Last Girl Ghosted(36)

“I know, I know,” she says. “But—how could I have been so wrong about the kind of man he was?”

Good question. I’m asking myself the same thing.

I thought you were a good guy, Adam. Smart and funny. A hard worker, into your profession, a considerate lover, a good cook, a listener, a friend. We laughed and shared ourselves. We spent Sundays in bed watching classic movies. I made you French toast. It wasn’t any good, but you ate it anyway, offering praise and enthusiasm for my effort.

Maybe we’re all so confused these days about what’s real and what isn’t, what’s authentic, what’s fake, that our instincts for the truth have been dulled.

That’s what my father would say.

Jax’s phone pings. She holds it up. I see a picture of a guy with a goatee and smiley eyes, dark skin, kind smile. “‘I’m sorry,’” she reads aloud from the text that comes through. “‘Please forgive me.’”

“Don’t answer,” I say.

She puts the phone down but keeps staring at it. It pings again.

“‘I misread your signals,’” she reads. She gives me a look, grabs the phone.

“I liked you,” she says aloud as she types with her thumbs, red nails blazing. “That doesn’t mean I wanted to sleep with you right away. We could have talked. Had a drink. Seen each other again. You didn’t have to jump me the second I was in your door.”

She hits Send.

Nothing comes back. We both sit there, staring at the pulsing dots. Finally, another ping.

“‘You’re a tease,’” she reads, eyes flashing with anger. “Oh, no, he did not just say that.”

“God! Really?” I say. “Fuck this guy.”

We block his number, then get online on my computer, and block him from all her socials. And just like that, he’s gone. Ghosted—can’t comment on her feeds, can’t call her. He officially doesn’t exist.

When we’re done, we sit on the couch and she cries in my lap while I stroke her hair. The fire is just embers, and the room has taken on a chill the way old places will. Things seem dark and sad, empty.

“Okay,” she says, sitting up. “Pity party over.”

“Right,” I agree, squeezing her hand.

“Now, you,” she says, tracing her lower lids with manicured fingers, fixing the smear of mascara. “Tell me everything.”

“Nothing to tell,” I lie. “He’s gone. I haven’t heard from him.”

She squints at me. “No. There’s something else going on. What is it?”

I want to tell her about Bailey, about the article, about the office, the missing women and the connection to The Hollows, the town where I spent part of my life. But I know if I do, she’ll be all up in it. She’ll be on the phone with Jason, our private investigator; the thing will come alive with her energy and heat. I need to be alone with it for now. I need to think.

“Really,” I say. “Sometimes people just leave us. It sucks. It hurts. But you can’t hold on to someone who wants to get away. You have to move on.”

“You sound like Dear Birdie.”

I shrug. “I am Dear Birdie.”

“You don’t have to handle everything alone, you know.” In other words, she knows I’m keeping things from her. And like any good friend she’s letting me keep my secrets, knowing I’ll spill it when I’m ready.

“I know.”

I make her some tea and take her upstairs to my guest room, give her a pair of clean pajamas, turn on the light by the bed. The room is cozy and comfortable, soft blankets and big throw pillows. She’s slept here many times; I often think of it as Jax’s room.

“I guess I was lonelier than I thought,” she says, climbing into bed. “I thought this was the real thing. Not just some Torch hookup.”

“I know the feeling,” I say, sitting beside her. Smart women, both of us. Successful. Good people. Kind. Loving friends. Why is this so hard?

“Please tell me what’s going on,” she says. “Wren, please. Tell me.”

I hesitate again, but she takes my hand and squeezes.

“We’re in this together, right?” she says when I stay silent. So, I give her the abridged version—that your profiles have disappeared, that a detective is looking for you. That you might not have been who I think you were.

“So, who is he?” Jax whispers when I’m done.

I flash on my dream, chasing Mia though the woods. On another night, it might have been Robin. Every now and then when I catch the person I’m chasing, it’s a younger version of myself.

“I have no idea,” I have to admit. The man you were with me might simply be a fiction. Someone you created—or I did.

Jax looks young and frightened in the dim light of the room. She’s not the powerhouse she usually is, the ass kicker, the influencer, the woman-up guru with all the answers. She’s just my friend. Someone who needs my comfort and love as much as I need hers. Someone who, at the moment, is as lost in this crazy modern world as I am, as all the people who come to us for advice.

I have no idea who you really are, Adam.

But I am going to find out.

I tuck her in and kiss her on the head like a child. She’s asleep before I leave the room.