Consternation: (noun) feelings of anxiety or dismay, typically at something unexpected.

When I came to the end of the texts between him and the showgirl, I went back into the text log to look, because now, things made sense. I wonder. Let me see. Just let me look. My heart thumped in my chest and for the first time, I stopped crying. I was mad. And, as I had suspected and dreaded, there in his phone, I found several women that he was having ongoing sexual relationships with. “What?” I breathed out loud, as I tapped name after name of women, and saw their sexy, flirty secret relationships. I noticed that each woman got a “different” man; his personality was different with each of them, like he was playing a role with each one. I placed his phone on the floor, and covered my face, shaking my head, unable to comprehend what I was discovering. All this time. He’s been with all of these women … the whole time. How did I not KNOW? My brain scrambled over itself trying to remember anything that would be familiar … anything that would have been some kind of a sign. And as I read these texts and looked at these pictures, I nodded my head, over and over, as I began to string this all together. My God. I did know. … and he knew I was getting wise. That’s why he would always say, “Hun, if you’re going to accuse me of cheating, I’ll just go ahead and do it.” He would get mad and follow that with, “I’m fucking tired of you accusing me of things I’m not doing. I haven’t touched another woman since you. I haven’t been to bed with anyone, I haven’t had drinks with anyone, I haven’t done anything! Knock it the fuck off.” He used that verbiage as a back up in case he got caught: he could just say, “Hey. I told you if kept accusing me, why the hell not do it?”

I discovered a woman who lived in a beach town on Long Beach Island (or LBI as the locals call it) near his shore house. He texted, “Hey, I’m down the shore for a long weekend. Can you sneak off the island? … or are you married by now?” “Lol,” she answered, “Not married yet. Hold on, I’m just getting out of the shower.” “Mmm, thanks for the visual.” Wait a minute. Long Weekend … I pulled my own phone out of my pocket, opened to his texts, and scrolled down until I came to that date. I read the text he sent to me. “Hey hun,” he wrote, “Heading up to see my Mom for the weekend. There’s a lot of stuff that’s been neglected and of course, I’m the one who will have to do it. I’ll call when I get back. There’s no cell service up there.” He answered. I shook my head, my stomach twisted into a braid. I looked back at his phone in my hand and continued reading. “Can’t wait for more naked time, Baby,” He said. “All I want to do is spend a long night laying naked with you,” she replied. Another text was him, reaching out first, to her. “Can you sneak away? Come with me to A.C. How does steak and lobster sound?” “Hmm,” she answered, “Only dinner … ?” “Of course not. We’ll eat and then fuck all night.” “Mmmm, if you insist.” She said. My heart wilted. This hurts. He chased her down. Scrolling back through their conversations, I saw the dates fade further and further back, and from what I was reading, I discovered this woman was engaged, with him teasing, “I’ll fuck you as long as I can till you’re a married woman.” I rolled my eyes at that. Pretty sure a wedding wouldn’t stop this broad. Whore. Her texts said things like, “I can’t wait to see you!” and “Every time I see a red dump truck, I look to see if your name’s on it.” and “Can’t wait to see you, Sexy.” Well, this explained why he rarely took me LBI, (which is the attraction of the area besides Atlantic City) unless we went late at night, to an all night wing place. She lived there and the odds of bumping into her there were probably low. However, the bar and grill she mentioned as a meeting place in a few texts, was never an option for us, even though his entire family had frequented this landmark for years. Now I get it. The women he wanted got the romantic “him”. But not me. No . His “ladies”, as I would come to find out, got special places. I, though, got midnight wings and convenient store food when I came into town. I guess he just never thought he needed to impress me. I was his “poor” girlfriend who was happy with anything. That’s your own fault. This is the same place he took the showgirl to.  LBI is where that resort was, with all the selfies. My God. Now I wondered if this was where he took all of “his women” … me, of course, excluded. He never took me there outside of late night hours, under the veil of darkness, and now I wondered if he always insisted on driving my car instead of his, so nobody would recognize him.  I stopped reading the texts long enough to wonder why he kept me hidden.  You’re nobody, Shannon. You’re just his steady fuck, you idiot. You’re not a size zero showgirl that men pay to watch in an exclusive hotel in Atlantic City. You’re not headlining anything. You don’t give him bragging rights. That’s why.

