Look Closer(73)

“You’ll find someone you love,” my mother said to me in her last week, forcing the words out. She was right. I haven’t had a hard time finding someone I love. I’ve found two people. The problem is them loving me back. That’s the hole I’ve felt, even before I realized it was a hole.

I end up running faster than even I expected—nervous energy, I suppose. I cover seven miles, give or take, in less than forty minutes.

I stop outside the alley behind Viva Mediterránea, cool air on my sweaty face, my stocking cap pulled low. Not that Christian would recognize me, even if he stood out on his patio on this chilly night and looked down at me. Has he seen a picture of me? Maybe. Probably. He’s never met me in person.

At eight, I power up the green phone. A message is already awaiting me: I know you won’t read this until tomorrow morning. I’m sorry that I’m writing you instead of saying this in person. It would be very hard for me to say this in person. So here goes. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking, and we can’t be together. We just don’t work. I think you’re a VERY special person, but if I have learned anything, it’s that two people have to make sense together. And we don’t make sense together. I can’t marry you and I can’t be with you. I’m going out of town for a few days to get my head straight. I’m going to turn off my phone. I know that’s harsh but I have to do what’s right for me, and this is right for me. Please respect my decision and don’t try to contact me. I am very, very sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.

I start typing so fast, I almost drop the phone.

Is this a joke? This can’t be real. Everything is great between us. Please tell me it’s a joke!

Her reply box bubbles. It doesn’t take her long: I’m sorry it’s not a joke. I can’t be with you. Please respect what I want. This is what I want. I won’t change my mind. Believe me this is best for both of us.

I respond immediately:

Let’s talk about this. In person. Don’t do this by phone. If something’s wrong, let’s talk about it. Please at least give me that opportunity. Are you home right now?

Her reply is just as quick: No I told you I’m out of town for a few days. If you love me, you’ll respect my decision. I’m turning my phone off now.

I respond immediately, violating the number one rule against using names: Lauren, please. Talk to me in person. Or call me She doesn’t respond. No bubbles.

Lauren, please. If YOU love ME you’ll at least talk to me Again, no response. No bubbles.

Lauren, I’m begging you

I hit “send.”

This is how you treat someone you LOVE??????

I hit “send.”

And then, after a few moments, a response:

I don’t love you. OK? I never did. I needed someone different after a bad marriage. You were my bridge. But that’s all you were. Harsh, I know, but you made me say it. Please don’t contact me again.

I move out of texting and go to the phone. I call her number. The robotic voice tells me that the cellular customer I am trying to call is not available.

I don’t leave a voicemail. I call her again. Same robotic voice.

I call her again. Same robotic voice.

I call her again. Same robotic voice.

I return to text messages. My pulse pounding, my hands trembling, I send one last text: This isn’t over





69

Vicky

People may pay more attention at night, but it’s still easier being a woman out on the streets of Grace Village. And what’s the big deal if you’re only stopping for a quick moment or two on the sidewalk in the middle of a somewhat busy street like Lathrow Avenue on a Sunday evening?

I can see why someone like Lauren would like living around here. Pretty trees hanging over the streets, big houses on wide lots. Peaceful and quiet. And I could also see why someone like Simon, in the next town over, resented a town like this.

Speak of the devil. The pink phone pings again, another text from the old boy: Lauren, please. If YOU love ME you’ll at least talk to me Hey, life’s a bitch. Another text from him: Lauren, I’m begging you

Yeah, well, keep begging. I hold the pink phone in my hand and give him some more time. Keep begging, fella.

This is how you treat someone you LOVE??????

Apparently so.

That’s four consecutive texts from him. Time for Lauren’s final knockout punch: I don’t love you. OK? I never did. I needed someone different after a bad marriage. You were my bridge. But that’s all you were. Harsh, I know, but you made me say it. Please don’t contact me again.

I hit Send, the phone belting out a thwip as the message carries forth to Simon’s phone. Yep, pretty harsh. But Lauren the Gold-Digging Skank is capable of saying something like this, isn’t she? Sure she is.

The phone rings. It’s Simon. I let it ring.

It rings again. I don’t answer.

Again. Let it ring, let it ring, let it ring . . .

Again. No one’s going to answer, Simon. The question is, are you going to send another text? Are you going to let Lauren get the last word? C’mon, sport, you have it in you.

The pink phone pings, another text from the man of the hour: This isn’t over

I press down the “power” button and watch the pink phone’s screen fade to black. I walk south, glancing at the gangway on the south side of her house. The window into the kitchen still open. Lauren really should be more careful.