“Yeah, so? What’s wrong with that? That’s
what he is, a sniveling little shit.”
Dave sighed, was about to say something, then
sighed again. “He got it.”
“Who?”
“Josh. You c.c.’d him. Why did you c.c. him?”
“Hang on—I erased Josh’s address from the
c.c. box,” I insisted. I tried to breathe over the
sinking feeling in my gut. “Didn’t I?”
It hit me. I knew exactly what had happened.
We’d just gotten a new Internet service, and
I haven’t been able to figure out the address
book. The only way I was able to find an e-mail
address was to c.c. the person, then copy the
address into the body of the text. Then I’m
supposed to erase the address from the c.c. box.
Only this time I hadn’t. “Oh, shit,” I said.
My husband read me Josh’s response. It
started out with, “I’m crying as I write this,” and
went downhill from there.
I couldn’t hear the specifics through the
pounding self-loathing in my mind.
“Fffffuck. What am I going to do?”
“I don’t know, but you’d better think up
something quick. Josh and Rachel are really
upset. I’ve got to go. Hang tough,” he said then
hung up.
There I was—alone, nude, just me and the
gigantic plastic vagina on the shelf six inches
away