Marriage Made Me Do It: An addictive dark comedy you will devour in one sitting. Ashley Fontainne

pick you. I mean, how could I? You waste so much of your time doing things you could pay another to do it’s ridiculous. We have nothing in common except DNA.”

      “Bitch. Actually, I’m busy plotting out some new directions for my life, thank you very much. Bye.”

      Ending the call before Rebecca had a chance to say a word, I decided to head upstairs and take a long, hot shower. I didn’t like the idea of taking over ownership of our childhood home for a variety of reasons, but at least I would make sure it was well taken care of.

      “Dammit, Rachel! You shouldn’t be dead. You should be here, minus Benny-Boo, living in the same neighborhood, chasing little replicas of yourself around the yard. Mom wanted you to live there, and now, you never will. Some stranger will be roaming around in our old rooms, defiling our memories!”

      I made it to the top of the stairs when the doorbell rang. Great! I’m still in my tattered robe with no makeup on. Rebecca must have already called the courier service before she contacted me, knowing they’d show up and I’d look like yesterday’s trash.

      Bitch!

      The doorbell chimed again, so instead of rushing to change clothes, I went back downstairs. The courier was probably close to jailbait age, so there was no need to primp and preen. The Davenport household didn’t need another sexual predator roaming the rooms.

      To my surprise, a courier with a cute helmet and sexy legs wasn’t standing on my stoop. Instead, I was greeted by a girl, maybe twenty, with long, blonde hair, entirely too much makeup, and a worried look on her face. Clutched in her left hand was a Manila folder.

      “May I help you?” I asked, assuming she was lost. She certainly wasn’t a Jehovah’s Witness. They didn’t wear designer jeans, makeup, fake fingernails, or high heels.

      “Uh, yes. I’m looking for Professor Davenport. Is he here?”

      “No, he’s at school.”

      An eerie sensation tickled the back of my mind. Though a rarity, a few students over the years dropped by unannounced, usually to beg for a better grade, chance to retake a test, or other such nonsense.

      The eeriness morphed into nausea when the girl’s hand rubbed her stomach.

      Her pregnant stomach.

      “Are you, oh, God. You aren’t the maid, are you?”

      Unable to form words, I shook my head. What a stupid question! How many maids worked in their robes? Answer—zero. The girl’s IQ probably hovered close to the size of her bra.

      It hit me then—she was just Carl’s type. I wouldn’t be surprised if her name was Dior since she looked like Coco’s older sister.

      Hmm, what is that sensation inside my chest and the weird, cracking noise filling my head? Was it possible I just experienced my heart breaking? If so, does that mean a part of me still loved the man who used to snuggle next to me years ago, stroking my hair, whispering his love? The other 50 per cent of Carol’s genetic pool, who enjoyed sneaking up behind me, cupping my breasts and cooing, “Oh, I wish I could be your bra for just one day.” The same man who looked genuinely sad less than one day ago as he professed he was worried about me?

      How about that? There was still a spark of love for Carl. Of course, the key word in that thought: Was.

      Oh! Another unfamiliar sound! Could it be? Why yes, yes it was—the snap of the last thin tendril holding my sanity in place.

      Something inside my mind broke loose at the realization my husband’s dick had played around inside the girl’s vaggie-shack. Though the chances to do so had been plenty, including one awkward, drunken encounter when Mr. Shock happened upon me sans clothes in the hot tub years ago, I’d never, not once, betrayed our vows. Oh, I sometimes fantasized about other men while my legs were up in the air, but I never acted upon them.

      Obviously, the whores onscreen weren’t enough for Carl and he sought out a real, live fuck-buddy. I was beyond livid yet calm at the same time, just like I recalled my mother acting when angry. The Rayburn clan never worried when she yelled—it was when her voice became a sugary-sweet mixture while her jaw was set tight that sent us all scattering.

      It was a terrifying combination—not for me, but for the pregnant hot pepper standing on my stoop.

      Tears burst from the girl’s wide, green eyes. “His wife, then? Carl’s married? I’m so sorry! He didn’t tell me—oh, shit. What am I going to do now?”

      “May I assume you’re holding paternity papers?” I asked, my voice sweeter than raw honey while I marveled at the fact Carl’s little swimmers still held some power. Stroke! Stroke!

      “Yes. The results just came back today. I flipped out at work, so my boss told me to leave. I, oh, forgive me. I shouldn’t be talking about this with you, Mrs. Davenport. And I am sorry. Again, I didn’t know Carl had a wife.”

      Pulling from reserves I wasn’t aware I possessed, I asked: “What’s your name?”