When the Shooting Stops

The first session, she seemed oddly hostile to me. Even Traci saw it. Not in an outright nasty way, but siding against me on almost everything. In the second one, she started highlighting where I could have caused Traci to stray while diminishing what she had done. Neither of us was very happy with her doing that, to the point where Traci fought for me in protest.

The night after that session, I decided to go looking for the good counselor's personal Facebook page. You may have already guessed where this is going: it turned out she was Team Chad all the way and wanted to inject herself into her favorite soap opera. Unprofessional? Unethical? Immoral, even? Of course. But so what? We weren't real people, right? We were her just characters in her favorite drama.

We kind of gave up on finding outside help after that.

Traci soon found her graphic design business inundated with new inquiries. Most came from creeps, but a fair few turned legitimate. Internet fame might be a double-edged sword, but it can certainly be lucrative if you survive it. Within a few weeks, she'd hired a virtual assistant to parse through them all. So yeah, the internet thought my wife was a slut, and she had to deal with more than one stalker, but she fucking made bank off her infamy.

Me? Not so much.

My return to work sucked. One or more of my co-workers had plastered my cubicle with the various memes. No one fessed up to it, and my manager helped tear them down, but he also had a small smirk on his face the whole time. New ones cropped up daily, and sometimes more often than that. If I left for lunch? Memes. Needed to get my car serviced? More memes. Sick day? Oh, you better believe there were memes.

I knew it wasn't the dev staff doing it, or at least not my direct co-workers. Hell, some of them took pictures of the sales, management, admin, and other folks posting the memes in my cube. Didn't matter. I tried going to HR, claiming a hostile work environment, but I found no help there. That didn't surprise me; hell, one of the HR staff had been photographed doing it!

We lived in a work-for-hire state, and I worked at a shitty company. Without an attorney, I'd have no chance of making them change their ways, and with one, I'd get fired for some sort of bullshit reason unrelated to the hostile work environment. I might eventually get some money back, but that wouldn't help in the short run.

Every day I came home more and more dour. Traci tried to help, attempting to console me with words, shows of affection, and physical intimacy. Unfortunately, after seeing her face plastered all over my desk each day with mocking comments printed on them, I couldn't help but feel less than warm towards her. It didn't help that her nightmares got worse over time; yes, they were awful for her, and I tried to be a loving and supportive husband, but that meant less sleep for me, which made everything less bearable.

The larger internet--outside of the Team Chad and Team Bill shippers--stopped caring so much within a few weeks, but our memes persisted. Yeah, they became divorced from their original context somewhat as time went on, but my wife was still the literal poster child for blatantly cheating wives, and I was the same for oblivious cuckolded husbands.

I hated my job more than ever, but looking for a new one led to dead end after dead end. On the occasions where I made it to the interview process, about half the time they just wanted to get a photo op with Chuck the Cuck; for the other half, they immediately ended the process when they realized who I was. Everyone in the tech spaces knew the kinds of shit that might happen if they hired me; hell, most of us had engaged in that kind of trolling stupidity when we were younger.

Our relationship slowly deteriorated before my eyes. My position had swapped with my wife's as I became the isolated one, with few friends and no outlets. She had more business than she could handle, and that alleviated the loneliness that plagued her previously but also pushed us further apart. Even without the two events that hastened the doom of our marriage, I don't know how we would have managed to stay together.

The first, I probably could have seen coming. No, I know I could have. A group of kids from a nearby high school learned that Chuck the Cuck worked in a local office, and they found it inordinately funny to harass me on my way into and out of the building. Whatever. They were kids; I'd been bullied by worse back when I was their age. I figured eventually they'd get bored.

For two or three weeks, I simply ignored their taunts as I walked from my car to the building. I knew they were filming; I'd seen the videos on TikTok at one point. They weren't doing this just for fun, but for views. Again, whatever. Just dumb kids doing dumb kid shit.

One day, however, they hurled something besides insults: rocks. I turned on them, charging and bellowing in rage as I bled from a gash on my cheek. They ran off, I cleaned the cut up and put a band-aid on it, and I hoped that would be that. I considered calling the cops, but the dev team had gone into crunch, and I was too busy to bother.

