Then laughed bitterly.
“You rehearsed that?”
“No.”
“It’s just obvious.”
He put down his mug.
“You’re making this way bigger than it is.”
I nodded.
“Okay.”
That answer confused him.
“What does that mean?”
“It means I’m done trying to convince you.”
He stared.
Then I walked away.
That afternoon, David texted.
How are you?
I stared at the message.
Then replied.
Embarrassed.
Angry.
Tired.
He answered.
Understandable.
Then.
For what it’s worth, you have nothing to be embarrassed about.
I almost cried.
Then he sent another message.
And if you ever want the name of a good pelvic-floor specialist, I can recommend someone who isn’t me.
That made me smile.
Professional boundary.
No weirdness.
I replied.
Thank you.
He sent the contact information.
Dr. Rebecca Sloan.
I saved it.
Then forgot about it for several days.
Richard became colder.
Not apologetic.
Colder.
He complained that David had “turned everyone against him.”
He said Mark had canceled golf.
Jason stopped answering messages.
Colin sent a text saying Richard had gone too far.
Richard blamed me.
“You told them something.”
“No.”
“They’ve known me twenty years.”
“Then maybe they know you well enough to recognize bad behavior.”
He stared at me.
“You really enjoy this.”
“What?”
“Watching me lose friends.”
I laughed.
“Do you hear yourself?”
He walked away.
Three days later, I noticed something.
Richard had hidden the protective underwear.
The entire package was gone.
I searched the bathroom.
Laundry room.
Bedroom.
Trash.
Nothing.
I asked him.
“Where did you put them?”
He looked at me blankly.
“What?”
“You know what.”
“I threw them away.”
My stomach dropped.
“You what?”
“You said you were embarrassed.”
“So I got rid of them.”
I stared.
“That was not your decision.”
He shrugged.
“Buy more.”
I felt rage.
Not shame.
Rage.
“You do not get to touch my medical supplies.”
He laughed.
“Medical supplies?”
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