Which, in text-message language, is basically the equivalent of someone kicking down your door and demanding attention.
I took another bite of cold lo mein, chewed thoughtfully, and decided that I was comfortable right where I was, thank you very much.
Chairman Meow was purring on the other end of the couch, completely unbothered by human drama, living his best life, and I figured I should take notes from his Zen approach to conflict.
The second text came 30 seconds later.
Marcus, we need to talk about what happened today.
I wiped my hands on a napkin, not because I was going to respond, just because General Tso's sauce on phone screens is a pain to clean, and watched as the three little dots appeared.
Disappeared.
Appeared again.
She was typing, deleting, retyping, probably going through 17 different versions of whatever she wanted to say, trying to find the right combination of words that would make this situation make sense to her.
The third text arrived, and it was a doozy.
You deceived me.
I couldn't help it.
I actually laughed out loud, startling Chairman Meow, who gave me the reproachful look cats have perfected over thousands of years of judging humanity.
My fingers moved across the keyboard with the kind of calm that comes from knowing you're absolutely, completely in the right.
You said you wanted transparency. I just turned on the lights.
I could practically feel the rage radiating through the phone screen from wherever she was.
The response came back fast and furious.
You know that's not what I meant. You made me look like a fool.
How? I typed back, genuinely curious about her logic here. By having money? By being successful? By not broadcasting my net worth on the first date? Please explain which part of having my life together makes you look foolish.
The typing dots appeared and disappeared for a solid two minutes.
I finished my lo mein, cracked open a beer, nothing fancy, just regular domestic beer that came in a six-pack from the grocery store, and waited.
This was actually kind of entertaining in a train-wreck sort of way, like watching a reality show where you know exactly how it's going to end but you can't look away.
Finally, her response came through, and it was long enough that it arrived in multiple texts.
That thing that happens when someone is so worked up they don't realize they're writing a novel.
You embarrassed me in front of my lawyer. Do you have any idea how that looked? I brought him documentation of my success, my achievements, and then you show up with some massive binder like you were planning this ambush the whole time. Dalton called me after you left and he was shocked. He said in 20 years of practice, he's never seen such a discrepancy between perceived and actual financial positions.
I sat back, took a swig of beer, and considered my response options.
I could be mature and sympathetic, try to see things from her perspective, maybe offer some kind of olive branch that would smooth things over.
Or I could be honest, which seemed like the more entertaining and ultimately more productive option.
I went with honest.
Cassandra, I typed, I didn't embarrass you. You embarrassed yourself. You assumed that because I don't drive a Porsche or wear a Rolex or live in a penthouse, I must not have money. That's on you. You wanted a prenup to protect your assets from me, like I was some kind of gold digger waiting to cash in. The only thing I did was show you that maybe you should have asked a few more questions before you made assumptions.
The response was almost immediate.
You should have told me.
Why? I shot back. So you could treat me differently? So you could change how you acted around me? The whole reason I don't advertise my net worth is because money makes people weird. Case in point, this conversation.
Three minutes of silence.
I could imagine her in her pristine penthouse with its minimalist furniture and city views, pacing around in whatever expensive loungewear rich people wear at home.
Probably drinking wine from a glass that cost more than my couch, trying to figure out how to regain the upper hand in a situation where she'd definitively lost it.
The next text was different in tone.
Less angry.
More accusatory.
You lied by omission. That's still lying.
No, I replied. Lying is saying something untrue. I never said I was broke. I never said I struggled financially. I never claimed to be anything other than what I am. You created a story in your head about who I was based on superficial observations, and now you're mad that your story was wrong. That's not my problem. That's yours.
My phone actually rang then.
Her name flashed on the screen with a photo of her from our trip to Napa last year, back when things were simpler and she hadn't tried to legally protect herself from my supposed financial inadequacy.
I let it go to voicemail.
Whatever she wanted to say could wait until she'd calmed down enough to have an actual conversation instead of just yelling accusations into the void.
The voicemail notification popped up within seconds.
I didn't listen to it.
Instead, I sent another text.
I'm not doing the phone-fight thing tonight. When you're ready to have an actual adult conversation about this, let me know. Until then, I'm going to finish my Chinese food and watch the game.
Her response was a single word.
Unbelievable.
Right back at you, I typed.
Then I did something that probably would have given my mother a heart attack if she'd known.
I muted the conversation and turned my attention back to the basketball game that had been playing in the background.
The Celtics were up by 12 and playing some genuinely beautiful ball, and honestly, that was a lot more interesting than Cassandra's existential crisis about dating someone who turned out to have more money than she did.
But she wasn't done.
Oh no.
Over the next two hours, my phone lit up with notifications that I didn't read.
Couldn't read, because I'd muted them, but I could see the count increasing.
By the time I decided to actually check what had happened, there were 17 more messages, each one apparently more dramatic than the last based on their increasing length.
I unmuted the conversation and scrolled through the saga.
It was like watching someone have a full breakdown via text message, starting with anger, moving through justification, taking a detour through self-righteousness, and eventually landing at a weird place that seemed to be part accusation, part self-pity, and part demand for validation.
The highlights included:
You know I've worked hard for everything I have.
Which, fair, but irrelevant.
My friends are going to ask questions now.
Which, not my problem.
Dalton said we need to completely redraft both prenups.