One evening while wrapping up the kitchen’s post dinner massacre, my husband’s phone, abandoned on the counter, peeked my curiosity. I normally ask him for it, but I hadn’t looked through it in a few weeks. A lot can happen in a few weeks, and thats when I heard Hunch whisper,
“He’s hiding something from you.”
With the crew upstairs prepping for bedtime, I picked up the cold uncovered iPhone and headed for the couch, praying that Hunch was way off.
You know Hunch, right? Everyone has a Hunch. He begins as a cute surprise gut feeling in childhood, who turns monster somewhere in life upon the realization that the world is shady. Well, He became particularly ruthless after I found out about my husband’s “inappropriate friend”. Ugh. I hate that guy, Hunch.
Bright blue, with beady eyes, a grin chucked full of tiny razor sharp teeth, defiantly making a mockery of any hopeful moods I experience these days. The only thing that monster does anymore is follow me around, plant seeds of doubt, terrorize my peace, and herald the presence of immorality. And the worst part? Most of the time he is right.
I sit down and begin with email. There are multiple work exchanges, mostly with men, and I remind myself to breathe. I can no longer hear what is going on upstairs, because of the deafening racket, my heartbeat, which was now thumping at maximum resting capacity.
There it is.
An email with a woman’s name that I have never met. Oh God. Scanning quickly, picking out only a few words, I caught the tail end of the email, a request made by my husband’s boss;
“Randy, please call Jane Doe and arrange with her the details.”
Hunch began to giggle as I hurriedly checked the recent call log to see how long he spoke with this woman on the phone. The problem? There was no record of him ever talking to her.
Not a trace.
I felt confused, for about a half a second, until Hunch reminded me how all the phone calls from The Other Woman were deleted, then I flooded with panic. What in the world!
Hunch went running and hiding as soon as he heard the beefy footsteps of my husband coming down the stairs, who was noticeably content, having accomplished tucking in all the children for bed…
That is, until he saw my face.
“Les, what’s the matter? Are you ok?”
Trying not to lose it, I ask, “Who is Jane Doe, and did you call her like your boss asked you to?”
His content stature morphed into fear, as he answered, “She is a coworker, and yes, I called her today and spoke with her.”
“Then why is that conversation not showing up on the phone log?” I raise my voice.
In great shame, he says, “Because I deleted it.”