“L’ex de Chloé vend le strap-on qu’elle lui avait mis, Papa,” Elodie blurts out.

My hand jerks so badly I cut myself, the red bloom along the line of my palm filling in the pale skin. “She what?” I say in English, followed by a string of profanity in French.

My daughter did not just say, Chloe’s ex-lover is selling the strap-on she used on him, Daddy.

“That’s why I came to see you.”

Charlie appears with the broom and dust pan. Elodie waves my hands away, urging me to go to the sink. The two continue cleaning. I run my wound under cold water and close my eyes, wincing.

“It hurts that bad?” Elodie asks.

“This conversation does, yes.”

“I meant your hand.”

“The hand is a welcome distraction from talking about Chloe, strap-ons, dog bongs, and my sex life.” Never thought I’d utter the words dog bongs and my sex life in the same sentence.

Charlie eyes us with suspicion. “What did you say in French? I heard strap-on again.” He looks away.

Neither Elodie nor I answer, instead focusing on cleaning the mess. The cut’s so superficial it stops bleeding almost instantly, leaving a sting from the beer. I rummage through the kitchen junk drawer and find a Band-aid, absentmindedly applying it.

A Disney Princess looks back at me. Jasmine. She was always my favorite. It’s the hair.

How long has it been since I’ve cleaned the junk drawer?

Elodie makes a great show of taking out her phone, tapping on the screen, and showing us an auction.

“eBay? What does eBay have to do with Chloe?” I ask.

“It’s not eBay, Daddy. It’s an auction site where you sell all the things your ex gave you that remind you of them.”

Can you sell your children on this site?

“Like eBay for relationship revenge?” Charlie asks, perking up. “Smart concept. I’ll bet they got great venture capital funding.” Charlie has worked for nine different start-ups since dropping out of Yale.

All nine have failed.

“Right. Most of the sales are for engagement rings, wedding dresses, books and mementos. That kind of stuff. Sometimes it’s furniture or books. But, um, this one came up and it’s going viral.”

She turned the glass screen toward me. I squint.

A strap-on.

“How did you find this?”

“Buzzfeed and TMZ are covering it.”

Oh, hell.

“It’s getting that much coverage already?”

“Is that her, Daddy? I came as soon as I saw it. I know you’re not serious with her or anything, but I thought you should know. She should know. It’s so embarrassing and—”

I hold up one finger, buying time.

Chloe’s batshit-crazy drunk ex-boyfriend has gone on this website for people who want to sell their gifts from exes and has started one hell of a smear campaign.

The ad for the strap-on reads:

Khloe Brown was the love of my life.

She dumped me for no reason. Three years down the drain.

We had a love that was so rare. So accepting. So nonconformist. We created our own world and lived in it, inhabiting a space no one else ever had the right to enter.

And now she’s gone, screwing a coworker who looks like every corn-fed Midwestern basketball player lead actor combined with the intellectual curiosity of George W. Bush.

I start choking. Is he talking about me? Stretching up to full height, I look down. No belly. Flat abs. My arms are long, and I can still do a slam dunk on the court. Knees hurt like a sonofabitch the next day, but I can do it.

I ignore the GWB comment.

“Daddy? Why are you, uh...examining yourself?”

I quickly return to the description on the phone. There are worse insults than being called “corn-fed Midwestern basketball player lead actor.”

I went to see her at work. Sent her eight dozen roses. Pleaded with her, and her new fuckbuddy got me in a headlock and beat me until I bled.

“What?” I shout. If that were true, I’d be charged with assault. Idiot.

“Keep reading, Daddy.” Elodie shakes her head and offers me another beer. “Keep reading.”

Nothing bled as much as my heart, though. I shared a love with Khloe and a sensuality that is without parallel. Do you see that dildo in the picture? It represents her.

Beer really hurts when you inhale it.

Charlie has his own phone in hand. He picks up where I leave off as I hack up a lung and some intellectual curiosity.

“She was a stunning Amazon warrior princess in bed, riding me like the stallion that I am. For dumping me the way she did, refusing my calls and texts and visits—”

“VISITS!” I say with a gag. “Visits! The asshole’s been stalking her.”

“—for throwing away my love and support, all the nights we spent together, all the years I devoted to her, I sell this lot of items she gave me with one purpose in mind: that the money should go to a group with purpose and honor. I will donate all proceeds and match the amount.”

“Who’s he donating the money to?” I ask, not wanting to know.

“A men’s rights organization led by a pick-up artist,” Elodie says with obvious acrimony.

“Of course.”

“And!” Charlie continues, trying to read as he laughs. “Should my heartfelt words touch the cold iceberg of my beloved’s heart, I will withdraw this auction in full so we can live out the destiny that we were meant to have.”

“Pegging is a destiny?” Elodie mutters.

I do not want to know how she knows that term.

“What else is for sale?” I ask, cringing.

“A Coldplay t-shirt,” Charlie says.

“He’s a monster!” Elodie shrieks, as if that’s somehow more offensive than the strap-on.

“What’s wrong with Coldplay?” I ask, genuinely confused. “I like their music.”

Charlie and Elodie exchange a look of camaraderie in their shared disgust.

“That’s what’s wrong with Coldplay,” she mutters, adding a shiver.

“And a bunch of very nice cashmere sweaters, size M,” Charlie continues. “An original vinyl print from a Dave Brubaker album he says was a gift from her.”

She has good taste.

“And a Rush album.”

Maybe not.

“A very nice Rolex and some Montblanc fountain pens.”