Last Girl Ghosted(22)

I read the letter that I answered earlier. Jax and Ben are both miked up, waiting.

“That’s rough,” says Jax when I’m done.

“There’s a lot to unpack here,” says Ben.

“I think her friend is right,” I say. “I think she owes it to herself to seek some justice. Even if she doesn’t get it. Just the act of trying will help her to reclaim some of what he’s taken from her. And I’m not talking about the money.”

“I agree,” said Jax. “People like this guy—they count on you shrinking into the shadows, letting your shame keep you silent. That’s how they get away with it again and again. I’m thinking—just spitballing here—hit man?”

We both laugh. “Maybe not that extreme,” I say.

“Looking for justice is one thing,” Ben puts in gently. “Looking to harm someone because they have harmed us is another.”

“But that’s a kind of justice, isn’t it?” says Jax, leaning forward, challenging him as she so enjoys doing.

“There’s no justice in doing harm, no matter what the crime,” Ben says.

“We can stand up for ourselves without harming others. We can speak our truth, and ask people to make amends, and still behave ethically,” I offer.

Jax shakes her head vigorously; this is a push-button issue for her. “And the bad guys run amok, because the good guys don’t want to do harm. I mean look at the world. The bad guys—they’re winning.”

“But that’s how we keep being the good guys,” says Ben. His smile is serene, loving.

We go around and around like this for a while, until finally I conclude with the answer I penned earlier. I’m sure we’ll get lots of mail about this one.

We have a couple of other letters to address—a woman who can’t move on from grief and has given in to agoraphobia. Here we talk about fear, and how the world moves on, even when we can’t, and how to navigate that disconnect. Ben talks a bit about immersion therapy and finding someone who can help her to reenter the world one step at a time. We refer her to a counselor who specializes in grief.

After that we go light, discussing a letter from an older office manager who works with a passel of millennials and her inability to understand emoji use. If I don’t put a smiley face emoji or some hearts in my texts, people think I’m mean!

“Language is fluid,” I say. “Every year there are new words, colloquial changes. Over time words that mean one thing come to mean another. Emojis, like it or not, are part of that state of change. It might seem silly. But would it kill you to send heart eyes to express warmth and goodwill?”

Ben makes an affirming noise.

“Or you could simply tell your staff that emojis are not your thing,” says Ben. “Then plan a gathering so that you can all get to know each other better. Have some real-time conversations, so that people can hear your voice in your other communications more clearly.”

“Or,” says Jax. “Just pick one signature emoji—the smiley face, or even the three hearts smiley face, and use that. It can be part of your brand.”

It all runs over me. In the studio, dwelling in Dear Birdie, all the rest of my life is gone as if it doesn’t even exist. I forget all about you for a while. I am lost in other people’s problems, helping them navigate a world that it seems like we’re all struggling to understand. I am reluctant for the session to end. But end it does.

“You doing okay?” Jax asks, as she pulls on her coat to leave. “Did you hear from him?”

I shake my head. I consider telling her about Bailey Kirk, about the missing girl. But I’m not ready to “unpack” it yet, as Ben would say.

“I guess I’ve been ghosted.”

“I’m sorry, honey,” she says, pulling me close. She smells like tea tree; her embrace is full of love energy. I let that flow though my body.

“I’m okay,” I lie into her shoulder.

“I know you are,” she says, pulling back to look at me. “You’re wonder woman. Meanwhile, why don’t you talk to Jason? Take your own advice.” Jason is the private detective to whom we refer some Dear Birdie letter writers, a tech genius who practically lives inside a computer.

“Yeah. Maybe,” I say. “Anyway, Adam didn’t take anything from me.”

She puts a hand on my shoulder. “Didn’t he?”

Jax and Ben leave together, and I’m alone in the studio. The production team on the other side of the glass is already at work on editing the session. I like this warm, windowless space. All sounds muted, lights dim.

I check to make sure the mic sound is off, and then I call Joe the superhost. He answers after one ring.

“This is Joe.” An old man’s voice, gravelly and gruff.

“Hi, this is Wren. I left a message about my friend.”

He issues a mirthless laugh. “Yeah, well, your friend owes me about $5K.”

“How’s that?”

“He rented my place for a long weekend,” he says. “Sent me the money via wire transfer, nice and easy. When he asked if he could stay for another week, I said yes. It was slow and I didn’t have anyone in the calendar.”

I hear sirens in the background. Joe clears his throat.

“Okay,” I say.