dylan. We each got only those fifteen minutes of fame, right? Especially if we were middle-aged housewives from suburban Georgia.

Most of my email was spam or the kind of influencer email that wanted me to wear something or do something, but there was one email that caught my eye.

Ms. Quackenbush,

Vine Friends is a young company seeking to pair wine drinkers with winemakers. We re looking for influencers to help us branch out into new markets, and based on your social media presence, we think you would be a good fit. We were wondering if you would like to join us in Napa, California, for a small presentation. All expenses paid . . .

The email continued, but I stopped right there because I would dearly love to visit Napa. Rachel had been waxing rhapsodic about the place for years, and I already knew I was a fan of the wines of the region.

I could wish these opportunities for exposure were cash in my pocket instead of all expenses paid, but then again, beggars couldn t be choosers. I dedicated a good hour to looking up the wine company and seeing if they were legitimate.

Like Busy Mom Cosmetics, they appeared to be.

Maybe as long as I didn t have to give them a credit card number or my driver s license?

I answered yes.

I would, in fact, love to attend.

But first? New York.