#mommasaurus

ALEX

I get into work late (only a little hung-over surprisingly) and scan a cryptic email from Chris. Something involving Bridget, bcc’d to me. I delete it. I don’t have time for her BS. The conference call with Suzette’s Deli starts any minute. The same old conversation plays in my head. Yes, I slept with her. No, I don’t have a thing for older women. Yes, she’s seventeen years older than me. No, my mother never knew about us. On, and on, and on. We broke it off over eight years ago, for crying out loud. (People talk about whores in advertising … oh, if they only knew how some of us got our start.)

I lift my laptop out of the docking station, take it across the hall into the meeting room. I spend the next hour arguing with their in-house creative team. They want something cool for the launch of their new “spicy” chicken wrap (but not too edgy or ethnic). They don’t care that every outlet mall in Middle America has a Thai place in their food-court; they want to call their sauce, which might have been prepared near a single jalapeño pepper, sweet and bold.

The call finally ends. I’m dying to vent to my buddy Rich. He was their account executive before moving into digital production. I head to his cubicle; no sign of him. Nor any other staff. Weird. I check through the glass partition. The blinds are up. No one in the studio. The door to their conference room is closed. The voices inside are somber and low. I lean against Richard’s desk, check through the most recent messages on my phone. There are several.

One is a company-wide memo from HR. Those are never good. A two-liner … asking for witnesses. A chill spreads down my spine. Bridget was attacked last night coming out of the awards ceremony. Severe head injuries, yet to regain consciousness. I slump into the nearest chair. I lean my head down on the desk, nauseated. This is my fault. I should have walked Bridget to her car. I had assumed she just wanted to get me alone. She’d joked about neither of us being married (I should never have asked her for advice about Marissa). I reminded her that I was still engaged, left her at the inner door (I think!), met up with Jackson (who lives two floors down from me) in the lobby to catch a cab.

Christine.

Gavin had mentioned she suspected Bridget of uploading that video and … I deleted Chris’s message without reading it. Without checking the time it was sent. I can’t remember how long Bridget and I loitered outside of the exit. The entire evening is a blur. I have a vague recollection of stumbling down a concrete step. The smell of exhaust fumes. The patter of rain outside. I wasn’t paying attention to see if Christine was watching. I should have known better.

I head downstairs for a coffee break. My mother appears beside me, gives me an icy stare. “I assume you heard about Bridget being in the hospital.”

“I’ll see if I can squeeze in a visit later,” I say, about to press past her. I don’t need a coffee that bad.

She grips my arm. “If your ex had anything to do with this, so help me God.”

A familiar sickness rises in my chest. “Did Bridget see her last night?”

“I’ve spoken to two people so far, both of whom spotted her in the lobby near the front desk.”

“Mom, I have nothing to do with Chris anymore. She knows I’m engaged to Marissa and—”

“How are wedding plans going, by the way. I’ve been waiting for her to email or call me.”

I’m sure you have. “I’ll remind her when I see her tonight.” Only if she brings up the subject.

“You don’t sound terribly enthused.” She stares boldly at me. Suddenly I’m a preschooler again, caught in my first lie. She knows me better than I like. “Call me. I’m always willing to help.”

“Do you mean that?”

“I think you’ve made a marginally better choice than the one you were originally considering.” I can’t disagree. Marissa has gone off the deep end lately. Truth be told, her carrying my child is all that is stopping me from leaving her. Is it the hormones? She looks less pregnant now than when she first broke the news to me. That was weeks ago.