Andre Drummond

From Jeannette's book:

Another text comes through, this one from the guy I’m currently stringing along. Current Guy (Andre Drummond) and I “met” via Twitter. We arranged to meet up in person. I invited some friends so I wouldn’t get murdered. Once I knew he was safe to be around, we went to fancy dinners and laser tag and minigolf. We even went to Disneyland together to watch the reworks. (I splurged on a VIP guide so we wouldn’t stop any parades and piss off Goofy.)

That’s where I’m at right now with Current Guy. The distraction has been nice, but I’m ready for a replacement.

I whip out my phone to check the text from him.

What are you up too?

I’m no stickler on spelling but Jesus Christ get your “tos” right. That’s it. I’m ready to end things. I draft a text.

Hey—I’m really sorry but I just can’t do this right now. My mom’s gonna die and I really need some time to just be alone. I hope you can understand.

Send. Done. Simple as that. I look back up at my dying mother. A text pings.

Don’t say that, boo. Your mom’s not gonna die.

He ignores the rest of my message. I roll my eyes. I’ve told him twelve times that Mom’s dying of cancer but he acts like she has a sprained ankle. He has no concept of loss. I feel like the world is divided into two types of people: people who know loss and people who don’t. And whenever I encounter someone who doesn’t, I disregard them.

Mom takes a sharp breath in, then out. The hospice nurse locks eyes with Dad, gives a slight nod. Dad looks at us. Mom’s gone. We’re all numb. We don’t cry. We just sit. In silence. Finally, I pick up my phone. A hundred messages have poured in. Everyone’s heard. E! News broke the story. How the fuck they already know, I have no idea.

I go to my text tab, then click on the chain with Current Guy. I stare at his last text: Don’t say that, boo. Your mom’s not gonna die.

I text him back: She just did.