I shook my head and scrolled further, uncovering a woman who lived in my town. He texted her said, “Breakfast?” She answered, “I’m doing an internship, I can’t. I’m a busy bee!” He replied, “So you no longer eat breakfast?” She said, “Well, I guess I can meet you for a bit.” He said, “Great. And then naked time at your place?” “Ha ha ha. I said I have a LITTLE time!” He responds, “You know, every time I hear ‘that song’, I will always think of you. It remains a favorite memory.” I took a jagged breath and forcefully exhaled, again, shaking my head. I noticed the time of this conversation; it was a little after 6 am. and per the date, I actually remembered this day. It was October and he had spent almost a week at my place, with me. He was in my bed, and we had just fooled around before I got up for work, as we always did. I left the room for my shower and when I came back, he was texting, laying against the pillows, the blue screen light glowing against his face. “Who are you texting this early?” I asked. “My cousin. You know how he gets up at the crack of dawn.” Liar. Continuing scrolling through, I found that they would meet for breakfast at the little diner in town, one of my favorite places. I hurt as I wondered which booth they would use. And now, something else made sense: when that restaurant very recently closed and relocated, he knew. He knew it was closed; that means he was still seeing her. Or at least chasing. He asked me one morning, “Hey, that place I usually go closed. Where else can I grab breakfast around here?” “It’s closed?” I asked. “When? How do you know that? You don’t live here,” “Oh, me and my cousin went there and they’d moved.” That explained his mentioning of breakfast across the street, at a little French place, in the days after. They probably started going there, instead. They were close enough to go on trips together, as I discovered when I saw topless pictures of her, in her panties, packing a suitcase. According to the date, I remembered this time, too, because that day at my school, a special needs student pushed me down and I hit my head on the floor, giving me a slight concussion and I had to visit the ER. After I left the hospital, we met up and went to the mall to buy a suitcase and new underwear for him, because he was going skiing with his brothers. After picking out a very nice suitcase, I asked why he needs such beautiful luggage for a ski trip an hour and a half away, by car, with his brothers. He said it was a nice lodge and “you can never be overdressed, and that includes a suitcase.” And then he took forever choosing his underwear in Macy’s that night, deciding on very expensive silk boxer briefs, so I asked why he was making such a big deal over underwear for a skiing trip with his brothers. He said, “Hahaha … hun? Have you ever been skiing?” ” … no,” I answered. “Well, you need the softest, lightest underwear possible because you’ll chaff. It’s terrible. It ruins the whole experience.” We left the mall, went for dinner and left because it was taking too long for service … he was in an unusual hurry, and he dropped me off at home afterward. “You’re not staying the night?” I asked him. “Nooo … I have to get an early start. We’re all meeting at my place and driving up together.” Nooooo, as I just discovered in these texts, You weren’t going home, you were driving to her house. Rubbing my hands over my face, I remembered that very recently, he really DID go skiing with his brothers, needing to actually buy ski gear, and he said, “I cannot wait. I haven’t been skiing in … oh my God .. I don’t know how many years. It’s been forever, though.” I looked at him. He looked back. “What.” He said. I answered, “You went skiing last year.” “No I didn’t.” “Yes you did … with your brothers.” “Hun, I think I would remember going to the mountain. It’s been years,” and he tilted his head, looking at me. “No, remember we went to the mall that night to buy you a suitcase and underwear? And then we left that restaurant because you were in a hurry… remember?” He blankly stared at me, and now I knew he realized he messed up and didn’t remember his lie. So he said, “Ohhh … yeah. That’s right. Well, we WENT but we didn’t ski. I got sick and ended up not skiing. Remember I called you from the lodge?” “No.” I said. And the red flags flapped in the wind. Looking at this picture of the bare breasted topless woman in her purple satin panties, that he had taken from her living room balcony, I saw she had a blue streak in her black hair. I squeezed my eyes shut. My God. I know who this is. I knew “who she was” because he would often talk about a woman “he used to date” in my town, and she had a blue streak in her hair, and it “bothered him” because a “grown woman shouldn’t go around looking like that.” He said if we ever ran into her, not to get upset, because it was “a long time ago.” No, he told me about her because he was currently screwing her, and that’s why he talked about her so much.  Now I also understood why he never took me to the upscale bar and grill in town, where people would go, from all over. … he was afraid he’d bump into her. He went often with his cousin, all dressed, shaved, cologne … and would sleep at my house after, but never ever invited me to come, too. It was always “a business meeting” he was going for. He didn’t want to be seen with me. Just like the LBI, he was ashamed of you. He didn’t want to be seen with you. You are poor. He tried to polish you, but you’re nothing but tarnished brass. Poor man’s gold. These women are not. That’s why he was so romantic and impressive with them, and you got the blue collar guy … they are worth impressing. You’re not. He never cared what you thought of him because he doesn’t care if you leave. You are disposable.