By lunchtime, I became a trending topic on Twitter. "CHUCK THE CUCK ATTACKS CHILDREN." By three in the afternoon, I found myself sitting in an office with my boss, his boss, and a rep from HR.

To make a long story short, they fired me. They told me we lived in a right-to-work state; I told them I'd sue for creating a hostile work environment. We went back and forth for a bit. Voices were raised, and threats were made. Ultimately, after a bunch of hushed whispering on their side of the table, they offered me three months' severance, all of my vacation and sick pay, a glowing letter of recommendation, and eligibility for unemployment if I'd sign an NDA. I talked to my lawyer, and he told me to sign the deal and get on with my life.

Getting on with my life would have been nice. It's not what happened, but it would have been nice.

A new wave of mockery and anger descended on me from basically every conceivable corner. Thankfully, internet outrage burns out fast, and within a few days they found someone else to hold up as the new face of... whatever the hell it was they thought made me the bad guy, but it was yet another source of irritation for me when I really did not need it.

The local job market sure as hell didn't get better once I'd switched from "internet buffoon" to "rabid lunatic." Yeah, the full video did eventually come out, but the police were unwilling to press charges. "Just kids being kids!" Fucking useless assholes.

You might think that being at home with Traci would give us a chance to reconnect. You would be wrong. The distance that existed between us only grew once I was underfoot. She didn't use that term explicitly, but her feelings on the subject were clear.

The two of us cooped up in the apartment together had been fun and sexy before; now it was a distraction to her as she tried to stay on top of her business. Worse, really; I spent my time in a perpetual foul mood, unable to find work and bored as hell. Traci tried to be sympathetic, but as a freelancer, she had to strike while the iron was hot. Never mind that she'd heated that iron by nearly burning down our marriage.

Things devolved from there. I grew increasingly resentful of her. Not so much of her success, but of the fact that it came at my expense. She became less and less sympathetic as I went further into my depressive spiral. I started keeping odd hours to avoid her; she began to deride my "sulking." Weeks of fraying tempers and cross words set the stage for the final act. And my God, was it a doozy.

The night we reached the point of no return, Traci and I were sitting on our couch about as far away from each other as we could get. She and I hadn't had sex in weeks, and we'd pretty much entirely stopped showing any real affection to each other. I slept on the couch half the time because we were so sick of each other by then. We never said specifically what we were sick of; we had managed to hold things together enough to avoid that kind of honesty. But we both knew.

She'd won the coin toss for the remote, and I found myself forced to watch some ridiculous Korean drama. I mostly stared at my phone, reading a book. We both looked up from our screens when someone knocked on our door. Shrugging at her, I got up and opened it.

Have you ever seen a SWAT team in person? Like a whole-ass SWAT team? I don't recommend it, especially when it's clear some of them are disappointed they don't get to point their guns at you. I didn't piss myself, though. Go me.

"Can I help you?"

The gruff older cop in charge asked, "Mr. Kowalski? Bill Kowalski?"

"Yes?" I didn't mean it to come out as either a question or as a squeak, but you know: lots of cops with loaded rifles.

He craned his neck around, looking at Traci as she came up behind. "Traci Kowalski?"

"Yes?"

"We received a report of a hostage situation at this address. Are you alright, ma'am?"

Traci gasped. "What?! No, we're fine! I'm fine! We were just watching TV!"

Come to find out, the SWAT team had thankfully shown some restraint. They'd used a small flexible fiber optic camera slipped in between the door and the jamb to check out the situation. Thank God we'd been watching TV in the living room, or they would have breached the door and tossed flashbangs, at least according to what I could find in the accounts of other people that had been swatted. The ones that survived, that is.

Some chud in who knows where had called 911, claimed to be a neighbor, and told them I'd killed our nonexistent children and was holding Traci hostage. Why? "For the lulz," probably. Or maybe because they wanted me dead; a few people had maintained a keen interest in the love triangle they'd built up in their minds, and it's possible that someone on Team Chad wanted me out of the way so he and Traci could be together. I've given up trying to understand the way people like that think.

Regardless of the reason, the outcome would still have made Team Chad happy. Traci and I got into it almost as soon as the cops were gone; I'm amazed they didn't come back fifteen minutes later to check on the shouting.

"I'm done. I'm fucking done with all of this," Traci moaned, sitting on the couch and holding her head in her hands.

