A Short Story

Tracy Wyatt had an idea. Not original, but it was good…and possibly viral.

She waited until her boyfriend, Nick, left for work, then set up the camera. There were two options. Behind a framed photograph on the fireplace mantle, or the television. The fireplace was the easier, but it would only get a back and side reaction. The television was perfect, but it would require a little extra finesse.

Tracy went with the fireplace mantle.

She threw on a face full of make-up, then went to wardrobe. Green yoga pants, black tank, one of Nick’s dress shirts, sleeves rolled up. She propped the phone with a book behind a framed shot of her and Nick at a Homecoming cookout, and tapped ‘record.’ She went back to the couch, slapped her thigh (for sound), then returned to the fireplace. She watched the clip, reset the phone, then took the Xbox remote from under the coffee table.  

Nick Garrety hung up his keys, kicked up his feet, and fired up his Xbox. Everything was gone. His profile. His achievements. Six years of gaming—all wiped. Minecraft, GTA V, Madden NFL, Call of Duty, BioShock Infinite—all erased. Gone without a trace. Nick studied the screen, and his mind went blank. His stomach tightened. All that energy, all that work… He almost hurled but fought it. He left the controller and went to the window by the fireplace. His eyes fell upon a sidewalk streetlight, then slowly turned to the kitchen.

And then he saw it.

Tracy’s pink phone propped behind a framed photo. His instinct told him to end the video, take the phone out back, and bash it on the concrete. His mind told him to do that, and to torch the childhood stuffed animal she still slept with. If the phone was here, chances are, she was probably watching him. He slowly crossed to the staircase by the front door. “Baby, you upstairs?”

“Yeah?” her voice called down.

“Can you come down for a bit?” Nick asked. Tracy, in her favorite pink hoodie and some blue jean capris, came downstairs. Nick led her to the television. “Any idea what happened here?”

Tracy followed him, her eyes lingering on the fireplace mantle. “What’s up?”

“My stuff is gone.”

“What do you mean, gone?”

“Gone. Deleted. Five years-worth of work just…gone.”

Tracy scrunched her brow. “I don’t understand. It’s just a game.”

“Yeah, it’s just a game, but still, I put a lot of—”

“It’s just a game, though.”

“Right, but you’re not listen—”

“It’s just a video game, Nick, why are you getting so mad over something so stupid?”

Nick pointed at the screen. “You’re telling me you have no idea how this happened?”

“Why are you acting like this?”

“Like what?”

“Like a child! Like you’re obsessed, and it’s gotten to the point where it’s, it’s, it’s beyond ridiculous, Nick. If I wanted to date a twelve-year-old, I’d teach fucking middle school.”

Nick’s face scrunched. “That’s a weird thing to say.”

Tracy exploded. “You need to grow the fuck up. Like for real, and fucking fast. You think I want to come home to a little boy who plays video games? You think I’m attracted to the thought of my ‘man’ being obsessed with toys?”

Nick held the moment, then went to the stairs.

Tracy cupped her mouth and let out a loud, roaring belly laugh. “I got you so good!” she exclaimed, gesturing to the big screen. “Your upset, sad little face. Priceless.” She took her phone from the fireplace. “This clip is sure to go viral.”

“I’m sorry, what are you saying?”

“It was me,” she replied. “I did it. I deleted your stuff, babe…you know, for the channel.”

“You deleted my memory?” Nick asked. “That was you?”

She held his gaze, then shrugged, grinning. “What are you gonna do about it?”

Nick was unmoved. “What time, again, are you leaving tomorrow?”

Tracy’s brain broke. “What?”

“For the girl’s trip, the women’s function.”

“It’s called an ‘influencers’ retreat,’” she corrected, enjoying her victorious moment, yet still unsure of her feelings. He was supposed to blow up, explode with rage, or do something other than be nonchalant. She punctuated her reply with a flick of an index finger. “We leave at 8:45 in the morning. And get back Tuesday night. Late.”

Nick counted the days on his fingers, tugged his pinky, then went upstairs. He set his alarm for 7:30 am, then took a bath. Tracy joined him fifteen minutes later, then scampered off to bed. Nick bid her soft flesh a final adieu, then slept peacefully on the couch.