Further scrolling revealed another woman he was chasing. She was the younger daughter of an older couple he had been friends with for years. She was about 10 years younger than him, and he was more than smitten with her. During one of our first few casual dates, (at an unopened restaurant he was designing … I went to watch him work one night) he mentioned her to me, saying how “gorgeous” she was, and had “that face” when he said her name. He clearly had a thing for her, but I didn’t care because I wasn’t too crazy about him and wasn’t sure I’d keep seeing him. I asked if he’d slept with her. “Nah. I could’ve. She wanted me, but I can’t bang my friend’s daughter.” But his texts told a different story. He was flirty and “shy” in an “awe shucks” sort of way. One recent conversation got a little off color, him mentioning a Viagra commercial (obviously to bring in sex) and she responded that there aren’t any commercials for women, and she mentioned her “clit”. I raised my eyebrows at the crassness of that. Jeez. He responded, “Wow. Your talking about your clit. Ok … I’m actually blushing.” I rolled my disgusted eyes and shook my head. You’re “blushing”? BLUSHING? You?? Please. Then I saw political texts where he tried to impress her, and repeatedly tried to get her to meet him “for a drink” or for dinner, with one text saying, “Friday night. No curfew. ;)” with a winking face emoji. (In other words, “I want to fuck you without a time constraint”)  The winking emoji was very sophomoric of him and surprised me.  Wow.  You’re really reaching for this one.  Then he started gushing to her about the Showgirl, asking to meet up because he needed “a woman to talk to” because his head was “all over the place”. Yeah. Tell me about it. Any excuse to meet up with this girl.

One night in my bed, he brought this girl up again, talking about how great she was, how he worked on her enormous house … then he shows me screenshots of her pictures from Facebook. I sat up, smoothing the blankets over my lap and I asked why he had her pictures on his phone. He said, “Ok, Hun? I’m FUCKING allowed to have friends. Ok? I’ve known her FOREVER and now, great. Thanks a lot. Now I can’t even have friends because you’re jealous.” ” … yeah. Well,” I answered, “I don’t have screenshots of my guy friends. You wouldn’t allow that.” He sat up, posturing, and said, “If you’re trying to piss me off … if you’re trying to get rid of me, you’re doing it right. I will NOT tolerate this shit.” And like a dog being swatted on the nose with a rolled up newspaper, I stood down with my ears back, scared of “pushing him out” of my life, “causing him to cheat”.

Still scrolling through the text log, I found a much older woman who was a professional photographer. I furrowed my eyebrows and squinted as I looked at these texts in surprise.  In one of the texts, I found one of my favorite photos of him, that he had once sent to me … but I just discovered that photo came from her. It was a black and white shot, his arms crossed as he gazed out the window at the yachts below. When I got this picture, I noticed his middle finger had a bruise on his fingernail … the bruise he had at the time he sent me that picture. I texted him, “When was this taken?” He responded, “A couple years ago. Thought you’d like a picture of me.” “But,” I replied, “Your middle finger nail is bruised, and you have that bruise now. Are you in Atlantic City with a woman? You’re obviously in a hotel room in this shot.” (Because it was during another mysterious disappearance while he was “working”) “Nooooo,” he wrote back, “That bruise is actually a birthmark that comes and goes. And a woman didn’t take this, my cousin did. And I’m not in A.C. I’m with my brother at his house in PA. I told you we’re doing his kitchen.” Shaking my head at the memory and the truth revealed, I looked at their texts. I was alarmed at how much older she was, to be honest, and the texts back and forth revealed she was thrilled at having a younger man and he was eating it up. My mouth dropped when I scrolled through the pictures. This woman did not fit the image of the women he chased. But he bragged to his friends about her, saying what a sexy dress she had on and how they “fucked all night”. I noticed he never ever bragged about me. And believe me: in bed, we were absolutely second to none. That’s why he keeps you, Stupid. I shook my head at this newest revelation. Good enough to fuck, not good enough to brag about.