"You're done? YOU'RE done? I almost got shot!"

"I know that! I'm sorry!"

I rolled my eyes. "Oh, well that makes it all better then, doesn't it? 'I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry.' When does you being 'sorry' translate into something that actually fixes this fucking shitshow you've turned our lives into?"

"Don't you blame this one me! I'm not the one that--!"

Enraged, I snapped, "You were going to fuck another guy! Yeah, wrong time, wrong place, but there was no fucking reason for you to be in that place at all!"

"I almost died!"

I snorted. "And that excuses everything that led up to that point? Because you almost died, that means I should put up with you lying beforehand, with you meeting this asshole without telling me and falling for his bullshit? That I should look past all that and everything that's happened since?

"For fuck's sake, Traci, you did this to us! You did all of this to us! I did nothing but be a good husband, and in return you've destroyed my fucking life!" And there it was, the sentence I'd never said. God, it felt good to get it out. Felt like lancing a boil.

Traci narrowed her eyes angrily. "Okay, 'Chuck.'"

No. No, she fucking didn't. Gobsmacked, I spat out, "The fuck did you just say?"

"You heard me. You've been sitting on this couch feeling sorry for yourself because you got fired, because the internet thinks you're a cuck, because..." She made a disgusted sound. "Whatever."

"Because my wife wanted to fuck another man? That's why, Traci. That's why I got tagged with that goddamned nickname. But, hey, at least yours is accurate, Two-Timer."

Her eyes blazed. "I told you, I never--!"

"Fuck off. Just..." My shoulders slumped. "Just... just fuck off, Traci. You did this to us. All of this. You got bored and lonely, you let yourself be seduced, you kissed Chad. God, Traci, you almost died, and I hate that, but now you almost got me killed, too!" She opened her mouth to speak, but I ignored her attempt. "Honestly, I'm serious: fuck you. Fuck all of this. I'm out."

"What's that supposed to mean?" For the first time since I got fired, I saw real remorse in her eyes. Remorse and fear; not of a man with a gun, but of what our lives had become. Fear of the next words to come out of my mouth.

"I want a divorce."

It was all over but the shouting, and there was a lot of shouting. By the end of the night, there was a lot of crying, too. We held each other as we fell asleep on the couch, her still begging me to reconsider. I didn't hate her; hell, I loved her. That was the worst part. But I couldn't take it anymore, what she'd done to us and what she'd done to me.

It was true that none of the things that followed her stupidity were her fault, not the memes or the lunatics treating our lives like one of her romantic dramas or the kids with the rocks or the cops at our door. Not directly. She couldn't have foreseen any of those things happening when she met her old high school boyfriend for lunch that day. But then, no single snowflake is responsible for the avalanche, either.

We broke our lease the next day; turned out the complex was happy to waive the fee if the tenants who had brought a fucking SWAT team to their door would just quietly leave. We used the final week in the apartment to divvy up our stuff and sign the appropriate forms. She tried to use it to get me to stay, bringing all the tools at her disposal to bear. None of them swayed me. When I turned her down for no-holds-barred, anything-I-wanted, no strings-attached (uh-huh, sure) sex, she finally understood it was over.

We dropped off our keys at the leasing office, then walked back to our cars. Traci looked up at me with tears in her eyes. "I'm sorry, Bill. I know it's- I know you're tired of hearing it, but it's true. I'm sorry for what I did. I love you."

I silently said goodbye to my unintentional tormentor with a kiss on her forehead, then got into my car and drove until she disappeared in the rearview.

It would be almost three years before I saw Traci again. I heard her first, though. I'd have recognized that voice anywhere, particularly when the woman it belonged to got angry. The lady chewing out the airline representative certainly fit that bill. "What do you mean it's been canceled? What about the next flight?"

The beleaguered worker tried to calm her. "I'm sorry, ma'am, but there's been a mechanical issue on your flight, and the next flight is full. We can get you on one... it looks like tomorrow afternoon."

"Afternoon! That's ridiculous! What about the flights in the morning? You're saying they're all full?"

"Yes, ma'am, I'm sorry, but with the pilot strike and..."

