Start a fight with me Bubs? Remember you in the lake with Chloe? CHLOE!

So I posted a blog yesterday that wasn’t everyone’s cup of tea—maybe no one’s cup of tea. That’s totally okay. I thought it was kind of silly and funny, and everyone in my family who reads my blog thought it was hilarious. Don’t worry, though—the AI-generated housewife romance novel smut won’t become a regular thing!

I do have to admit: I am very tired. So my judgment probably isn't the best right now. Ashley isn’t sleeping at all, and it seems like the only thing she wants to do is curl up in my chair and nuzzle into my boobs so she can nurse whenever she wants. I don’t think I’ve gotten more than two hours of consecutive sleep in at least a week.

Also, we’re coming up on the one-year anniversary of the event. And honestly? I’m not sure what to expect. I assume there are very few people on the internet who still care (eternal thanks to those of you who do!), but I have no idea how I’ll relive that day. I have an appointment with my SA recovery therapist on Thursday, and I plan to bring up the anxiety with her. 

Anyway.

There’s a classic sitcom trope where a wife has a dream about her husband cheating and wakes up just as mad as if he’d actually done it. I always thought that was absurd.

Oh wait.
I do that.
All the time.

So, in his infinite wisdom, Bubs decided to tease me about yesterday’s blog post by bringing up how I get mad at him over my dreams. So naturally, I immediately thought of the recurring dream that makes me the maddest.

And even though I hadn’t had that dream in a while, by the time he got home from work yesterday—I was already pissed. Since I’m not quite ready to be done being mad, I figured I’d blog about it. That way, anytime I need a little irrational fuel for my rage engine, I can log in and relive the memory all over again.

Good job, Bubs.

The dream is always roughly the same.

I’m standing on the shore of the lake where Bubs’ family owns their little lake house. I’m not in danger or anything, but I’m waving and screaming at Bubs, who’s out on the water with his friends in the family boat. He jumps into the lake, and then—like magic—she’s there in the water with him.

Not just any girl. Real-life arch-nemesis Chloe.

I’m frantically waving, shouting, “Please notice me! I’m here! I love you!” But all of his attention is on her.

Sometimes I wake up then. Sometimes we get to the part where she squeals:

“Craiiiiig, put your arms around me!”

And that’s when I inevitably wake up to the sound of his heavy, oblivious nose-breathing. I lie there, stewing, and want to smother him with the Anthropologie quilt he said was too expensive (it was on sale, dumbass).

But here’s the thing: this one isn’t just a dream.

This one actually happened.

I saw the video.

Let me set the stage.

Bubs’ grandparents had a little house near one of the lakes we grew up around, the family still owns it. Not glamorous, but it had a boat and just enough freedom that it became the hangout spot. And because Bubs was Bubs—charming, helpful, literally sunshine with a driver’s license—word got around that if you wanted to have fun at the lake, he was your guy.

But I didn’t need word to get around.

Because Bubs was mine. That guy who could back the boat into the water? Mine. The guy who taught everyone how to waterski? Mine. 

We were baby-in-love, attached at the hip (or I wished we were), obnoxious to everyone around us. I wore his hoodie even in in the 95-degree Texas summer like it was a holy relic. And I fully expected him to act like a monk in my absence.

So when I had a gymnastics meet one weekend, I didn’t just say “go have fun.” I’m sure I said something very chill like:

“Okay, yeah, go to the lake. But, like… don’t smile too hard or talk to any girls or make eye contact with anyone who owns a bikini.”

He laughed and promised me his parents would be there—that it was a family weekend.

Comforted by that, I went off to the meet and actually crushed it. I won both bars and floor and missed overall by just a few points. I was ecstatic when I got home, and Bubs—being Bubs—met me at the door so I could show off my medals.

My mom was so proud she let me stay up really late to go swim with him in his grandparents' pool. He probably wanted to make out or feel me up, but I was too busy talking his ear off about the meet. I didn’t even think to ask how the lake trip went.

And Bubs, being Bubs, didn’t think to tell me.

Then came Monday.
And with it: the school gossips.

They swarmed.

“Oh my God, did you hear Bubs took Chloe and her little squad to the lake this weekend?”
“It was soooo funny, he was teaching her how to wakeboard!”
“Do you want to see the video?”

Do I want to see the video?

Do I want to rip out my own spine and beat the messenger with it?
Because yes. Kind of.

But I watched it.

It was 2008, so the footage was grainy and pixelated—probably taken on one of those ancient flipcams. But what it lacked in visual quality, it more than made up for in emotional devastation.

There was Bubs, floating in the water behind the boat.
Next to Chloe.
CHLOE.

My arch-nemesis. The same girl who used to mock me on the bus for being flat-chested. She’d say things like, “Guys like boobs, so how long do you think Craig will stick around?” while arching her back to make it seem like she was two cup sizes bigger than she really was.

That Chloe. Floating beside my boyfriend in a life jacket, being all precious.

The audio wasn’t crystal clear, but you could hear enough. He was patiently explaining how to strap the wakeboard to her feet, how to hold the tow rope, what to do when the boat started pulling her.

(Probably the same lesson he gave me, which still steams my clams.)

Then something imperceptible happens in the water, and suddenly her voice rings out loud and clear:

“Craiiiiig… I’m floating away! Grab on to me or you’ll lose me!”

I swear to God, I’ve heard it in my dreams.
Like a banshee’s wail.

Now, in the grand scheme of betrayals, this wasn’t top-tier. He didn’t cheat. His parents were literally on the boat. He says he didn’t invite her—she just showed up.

And maybe that’s all true.
Maybe he was just being nice.
Maybe I’m the one who can’t let it go.

But let’s not forget: he’s the dumbass who brought it up last night.

I don’t care that it’s been years.
Because I still wake up mad.
Because in my sixteen-year-old heart, he was supposed to avert his eyes from anything with boobs and a butt. He was supposed to be weeping because he didn’t get to see me in a leotard. Not handing out waterskis and giving wakeboarding tutorials to evil incarnate in a crochet bikini.

And to this day? If I bring it up—if I dare mention it?

He laughs.
“Dani, you are so cute. Do I need to say for the millionth time... nothing happened. But you are cute.”

Cute?

Jerk.