He's got it coming: Love is the best revenge Read online

  Sounds like a great idea, but I would like to know more about you first.

  I send it, and after a few minutes, he responds.

  Turning 35 in 10 days, am from Værøy outside of Bodø, live at Sagene, like food/wine/beer more than most, like psychology, a little nearsighted, like to wear myself out and then rest, travel as much as I can, good music gives me goosebumps, blue eyes, Aperol Spritz, like learning new things, teach others, play squash, like good coffee, good ham, new cultures, mastering new skills, adrenaline, making love, the sound of the ocean, devotion, a clear starry sky, mountains, relaxed people, Bodø, your happy face, think I can love skiing with you and look forward to beating you in a race. Mhmm. Now you know me, let’s meet.

  Shit, he’s intense.

  Cecilia points to how he’s moved on to texting with Katelyn while we’ve been reading his message. “He could be falling in love with her while you stall.”

  “He’s dated her for months, and if he were falling in love, he wouldn’t be texting me, asking to meet. Besides, he’s used to women waiting for him. Look at this poor ex.”

  I show her the text messages from Henrik’s last long-term girlfriend Helle, whom he dumped three years ago. They were a couple for six years before that. Her nickname was Yoga.

  Cecilia reads the texts between them and gasps. “She was thirty-seven years old when he dumped her? The poor woman. Why on earth did she hold on for so long?” She looks at the wall, and we both add up the facts.

  “He cheated on her throughout their entire relationship. All she wanted was a happy life with children, and now she might never have that.” I force back tears as I imagine the child I so longed to have with Isac.

  I scroll to Henrik and Yoga’s last messages from only two weeks ago where she writes:

  I loved waking up next to you. I’ve missed that.

  Henrik doesn’t respond until an hour later.

  Your naked body is welcome to wake up with me any time ;)

  Cecilia puffs out air like a bull. “I need a break. Where’s the bathroom?”

  I point to the right. She leaves the office and shuts the door to the bathroom, twisting the lock.

  How can anyone do this to another human being?

  I close my eyes, suppressing the urge to reveal Henrik’s true nature to his ex. He’s ruining her life either way. He’s the one who deserves a broken heart, not Helle.

  When Cecilia returns a few minutes later, she’s more determined than ever. “Why don’t you ask to meet? He works as a project planner for plumbing equipment for large contractors. Ask if he’s happy with that, or ask more about his interests. But then again, I did that, and it didn’t work well.”

  You and every other woman he’s texting.

  I read messages from the other women. “They send insanely flirty messages, oozing with sex, temptation, and convenience.”

  Cecilia nods. “If any of them so much as hints at him dating other women or cheating, he lies, changes the subject or doesn’t respond. And he’ll never ask questions that he doesn’t want answered.”

  Just like Cecilia hasn’t asked me about why my apartment was cold and empty.

  As if she hears my thoughts, she turns her back to me again, facing the wall.

  Because you don’t want to know the answer…

  As a grief counselor, if she had picked up on my suicide plans, she would have asked. I divert my attention back to the text messages between Henrik and his lovers. After a few minutes, I conclude, “He likes psychology. Let’s stand out from this hot and sexy crowd he’s clearly tired of.” My gaze falls to the floor where Cecilia’s white socks with pink lipsticks on them light up like a neon sign flashing. “Your socks.” Isac only had black socks in his closet. “Why did you buy them?”

  She holds each foot out to me in turn, toes pointed. “Aren’t they cute? They made me happy, so I had to have them, why?”

  “It does say a lot about your personality.”

  “My socks?”

  “Sure.” I glare at my own ragged black wool socks, a symbol of the life I’ve renounced to seek revenge. “Let’s ask him.”

  “You can’t ask him about socks!”

  I ignore her and type.

  What color socks do you own?

  Within ten seconds, a picture of Henrik’s sock drawer appears in our chat. Some are black and others are either striped or in solid shades of blue, turquoise, and yellow, with one purple pair in particular standing out. They’re too worn to be fashion statements, yet not worn enough to signal a person who doesn’t care.

  “Um…I never noticed what color his socks were.” Cecilia studies the picture. “Why do we care about his socks?”

  “I see people through their choices. A man who only has black socks will be different than one who has different colors.”

  “Why?”

  “Let’s find out.”

  Why do you have different color socks?

  He responds immediately.

  The purple and turquoise were Christmas presents, black I use for work, and the rest made me happy, and I wanted to mix things up. Are you using sock therapy to get to know me?

  Sock therapy. Trying to be funny?

  Of course. I don’t go on dates with strangers ;)

  Let’s see you wiggle yourself into getting a date from that.

  But instead he just asks:

  Free tomorrow evening?