I observed from a distance. I knew the voice, true, but from behind, the woman wielding it like a bludgeon seemed almost wholly unfamiliar to me. The height and build looked right; maybe a little heavier than I'd last seen her, but not much. However, my possible ex-wife now turning away from the ticket counter in disgust had shoulder-length black hair with bangs instead of long blonde hair, and eyeglasses instead of contacts. Her outfit wasn't the bohemian-cum-yoga mom gear that Traci almost uniformly wore during our marriage, but a sensible, conservative business suit with a skirt.

But no. No, this woman was Traci, and she hadn't spotted me yet. Or maybe she had, but she just hadn't recognized me. I'd changed, too. I stepped out of the line we'd both waited in, following as her feet furiously power walked through the terminal. When the woman paused, I tapped her on the shoulder; she wheeled around and almost yelled, "What!?"

Then she saw me. Really saw me. I thought she might cry when I smiled warmly and said, "Hey, Trace."

"B- Bill?"

"William now. You know, because..." I shrugged. "Because."

She nodded, still dumbstruck. Still... God, still so gorgeous. Different, but gorgeous. "Liz. I go by Elizabeth now."

I smiled again, trying to seem friendly. Regardless of what had happened, I still cared about her. "Middle name. Good choice."

Traci reached up and stroked my face, then chuckled. "You grew a beard. And where are your glasses?"

"Lasik. And, yeah, the beard... Eh, I always wanted to try one, but you never liked them."

She laughed, "I still don't! But..." Traci--no, Liz--cocked her head to one side and grinned. "But it's not as bad as I thought it would be."

I joined her in the laugh. "High praise indeed! What are--" A man rushing by jostled me; we grabbed our rolling bags and moved to the side. "What are you doing here?"

"Trying to get home. The flight to Dallas got canceled, and it's going to be tomorrow afternoon before they get in. I've been living out of my suitcase for a week, and I'm sick of it." She shook her head. "But I guess one more night in a hotel won't kill me. What about you?"

"Uh... Same. You live in Dallas now?"

"Yeah." Her smile brightened. "You too?"

"For about two years. I'm just getting back from a conference, and I'd like to get home sooner than later, too."

"Well, it's not going to happen tonight."

"No, I suppose... Hrm." A quick look at my watch showed the time as 5:20. "You know, it's only a four-hour drive. I might rent a car." I was seized suddenly by curiosity. What had happened to her? Why did she look like that? Was she happy? And how much did I really want to know one way or another?

The devil and angel on my shoulder argued back and forth. I'm not sure which actually won, but... "If I do get one, would you like to--"

"Yes!" Her grin turned embarrassed. "I mean, yes, that sounds good. My company can pick up the bill."

"We should probably hurry, then. I can't imagine we'll be the only ones to think of this."

Elizabeth and I almost ran towards the car rental area, trying to find something decently sized before the lot got picked over. We settled on an SUV. More expensive than I would have chosen, but hey, her corporate card was paying for it. Corporate card. Man, never thought I'd see her with one of those.

"You want to drive the first half or the second?" she asked as we slung our bags into the trunk.

"I'll take first. You relax."

"Such a gentleman." Her wry smile still had the same effect on me years later. Fuck, I hadn't realized how much I'd missed her. Doubts about the wisdom of all this began to creep in, and she saw the trepidation on my face. "Hey. Bi- William. It's okay if you don't--"

I shook my head. "No. No, I do. I'd love to catch up. Come on, let's hit the road."

We didn't talk much as we navigated through Houston's insane rush hour traffic, mostly just phrases like, "Look out!" and "Fucking moron!" You know, the usual Texas city driving conversation. But then we got out of the city limits and the outlying exurbs, put the car on cruise control, and headed north on I-45.

I had only gotten to take in surface information before, but now I had time for details. As the miles flew by in relative silence, I snuck glances at my ex-wife. Liz dressed mostly conservatively, but I could see little hints of Traci in there: a couple of new piercings in her ear, the hip styling of her glasses, the choice of jet black for her hair color instead of something more subdued.

But then I saw a detail that I was completely unprepared for: a plain band on the ring finger of her left hand. My heart sank just a little. I felt silly at that; of course someone would have snatched her up. I'd given up all claim on her, and I couldn't be surprised. I told myself I shouldn't even be melancholy, but I was.