Page 12 of I Will Always Love You (Maybe)

This is oddly specific. I think there’s some things to unpack here.

Okay, okay. I do need to get to work. Sure, I work on my own time and make my own schedule, but the moment I get lax on that, things might go downhill. Besides, Kona is sleeping so hard that I need to take advantage of this time, and my energy level, while I still have it.

I check my watch. It’s Josie’s break time, so maybe one quick exchange.

Colby

did you see the “storm watch” on the weather channel?

When the three dots immediately pop up, my heartbeat increases. I stare at the phone in my palms until the message appears.

Josie

No. But this is Minnesota. Don’t let it freak you out. There are snowstorm watches, thunderstorm watches, tornado watches, like a gazillion times a year.

it’s so disappointing. Like just hit us already with something good. Such a tease.

how did you acclimate to the weather out here when you moved?

Colby

I never quite understood the joy of multi-thermal layered underwear before, but here we are.

I also didn’t realize there were so many variations of gloves. Wool, insulated, leather, knit, windproof, waterproof, ones that you can tie onto a capsizing ship and it will save the entire crew… I mean, how do you all keep it straight?

Josie

and here I have my ski ones, my mittens, and my “it’s not cold enough to need gloves” ones.

I grin at the message, set my phone down, and pull up my laptop. As I scroll through the topic for today, my phone beeps. I should set it on silent, but…

Josie

OMG I have to tell you. This morning, a man brought in his parrot, which we can’t even treat ’cause it needs a special doctor, and the parrot kept saying “Mikey’s an asshole. Mikey’s an asshole.”

I died! I don’t know who this Mikey is, but I’m determined to find out

break’s up, gotta run. I’ll text you later.

And I sigh. Okay, day three of feeling human again after so many years, and I want to hold on to this a little more. I take one last peek at Kona near my feet and click back on the microphone.

After leaving Florida, after Amelia, everything that I once knew changed. The MBA I’d received was meaningless. The company where I’d worked since my college internship and risen to senior management before turning thirty meant nothing to me. How could I sit there and review and analyze ROIs and quarterly forecasts and budgets when my world just collapsed? The numbers, which I’d once loved, blended together. They no longer made sense in the way that they once had. Who gave a shit about audit standards when my wife just fucking died?

When Amelia and I got our life insurance policy right after we were married, we joked about who was going to off the other one to cash in. The amount was high, so high, but we were in our twenties, the premium was cheap, and we took it knowing we’d never use it because people our age don’t die.

So, after Amelia passed, I cashed out and left the finance world with its numbers and annual budget planning, and didn’t work for a year until I stumbled into something that gave me a little bit of life. And today, I’m so close to recording my one thousandth episode, which is mind-blowing. Something that started as an outlet, a way to get me talking, a way to channel Amelia, has amassed a following I never dreamed possible—close to two hundred thousand monthly listeners.

And not a single person in the world knows it’s me.

There’s so much freedom in having a dual personality like this. A stage name, a pen name, a cloak of anonymity. I can say whatever I want without the repercussions of anyone knowing it’s me. I close my eyes and think of Amelia’s grinning face. Once I picture her fully and conjure her personality, I take a full breath, exhale through my nose, and hit record.

“Hey, everyone! Welcome to the Love ’Em or Leave ’Em podcast, where we do a deep dive into all things love, including if it’s time to stay together, or break it off. I am your host, Ruby Reanne—the woman who’s not a therapist, not a doctor, not educated whatsoever in the study of human relationships, and one hundred percent not even remotely qualified to be giving you any sort of advice. My only credentials are being in a fabulous marriage of fifteen years and counting, and miraculously holding on to a beautiful, incredible wife who puts up with exactly zero of my shit. With that all being said, I am so excited about today’s show! So, saddle up there, cowboys and cowgirls, and yep, I just dropped that phrase and have no idea where that came from. And as we all know, I purposedly do limited editing on this show, but I’m at a solid regret-level eight for using that term and knowing I won’t cut it in post-production. We don’t have to be perfect, friends, we just have to be good enough.”

I tap into the laptop and pull up the questions. Hundreds of communications come into me a week—from voicemails to DMs and emails, and on the website, I have a listener submission section. Depending on how much I ramble, any one show might only get through a handful of questions, so I really need to pick and choose. I, of course, pre-read the questions, but to maintain authenticity, while swallowing back the irony that I’m deceiving the audience about my identity, I try not to think of the answer ahead of time and instead do my WWAS—What Would Amelia Say.

Sure, my listeners have grown to know and love me. And I’ve never pretended to be a doctor, or therapist, or anything. The only thing I’ve pretended is that I’m currently married. And yet, I know it’s a lie. Deep down, I realize there is a level of deception taking place. But I think with the entertainment value, along with the hopefully helpful advice I give, it outweighs the bad.

At least, that’s what I tell myself on the hard days when my conscience eats at me.