Chapter 2

It was almost a week before Brittany wrote me back. I felt bad for upsetting her; I honestly didn’t think about the photos when I posted them. Later, I learned she wasn’t only ignoring me, but Trinity and the others as well. When I got to my hotel room in Albany, I finally saw her text: “Hey, sorry I didn’t write back. I don’t care that you’re famous. I was more upset that my pictures were posted without a heads up. My ex saw them and freaked out.” She still sounded upset.  “I’m so sorry. I didn’t think before I posted them—I was just happy you had a good time and that your friends dipping out didn’t ruin your night. I was glad you felt at ease with us,” I wrote back.  She shifted topics. “I need to talk about something off-topic. Daria told me she called dibs on you first. She said she doesn’t care that we’re friends—she says you’re hers.”  I was shocked, not knowing Daria liked me. “I’ll talk to Daria,” I replied gently, not wanting her to feel bad if she had feelings for me.  Just then, I got an Instagram notification—Brittany sent me a friend request. Over the next three days, we communicated more. When I got home from NY, I was throwing in laundry when Trinity visited me, since we were on separate shows now.  “Have you talked to Britt?” she asked.  “Yeah, she was supposed to pick up her daughters tonight but hasn’t written since,” I said, starting the washer.  “Has she said anything more about finding out who we were?”  “No, but it was weird waking up to her ‘Hello Bayley’ text, then learning her ex was the one who told her our ring names. She doesn’t care about that—she was just upset about her photos on my Instagram.” I filled Trinity in on all of it.  My phone lit up: “Can you come over? I need a friend. I just found out something and I don’t want to be alone.” I showed Trinity the message.  “Let’s go,” she said, grabbing her shoes.  “I need your address, girl—Trin and I are on our way,” I texted back.  “405 Cypress Rd,” came the quick reply. Trinity moved her car from behind my jeep, then joined me in the passenger seat.  Ten minutes later, we arrived. I rang the bell and heard, “I got it, Mommy!” The door flew open: Brittany’s younger daughter stood there, a mini version of her mother.  “Hi Is, your mom here?” I asked.  “I’m in the kitchen, come on in—take your shoes off!” Brittany called. The little one let us in.  “Mommy, can I watch Friday the 13th?” she called.  “Which one, Nikki?” Brittany replied.  “I don’t think Part 8 is a problem, but don’t even think about turning on Freddy vs Jason again,” Brittany said, turning on the movie. We followed her into the kitchen, where she hugged me tightly.  “I found out he’s been sleeping with Tara, my best friend since childhood,” she said, tears filling her eyes.  “How did you find out?” Trinity asked, offering a tissue.  “When I went to pick up my girls, he didn’t show. I had to file a police report—the cops followed me to his house and arrested him. Cici, my 14-year-old, refused to come home, but an officer escorted her. I overheard her talking to Tara after we got home. That’s why I texted Pam to come over.” She wiped her eyes.  “We’ll make a plan once the girls are in bed. Right now, let’s not let Nikki worry—she can sense things. I’m sorry you’re going through this. But we’re not going anywhere—we’re here for you,” I said.  “I need to feed the girls, get them showered—they have school in the morning. Girls, come eat dinner,” Brittany said, laying two plates on the table. Nikki appeared and immediately washed her hands.  “You have to wash your hands if you’re eating with us. Mom’s rule,” she told us, sitting down.  “Thanks for letting us know your mom’s rules,” Trinity smiled.  “You also have to eat your meat and veggies before dessert. If you don’t, mom takes dessert away,” Nikki said, biting her pizza.  At that moment, Cici walked in and paused.  “It would be nice to know if you were having guests over. Can I eat in my room?” she snapped.  “No, Sis. Let’s talk privately for a minute,” Brittany said, pulling Cici into another room.  “Help yourselves to pizza. There’s soda or wine in the fridge, glasses in the small cupboard,” Brittany said before her quiet conversation with Cici.  They soon returned, and Cici took her seat.  “You’re Bayley the wrestler, right?” she asked, meeting my eyes.  “Yes, my real name’s Pam. You must be Cici,” I smiled.  “Yeah. That’s Nikki. My dad said you met my mom at the bar.”  “Hey, Cici—let’s eat, less talking. You still need a shower, and it’s a school night,” Brittany cut in.  We waited while the girls finished eating, then Brittany and I cleaned up and grabbed a plate. Soon, we were in the living room, playing cards with Nikki while the girls showered. Nikki came out and handed her mom a hairbrush.  “Can you French braid my hair?” Nikki asked.  “Nicole, your hair’s too short—I can do a regular braid.”  “I can try—I’m pretty good with small braids,” Trinity offered hopefully.  “Okay, sure,” Nicole said, settling in front of Trinity.  “French braid or rows?” Trinity asked.  “Can I have row braids, Mom?”  “If Trinity can do it, that’d be great. It’ll last longer,” Brittany replied.  About 35 minutes later, Nikki’s hair was neatly braided, and we returned to cards. At 9:00, Brittany sent the girls to bed.  “I know they’re angry, but their dad isn’t a good man. He’s been a good dad—never a good husband or person,” Brittany admitted, sinking into the couch.  “We need to catch both of them. My idea is to make him think she’s cheating,” Trinity said.  “How?”  “Invite her out. We have a few LGBTQ friends—one could flirt and maybe even kiss her while we snap a photo. I can post it online—he’ll be watching for photos of you on our pages,” I suggested.  “Let’s do it,” Brittany grinned.  “Once a cheater, always a cheater. When she gets upset, let her drive drunk and get pulled over—let her reap what she sowed,” Trinity added.  Suddenly, Brittany’s clock struck midnight.  “We should go—you have work, and the girls have school,” I said, though I hated leaving her alone.  “Why don’t you girls stay? I’ve got extra room. I’ll get pillows and blankets,” Brittany offered.  “Let me text my husband so he doesn’t worry if I’m not home,” Trinity said, grabbing her phone.  I woke in the morning to Brittany knocking on the doors, waking the girls. She came into the living room.  “I’m making coffee. Do you two drink coffee?” she asked when she saw I was awake.  “Yeah, we do. That sounds great,” I said, getting up.  “Thanks for staying last night. I hate when my ex does this crap,” she said. I hugged her, but she pulled away, and I made a mental note—she doesn’t like being hugged.