Tracy woke up late, alone. She made a pot of coffee, then spent the next half hour swiping on dating apps. She matched with six guys, started to reach out, but was interrupted by a text from her friend, Shelly. “Macy, me, and Raylene are in the driveway.”

“Be down soon, still packing.” She swiped right again, passed on the next thirty, then went down to the garage to find her red Kona all alone. Nick’s Durango was gone.

Her phone buzzed in her hand. It was Nick. “Stuck in traffic, won’t be back in time.”

Tracy felt her shoulders drop. An idea came to her. This may work out better. If Nick got too nosey about the trip, she could always redirect the conversation back to this moment and guilt him for not kissing her goodbye. It’s worked before.

At 9:15 am, Tracy threw her luggage into the back of Shelly’s Tahoe, and studied the street in both directions. She checked the time stamp on Nick’s last text. Even with traffic, he should’ve been back by now. She looked to her friends, all three doom-scrolling. She closed the trunk, then made up an excuse to go back inside.

Shelly, in the driver’s seat, rolled down the window. “You got everything, girl?”

“Yeah, I forgot my…” she trailed off, went inside, then sat at the foot of the staircase. She wouldn’t admit it, but something about Nick’s inaction disturbed her. He wasn’t the silent type. He was quick-to-anger type, the freak-out-then-apologize guy. Always had been, until last night. She checked herself in the mirror, anxiously futzed with her hair, then eyed the idle gaming console under the television. The longer she waited, the more self-conscious she became. The girls, she imagined, were silently judging her. “No man is worth skirting your best life,” they all agreed like an unspoken rule.

Two loud honks from the Tahoe.

Tracy locked the door, made up a scavenging tale, then got into the back seat with Raylene. Macy, the oldest, looked at her from the passenger seat. “So, how did it go last night?”

“What?” Tracy asked.

“The prank?” Shelly asked in the rearview mirror

Tracy considered lying to soothe her ego, but gave in. “Nothing. He did nothing.”

That gave Raylene pause. “You deleted his entire gaming library…and he did nothing?”

Nick sipped coffee, in a neighbor’s driveway, from the front seat of his Durango. He saw the Tahoe back into the street, then barrel off like a getaway car fleeing a crime scene. They got to the stop sign, then took a left towards the interstate. Nick counted to fifteen, threw a thumbs up to the elderly couple on the front porch, then pulled out into the street.

He backed into his driveway, then called the locksmith. A guy would be out that way before noon, the receptionist said. Nick took four large plastic containers upstairs, then filmed himself folding and piling Tracy’s clothes inside. He left a box of donuts and a vat of coffee at the front door with a note for the locksmith, then clipped his phone to a jacket pocket and taped his trip to the local donation center.

The locksmith had downed most of a raspberry jelly when he got back.

Nick bonded with the guy over coffee and relationship horror stories, then later swiped the password book from atop the fridge. He changed everything; Netflix, Prime, Peloton, DoorDash, Spotify, then went back outside. He shot the shit with the locksmith, tipped him well, then redacted every password pertaining to Tracy with black marker.

She still had access to her stuff—as long as her devices remembered them.

At 11:15, Nick ordered a chicken quesadilla from the Mexican joint on El Rio Dr, then tipped the driver with cash from a zip lock bag in Tracy’s underwear drawer. Inside the bag; four-thousand bucks and a black business card with a red link. He plugged it into his browser. It was a male escort service based out of Vegas operating under a legal loophole. Escorts were verified adult stars and encounters were filmed to legally classify the transactions as adult entertainment, and not prostitution.

He pocketed the card, shoved the bag into one of her shoes, then filmed himself eating his lunch on the front porch. One of his neighbors, an older woman jogging by in a blue windbreaker stopped to ask about the rolling camera. He told her the truth. She giggled at his imaginative spirit, then continued down the lane. Afterwards, he took the plastic bins back upstairs, and cleaned out the rest of his closet.

At 4:02 pm, he filmed his second interaction with a donations center—this one three miles in the other direction. The old man/young lady duo dumped everything on a table in the back of the building, then returned the containers. As Nick drove off, reality hit him. Everything of hers that lived in his bedroom closet was now in the process of becoming merchandise for low-income locals. It was a bittersweet moment, more sweet than bitter, but it still hurt.