  Shit. No. I need more time.

  I’d like to be free, but I need a little more insight first ;) How do you stack your dishwasher?

  Cecilia laughs. “Are you insane? He asked you to meet him tomorrow. And you ask him about his dishwasher?” She appears to contemplate this before saying, “Yes, he has one. But stop toying with him.”

  He’s typing his response while she speaks.

  Plates in the bottom, glasses in the top and cutlery with the handles down and ends up. I’m bad at rinsing before placing it all in though. You can make time to meet me. I only need an hour.

  His phone activity shows he’s not texting anyone else and clearly awaiting my response. “He’s interested.” I include Cecilia again. “See here?” I point to the screen. “When we started talking, he was sexting with Thea. Since my question about socks, he hasn’t responded to her texts.”

  “But you’re not responding now either,” she says.

  “Exactly. Henrik’s waiting for me.”

  Cecilia grins. “He’s answering faster to your questions about dishwasher systems than he is to her sex questions. You’re right. He’s never responded like this to me. We’re on to something here.”

  I continue texting.

  Question: Why are you on Tinder?

  He responds:

  Aren’t we all just looking for someone to love?

  No, we’re looking for someone to destroy.

  Maybe.

  Cecilia laughs when his reply appears.

  You’re intriguing.

  You have no idea.

  I glance at the wall.

  What am I getting myself into?

  I force myself to type the following message, focusing on having to meet him to make him fall in love with me.

  Okay...I can meet for an hour. Are you free at about eight thirty?

  It’s as if I can feel him grinning, satisfied, at the other end of the text when his answer pops up on my screen.

  That wasn’t so hard. Eight thirty works for me.

  It hits me what I’m about to do, and my chest restricts. I take a deep breath and work on keeping the tears threatening to fill my eyes under control. When I don’t type anything else, three dots show up, indicating Henrik writing me again. Then they vanish before reappearing a few seconds later, followed by a new message from Henrik.

  I have sick expectations for you.

  Crap.

  Cecilia looks at me before she laughs. “Don’t look so deflated. This is good.”

  “It feels dreadful knowing he’s got some sort of expectation for me. Disgustin
g, really.” I type my response and hit send.

  Don’t. You’ll be disappointed. I’m quite boring.

  Henrik responds:

  You boring? I think not. I might even kiss you tomorrow to prove it.

  Cecilia points to the ‘Kiss’ Post-it. “At this rate, it’ll be easy.” Her attention shifts back to the screen while I turn away to dry my eyes. She sounded like she said it to comfort me, but nothing about this will be easy.

  If he tries to kiss me, I might punch him.

  He’s responding to Thea’s sexts again.

  “Oh, no! He’s already moved on.” Cecilia points to three dots signaling that he’s typing a response.

  I laugh. “That’s not love. That’s lust, and Henrik did take a break from her sexting to talk about dishwasher systems.”

  His response to Thea appears.

  Hey sexy. I have to go for a run. Send me a pic to dream about as I sweat.

  A naked woman appears on the screen, and Cecilia instinctively shuts it off. “Enough of that. I’m never sending a nude photo again.”

  8

  Tuesday morning at seven thirty, rain is hammering my window when the garbage truck collecting paper wakes me. I bury my head in my pillow. As the truck drives off, massive raindrops lull me back to sleep. When I wake again, my phone shows eight minutes past noon, and although the rain has subsided, a thick fog floats along the street outside.

  Yesterday, I texted my boss and my team that I wouldn’t be in, but today I haven’t reached out. I should have been there four hours ago. I call my boss. “I need to take time off.”

  He lets out a confirming hum through the line. “It’s about time you took care of yourself. We talked about you during our lunch break. The team commented that you’ve seemed like a ghost at work these past three weeks.”

  I like my boss. He knows nothing about coding or hacking but as a leader ensures that my team is happy and able to keep the bank safe from any hackers wanting to attack us. “You don’t have to worry. I’ll be back before you know it.”

  “No. I don’t want you to feel like you have to be the good girl who’s acting out of guilt—putting work before your health.”

  The way he says ‘good girl’ makes me feel like I’m six years old. “A month tops.”

  “Nonsense. You lost your husband, and we’ve seen you struggle for a long time, no matter how well you think you hide it. Take the time you need. Who do you recommend to step up as manager in your place while you’re gone?”

  I want to argue with him, but although it’s hard to admit, both to him and myself, that I won’t be back to normal anytime soon, I leave it be. After two weeks, the government covers the costs for my sick leave, and the company won’t suffer anyways. “Leif and Silje. They complement each other.”

  “Let your doctor know. Have him recommend a psychologist, therapist, or coach for you to talk to, and he’ll put you on sick leave.” He pauses. “I can’t lose you, and if it means you taking care of yourself for two months, six months, or even a year, I don’t care. Your health comes first.”

