By Friday night, after Special Agent Gattuso had made it back to his pad in Petersburg from his five-day-long up-north trip, I had pretty much gotten over my skepticism about his home life. To me, my stupidity would’ve been a lousy reason to lose him.
On Saturday, August 7, 2010, he and I stuck mostly to exchanging texts:122 from me to him and 134 from him to me, to be exact.
Tony, I learned, did nearly all of the cooking where he lived. Jeez... no surprise pseudo wife didn’t want to let him go -- all that and he made her dinner every evening?
It had been days and days since my handsome Virginia State Policeman and I had seen each other. I was aching for his sturdy arms to be around me again.
Thirty minutes ‘til the clock rolled over to Sunday, he initiated a Gchat session with me. This time we didn’t spend hours typing to each other; he ended it with almost no warning, an extremely unusual thing for him to do.
I later heard from him that his girlfriend had arbitrarily started some kind of ruckus. Apparently it had not resolved itself before they fell asleep, as they spent a lot of Sunday at each other’s throats. Tony messages to me that day were spasmodic and reeked of discontent. I texted my thoughts that he should talk to someone else about it, like his family, but he said he didn’t want to burden anybody. I felt awful for him. Worse, because I couldn’t fix it for him.