He took the long way home, drove in silence, then rolled the windows down. It was autumn, his favorite time of year. The same season he met Tracy, four years earlier. He sped up the hill that led back into his neighborhood, then coasted past Baker’s Park. A memory flashed. His third date with Tracy. Dinner at MacGrady’s pub, a detour through Baker’s Park, then an 8 o’clock showing of a stupid romantic comedy at the local Cineplex.

Nick shut off the camera, did a U-turn when he could, then let his memory guide him into the park. He climbed on the Durango’s hood, and watched the sun dip beyond the tree line.

He was done with Tracy, but was still grieving her. She wasn’t simply vain, she was broken, desperate for exterior validation. Never truly secure in her own skin. He tried to help, tried to guide her the way a man should, but each new prank, original or not, chipped at his patience and his soul, until their once-healthy relationship became like a never-ending episode of Punk’d with him as the reluctant costar. He wasn’t perfect. He had his flaws, his embarrassing missteps, his awkward moments. At least he tried. He just couldn’t satisfy her hunger for internet clout and monetized viral content. That was the toughest pill to swallow.

He recalled the moment they fell for each other. As they took the trail that wrapped around Baker’s Park, Nick pointed out an approaching collie and owner, then ushered her under a bridge and past Pap’s Driving Range. As the wind picked up, Nick noticed something he couldn’t explain. It wasn’t the way her hair tossed in the breeze or the way the sunshine softened her face. It was her—Tracy, like he’d never seen before. The elements dimmed, and her green eyes sparkled. Time stopped, and for an instant, only they existed. Tracy laughed at something he couldn’t remember, but the sound gripped his heart, warm and authentic.

Nick slowed, then stopped. She stopped too, more curious than concerned. His hand found hers, and he pulled her in. She went to speak, but he stopped her with a kiss. It wasn’t premediated, but it was the only action, in that moment, that rang true.

Nick felt a lump in his throat, then recalled her face as the kiss ended—vulnerable, grateful, hopeful. It made him feel fulfilled, like he’d finally won something valuable. Life was about to change, and big time, but he didn’t care. Because for once, it was about to change for the better. The moment passed, and so did the elation of new romance. He rode that high for as long as he could, then reality set in, and Nick bawled like a baby.

The drive to Vegas took ten hours (including three restroom breaks, four pit stops to pose suggestively in front of ‘cute, and local’ outfitters, and a long brunch at a diner east of Bakersfield, where Tracy uploaded the clip). Tracy got situated on her queen bed, then checked her account.

Bro Flipped Over Xbox Prank had sixty less views than she’d hoped. Forty-two views with a six-hour life was rookie numbers. One like, five dislikes, two comments—was another anomaly. It was usually likes, dislikes, then comments. Not dislikes, comments, then likes.

She stared at the comment section, then turned her phone off.

Nick picked up pizza on the way home, then strategized the rest of the night.

After his 7:30 am run, he’d remove everything in the bathroom, her makeup, her toiletries, her towels—no, he’d keep those, the two navy blues he used, but everything else, her hair products, her spa and foot shit, the weird, overpriced artsy decorations she got from that weird crystal shop near Sherman’s pond, would all go to the dump.

There would be another trip to the donation center, for the rest of her clothes.

Her shoes, her jewelry, her high-end makeup, her family keepsakes, her books—the non-fiction mostly, her computer stuff, all of it would be filmed like the rest, but left on the front lawn.

Next, he’d go to Morley’s Storage on Chesapeake, clean out his unit, and bring everything back that he had been expected to toss eighteen months ago. He’d film it all. The arrival, the load-out, the departure. It’d take most of the day, he figured, so he needed to get there before noon.

And then he got an even better idea.

He called his boys, Bridge and Trevor, who shared a duplex apartment on the other side of town, and explained the situation. Bridge cancelled dinner plans with a colleague from work, and Trevor pushed a tee-off with his brother-in-law to Monday afternoon. Neither of them admitted it, but Nick could sense relief in their voices as he relayed the message.