  “There’s no way I’ll be gone for a year,” I say, not knowing why I’m arguing. A few days ago, I wasn’t coming back, ever.

  “You’ll be thirty soon, so normally it would be time off for…” He stops talking as if sensing my heart sink through the phone. He was about to say that it would be as if I were taking maternity leave. I’d be gone for six months to a year then anyways, and he knows how much I wanted a family before Isac passed away. “I’m sorry.” He clears his throat. “I didn’t think. I’m glad to hear that you’re finally taking time to grieve. If we need a temp to fill your position, I’ll contact you for input.”

  “Thank you. Say hi to the team.” I hang up, staring at the phone, grateful for living in a country that cares about people’s personal struggles. Then I send a message to my doctor saying that I’m depressed. It took me ages to find a doctor I trust. I’m glad he’s not disappointing me now. He immediately emails me the confirmation along with recommendations for a psychologist, which I forward to my boss.

  He answers with two thumbs up and a short message. “Take advantage of the help offered. It’s free, and you need it.”

  I reread the doctor’s email and the psychologist’s phone number, then delete both.

  Talking to a psychologist is the last thing I want.

  I re-install the second monitor in my home office to help speed things up. Working on only one is like missing an arm. Just as I finish, a text from Henrik pops up.

  What’s your favorite place in town?

  Do I tell him I’ve lived in Oslo my entire life, or let him show me the city? I don’t want him taking me anywhere Isac and I have been.

  From what I can tell of Henrik’s credit card transactions, he’s more low-key than Isac was. It’ll be easier for me to let him take the lead and show me places while believing that I don’t know the city. Although I’ve always lived here, I’ve spent most of my childhood in front of a computer in my parents’ apartment. Isac and I kept to familiar spots. If any tourists were to ever ask me what I’d recommend, I wouldn’t be much help.

  Not sure. I don’t know the city that well.

  Henrik replies:

  I like that you have a lot to discover. Which “attractions” have you seen?

  All of them. But let’s give you something to work with.

  Vigeland’s Park, Holmenkollen ski jump, the fortress, Tjuvholmen if that counts as an attraction. I went to a show at the opera house six months ago in February.

  My boss took our team. I’ll never forget his worried expression as he told me to take better care of myself. “You seem disturbed,” he said. Which I was. I forget the name of the opera, but I cried through the entire show.

  I expect Henrik to suggest a museum since I didn’t mention that. But his reply indicates he has other plans in mind.

  Too bad it’s foggy, would be happy to show you something beautiful. Are you open to putting the evening in my hands?

  Spontaneous, adventurous, and positive is what you ask for in your Tinder profile. Which means game for anything.

  You’re starting our first date with a test, and I don’t like it one bit. But let’s make you aware that I’m evaluating you just as much as you might be judging me.

  Sure :) Then I get a little more insight into how you think.

  As if I don’t have enough insight already. According to our research, he’ll ask me for my favorite snacks soon. This is Henrik’s standard approach before every first date: Ask women what they like, then bring it on the first date as a surprise. When his next message pops up, I roll my eyes.

  Quiz: What is your favorite snack? Soft drinks or juice? Favorite chocolate?

  Fine. I’ll play along.

  Favorite snack: macadamia nuts if I want to be healthy, chocolate covered peanuts if I don’t care. Homemade juice. You?

  Two can play this game, and if you’re bringing my favorite snack, I’ll bring yours too.

  Henrik answers:

  Licorice. Nero. Juice. Don’t drink soda. I like nuts ;)

  You are nuts, and so am I for doing this.

  In that regard, my next response is true.

  It’s a perfect match.

  A few minutes pass where he seems to be off his phone. Then he answers me.

  I have a feeling you’re hard to get ;)~

  I want to write that he’s an idiot for thinking so, that he’s just too used to women being polite. Which, according to our research, seems to be their downfall in love. Instead, I try to put a positive twist on my response.

  Of course. Anything worth having is ;)

  He’s not even flirting. He’s doing research.

  A message from his friend Simen pops up on Henrik’s screen.

  Free tonight?

  Henrik’s quick to respond.

  Date with Miss Skis.

  Miss Skis is my nickname? Oh well, it’s better than Milf or Oil.

  Simen writes b
ack, reminding me of Henrik’s usual restaurant to bring dates.

  Let’s hope the waiter at Markveien Food and Winehouse doesn’t expose you…

  That would cost them.

  Henrik’s clearly thinking the same in his response.

  That would be bad for business. Not taking her there. We’ll climb the ski jump in Holmenkollen. (The actual jump, not the stairs)