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Until I realize it’s from Mom.
I’m sorry. It’s a long story, I type, realizing that I use that phrase a lot these days.
I’m sure it is, Mom replies. Just know that we love you no matter what, sweetie, and we’re going to do whatever it takes to cure you.
Cure me? I text back.
Of your porn addiction. I’ve spent the last hour online, doing searches. It turns out this is a thing. Mom adds a heart, then a shooting star, to her text.
Mom, I’m not a porn addict, I reply in a blind panic. Besides, that’s not how porn addiction works. It’s not about making porn.
No one ever thinks they are. The first step is admitting you have a problem, sweetie. She adds a poop emoji.
The only problem I have is unemployment, I snap back.
You don’t need a job, Mallory. You need help. We can move you back into your old room while you go to twelve-step meetings, she responds.
For what?
Porn addiction! Haven’t you been reading? Oh, no, is this part of it, too? Is there some cognitive decline we need to know about? She adds another heart, as if that will somehow make up for her basically suggesting I’m losing my faculties.
There are twelve-step meetings for that? And no, my brain is just fine! Aside from bursting inside my skull at this conversation. Mom, I swear I am not a porn addict. I’m a house fluffer. I went to a job and it turned out they were filming pornography there, I try to explain.
A few dots, and then: Mallory, this is your dad.
Hi Dad, I reply. My shame is complete.
You’re not a porn addict? he types. Bear in mind, my father has his own phone. He could text me separately. But I routinely get texts from Dad on Mom’s phone. They also share the same Facebook account. You know the type. Their name is SharonandRoyMonahaninAnderhill.
No, Dad, I am not, I reply, ready to pull out the big guns and use ALL CAPS.
I told Sharon! I tried. She wouldn’t listen. I told her you have some perfectly reasonable explanation for being featured in a threesome picture with a naked porn star covered in oil and our old high school quarterback playing with a dog’s chew toy, he writes back.
My eyes land on the item in question, sitting on a table by the front door. In the bold light of morning, it looks less like a pet novelty and more like what it is. I can’t believe I didn’t see it before.
That’s what Dad took away from that picture? That?
I take it back, Dad. I am a porn star. Mom figured it out, I fake admit. Might as well give in. They’ve broken me with their earnestness. The CIA could give up waterboarding if they just hired Sharon and Roy Monahan to turn their Earnest Parenting laser beam on prisoners.
I told her you were too shy to do it. You’d sooner eat broken glass than do what it looks like you’re doing in that picture. Not my daughter, he adds.
I smash the pillow over my face. Self-smothering is a thing, right?
MAL! Meet us at Beanerino in an hour. Fi and I need to help you through this, Perky’s text says.
You mean you want me to give you a blow by blow of what happened, I reply.
YOU BLEW THEM BOTH? she types back.
No, I did not blow them both! I hurriedly reply, clicking Send before realizing I sent that text… to my dad.
If I eat the entire pillow, I can choke to death and be put out of my misery, right?
Uh, thanks for that level of clarity, Mallory. We’re glad you feel comfortable sharing with us. This is Mom again. Your father is feeling a bit faint, Mom replies.
Mom, there’s a missionary at my door. I need to go talk to him, I lie.
Mormon? she asks. I have no idea why.