As I sat on the bathroom floor, shaking from nerves alone, I opened his photo gallery. There were screenshots of women, downloads of women’s pictures sent to him, pictures of women he had taken with is own phone … and as I quickly scrolled and scrolled through his gallery, I took a deep breath to slow myself down, because … wait a minute. This can’t be. Of everything I had discovered this night, this is what made me cry again and fresh hot tears spilled down my face. The betrayal and hurt flooded my chest in a torrent. This was when the reality of my place in his life hit me: There was not one single picture of me. Not one. For 3 years, I had sent him pictures of me, selfies of us, sexy shots of myself, intimates I took for him, beautiful pictures … and he had deleted them all. Every single one. Outside of our text log, there was no evidence of Shannon in his life. The others thrived and smiled back from the screen; the worthless whores, the topless and naked women with time stamps going back 2 years had special places in his phone, but I had been removed. He kept all of them, but deleted all of mine. Every single one. If it was to save the feelings of the showgirl, should she ever look at his phone, he would have deleted all of the women. He just erased me. This hurt in a way I cannot find words for.

I looked again at the many pictures of the showgirl. The other women were somehow unimportant. I didn’t care about them. But this woman … The selfies together, the texts spilling out “I love you, Baby” and “I can feel you right now.” She had stolen his heart. He had chosen her. He chased her until she allowed him to catch her. I saw the game between the two … I saw the catch and release she was controlling in their texts and she finally let him catch her.  Obviously, she was using him.  Really, really using him and he was so stupid in love that he didn’t see it.  That was the take away surprise for me.  This self proclaimed “Alpha” was being led around by the nose, being used, and killing himself to impress her financially.  Too bad you can’t just take her for wings at midnight. No, not this one.  The other women were playthings for him, but his woman … he loved her and he threw me away for her. He sacrificed me in exchange for her attention and flattery and glamour. Instead of being honest that he had met someone else, as I asked him over and over, he told me he couldn’t stay with me because “my life was too much” for him, citing my income as a chief reason. I wanted to die over that break up, over the humiliation of “not earning enough money”, of “not having a career that was profitable enough” … of having a “complicated life” that I had before he came along … sobbing myself to sleep for weeks on end, losing 38 pounds in the process, grieving myself half to death and missing him so bad I could barely function. … and all this time, it was a lie, so he could ride off into the sunset with a showgirl. It had nothing to do with my income or my life, it had everything to do with catching and keeping the shimmering, shining girl from Atlantic City. He left me sobbing in my bed, begging him to stay, so he could run to her, having no compassion for my unspeakable grief and confusion. If he had been honest, it would have hurt, but it would have afforded me closure. Instead, he let me suffer with self blame and crushing lonliness. Suffer is the only word.

No longer sad, no longer crying, I felt the heat of anger and betrayal cloaking me. I rose to my feet, scooping his phone off of the floor as I stood up. I opened his bathroom door, walked into his bedroom and slid my clothes on, heart slamming against my ribs. I opened the bedroom door, walked down the steps, through the kitchen and into the living room where he still lay sleeping on the couch. I stood there, looking at him, no longer recognizing this man. I picked up my car keys from the coffee table and loudly jingled them with 3 heavy shakes. “Wake up.” I said in a flat tone, breathing heavily through my nose. He jerked a little and opened his eyes. “Baby … why are you dressed? … Are you leaving?” “Yes, I’m leaving. ” I said. “Why? What’s going on?” He asked, looking at the clock. Very calmly and evenly, I spoke the showgirl’s name. He stared back, silent, suddenly wide awake. I held up his phone. “She said she misses you.”

To be continued …