Last Girl Ghosted(16)

You sipped at your shake, turned your gaze away. A mischievous smile played at the corner of your lips. Your type—brooding depressives who want to be alone.

I shrugged. I thought you were being ironic. I mean—you did go to the trouble of putting yourself out there. You must be looking for something.

You chuckled a little, gave an affirming nod. Then, you put out your free hand, and I put mine in yours. We laced our fingers together. We hadn’t kissed yet. Somehow it felt more intimate than any other encounter I’d had in ages, including my recent hookups.

We’re all looking for something, aren’t we? I said. You never answered, but your smile deepened. Cast in the patina of what has happened—what has happened?—the memory of that moment darkens. What were you looking for exactly?

Now your profile—your nonprofile—is gone, too.

I’m chasing a shadow; you slip further into the ether.

My heart is thumping when I’m done looking for you, my throat dry. New fears start to crowd into my head, pushing and jostling against each other.

You spent a lot of time here at my place. I trusted you as I took a shower, ran errands. You had access to my files, my computer. The letter Dear Birdie just read and answered rings back at me.

His lies. I believed every single one.

The sweetheart scam. Wouldn’t that be something? If I had fallen for one of those. Me—the one who knows too well all the horrors of which people are capable.

I quickly get online and check all my financial accounts, but there’s nothing missing. Most of my Dear Birdie money is invested with a small private firm. My father thought the stock market was the ultimate con. But I’ve done well enough.

So even if someone hacked into my checking account, they would only get whatever was there, enough to cover monthly expenses—which are surprisingly low for a homeowner living in Brooklyn. The house was paid for long ago thanks to Dear Birdie’s success. And, again, it must be said, I’m cheap. Or frugal.

Everything above basic costs goes directly to my accountant, Marty, for saving and investing. He’s an old guy, a New York City lifer, a Depression-era thinker, so he admires my supersaver tendencies. Nothing you buy will make you feel as good as money in the bank.

I grew up without much. I also know what it feels like to lose even that. So, yeah, I hold on, I guess. Or maybe I don’t want to get used to having too much. I don’t know—it’s complicated.

Or maybe it’s my father’s voice: The more you want from the world, the more it holds you by the throat.

As I sit with my web browser open, news items flash in little banners at the top of my screen periodically. I can usually only read the first half before it disappears.

Virus spreads, Chinese officials warn world that—

Oxycodone deaths reach an all-time—

Stocks tumble on news of—

Australian fires rage, claiming hundreds—

Each little banner is a lure, drawing me away from my task. But I block them out.

Where else to look for you?

I tick back through all the places we’ve gone, the things we’ve done, what you’ve told me about yourself. Then I remember your apartment where a strange woman answered the door.

Oh, this is just a vacation rental. I am here with my family this week.

I open the vacation rental website she mentioned and search the listing by address.

Click, click, click. After scrolling through a few apartments, there it is.

Chic, modern Chelsea two-bedroom with stunning views, the headline enthuses—walking distance to almost everything!

I scroll through the photos. The bed where we made love for the first time. The kitchen where you cooked me one of the best meals I’ve ever had—a spicy Chilean sea bass with roasted garlic new potatoes. We drank wine, a bold and fruity cabernet, and laughed and laughed. It felt like love, almost right away. Not what I was expecting—loose connections, fun, but brief encounters. This was more.

Clicking through the pictures on the listing, I see the bathroom. We showered together in the huge steamy stone and glass affair, very stylish. Subway tiles, marble countertops.

In retrospect, it looked very obviously like a vacation rental. Something stiff and cold about it.

The owner’s name and contact number are listed at the bottom of the page. Joe is a “superhost” apparently, and his listing boasts that he’ll get back to you in under an hour. So, I send him an email.

Dear Joe, This might seem odd, but a friend of mine is missing. His last known address is your Chelsea vacation rental. I am attaching a photo. Do you recognize him? Did he leave contact information? Thanks so much for your help.
Then I wait. There’s no phone number to call—there so rarely is these days. No person waiting on the other end to answer your questions, your thoughts and concerns in real time. Warmth replaced by so-called efficiency. The silence around me expands.

Finally, an email comes through, its chime startling me—my editor.

Perfect. See you in-studio later.
In-studio to record the Dear Birdie podcast, where Jax and I read three different letters out loud, then discuss. One broken heart, one dark mystery, one lighter, funnier question about modern etiquette or social navigation. Jax takes the hard-line. I take the softer approach. We sometimes have a third—one of our therapists or a private investigator—to offer some practical advice when needed. Nuts-and-bolts type stuff.