At 9:35 pm, Nick hung up his hat, then found an old cannabis vape in his underwear drawer. It was half-full, untouched since the winter of ’23. He grinned, then ventured out to the front porch. He blazed himself silly to a remastered Sinatra vinyl he re-discovered while tossing Tracy’s stuffed animal collection into a dry kiddie pool outside the bedroom window.

Did she steal it? he asked himself, recalling its absence. She never liked Frank, but would she…? He blamed her for about twenty minutes, settled on it being happenstance, then relaxed and let Frank’s voice do its thing.

Tracy woke up at 6 am to nothing. No ‘good morning.’ No ‘I love you.’ Nothing. It pissed her off more than it saddened her, and for a moment, it fucked her up. Until she remembered what waited for her at a private inn a mile east of the city lights.

Room 8 at 7:30 pm.

Marty Ranger, 42, ripped, hairless, and charming, had been in the industry since 2001, and was most known for collaborating with ladies in the family fantasy and candid campus genres.

Tracy sat up in bed, blocked Shelly’s snoring with a pillow, then checked her bank account. The nine-hundred dollar ‘networking fee’ had gone through. “Thank God,” she hissed ironically, a palm to her chest. If it hadn’t, she would’ve been up slut-creek without a paddle, and been forced to settle for one of the ‘amateur’ stars. She noted her current balance, just under two-fifty, then logged off. She thought about Nick, felt regret, but redirected her thoughts to Room 8. How will it go down? Will Marty be waiting? Will I have access to the room prior? Will we meet in the lobby, and aimlessly chit-chat? Or am I expected to jump in like a drunk girl at a house party?

Nick returned, followed by a cautionary ache in her stomach. If he were to do what she was mentally/physically preparing to do, she’d be humiliated, then leave him out of principle, but…she justified it. It wasn’t her fault. The man is supposed to lead. If Nick truly cared, he would’ve kept her at home. Besides, he knew Macy and Raylene were trouble. If he were smart, he’d know this encounter, albeit unconventional, would elevate them to influencer superstardom. Collaborating with adult stars, famous or not, was where the real audience was.

Would the camera be rolling? was her next thought. There’d be a camera, that was a given, but…would it be rolling? The toilet flushed. Raylene, in a gray hotel robe, left the bathroom. It was too early to talk, so Tracy closed her eyes, and let her imagination choose tonight’s outfit.

Trevor manned the camcorder, his 5K pride-and-joy, straddling the backseat as Bridge and Nick took care of the heavy-lifting. He noticed a black business card in the coin tray by the cigarette lighter. He aimed the lens, focused on the dim red link until it was legible. “What is that?”

Nick looked in the rearview mirror. “What is what?”

Trevor pointed to the cigarette lighter. “That card.” Nick followed his finger, then revealed what he knew, what he assumed, and his theory pertaining to Tracy’s weekend getaway. He filmed Nick’s account, then saved it as its own file.

They finished a little after four. Nick fired up his Xbox, and—with Trevor’s help, began to rebuild what he had lost. Bridge went out, then came back with pizza and beer. At 6:29 pm, they downloaded the footage, then took turns piecing it together. Nick did the outline. Trevor trimmed the footage. Bridge mocked Tracy relentlessly, and used tiny screenshots to recraft a replica of the Sydney Opera House. Three hours later, Trevor cast the final cut onto the big screen.

Ten minutes later, the boys traded glances.

“Publish?” Bridge asked.

“Publish.” Trevor nodded.

“Yeah, publish,” Nick agreed, then uploaded the video.

Tracy left Room 8, more degraded than empowered. Marty wasn’t there to make friends. He came for the paycheck. When it was over, he scrolled his phone and ignored her questions until she got the hint to leave. When she got back to the room, Macy, Shelly, and Raylene were glued to their phones, all with burrowed eyebrows.

“Whatcha you watching?” Tracy asked, their stares suddenly turning sympathetic. They all traded glances, but said nothing. “What is it?”

Macy spoke up. “You should…check your messages.

Tracy sat at the hotel desk and checked the phone. A message. A link. A video. Her index finger lingered dreadfully over the screen, then tapped it. 

The destination app opened.

Now, We’re Even – A Short Film by Nick Garrety.

Tracy watched the video…and then her face fell.

THE END