Until the Day I Die(81)

“Shorie?” Arch calls after me.

Rhys doesn’t slow down; he runs right up to me, wraps his arms around my torso, and puts his lips on mine.

“Ahhh,” I gasp under his mouth.

The bag he’s carrying swings around and thunks me on the hip, but we keep on kissing. I breathe him in. His lips feel like poetry. Like red velvet cupcakes and sweet tea cut with lemonade and sleeping until noon on Saturday. Turns out there is a movie moment after all, right here in the Birmingham airport. But not one from a zombie movie. More like a rom-com.

“Shorie.” Arch is standing beside us. I disentangle myself from Rhys. My face is flushed, and my pulse has gone through the roof.

“Arch, this is my . . . this is . . .” I look blankly at Rhys.

“Rhys Campbell.” Rhys holds out his hand. “Nice to meet you.”

They shake. I look down at the bag Rhys is carrying.

“I brought your computer,” he says. “Dele told me you were flying out this morning, and you mentioned . . . I thought you might want it.”

“You drove up here from Auburn? At five in the morning?” Our eyes meet, and he removes the strap of my computer bag over his head and loops it over mine.

“Well, it was three actually when I originally left.”

My face is flaming. I feel like I’m about to topple over.

“That thing you texted me yesterday,” he says. “The question . . .”

I wait.

“I never followed you. But I did, maybe, drive around town to see if I could find you.” His face is now so red it matches mine. “I know that’s probably kind of creepy. And I’m sorry. But I wasn’t stalking, I swear. I was just . . . hoping to run into you.”

A woman announces the next zone of boarding over the loudspeaker, and a rush of sorrow engulfs me.

I feel Arch’s hand on my elbow. “Here we go, love.” He nods once at Rhys—“Young man”—and then pulls me into the security line.

The plane’s full, and because Arch and I got our tickets at the last minute, we’re not sitting together. Which helps me, because I can fire up my laptop and dig into Jax’s servers without having to explain myself. Even before they close the doors, he’s strapped in three rows in front of me and waving down the flight attendant for a drink. The flight to Miami is too short to get much done, and even though we got a rare direct flight to Saint Lucia and I’ll have more time, I wonder if attacking the servers is the right approach. I’m starting to think that maybe I should focus all my efforts on getting in touch with Mom. Leave the tech stuff to Ben.

Once we’re in the air, I pull out my phone, pay for the airplane Wi-Fi, and open Jax. There are no new messages from Mom, just that one from some rando dude I’m not even connected to yet. I angle myself in my seat so no one can see my phone and click over to my email to see if Ms. X—Sabine—has been up to anything. But the latest screenshots reveal nothing. Her balances have stayed level, and there are no new private messages.

And then something occurs to me: there are probably old messages that Sabine may have traded with Yours which she either deleted (if she was smart) or archived (if she was sentimental). I can’t believe I didn’t think of that. There could be a whole section of messages that could give me a clue as to who Yours is.

I’ll just need to reconfigure the spyware to show me all of her archived messages.

I pull out my computer, and in less than ten minutes, I’ve modified the settings. I click over to email again, refresh, and hold my breath. Nothing.

The captain comes over the intercom, mumbling something about the wind speed or place in line for landing.

“You get your Flannery O’Connor research done?” Arch is standing in the aisle, looking down at me.

I tuck my laptop away and smile. “I can work on it later.”

A flight attendant stops at my chair. “Sir, could you take your seat?”

“Just headed there now.” Arch winks at her and goes.

“Seat up, please,” she says crisply to me. But she’s smiling. Arch always has that effect on women.

I raise my seat, check my phone again, and see a new email. I click on it, and a series of new screenshots downloads.

Oh my God. The archived messages.

There’s a string of them, beginning in April, stretching across several weeks. April, I think, and feel jittery all over. One month after Dad died.

Grand Bohemian. Room 523. 1pm. Xx

I’ll be there.

God, I’ve missed being with you. Why is it so good with us? Xx Because we understand each other. We let each other be.

The next batch is dated a week later.

Can’t make it today. Maybe tomorrow. xx

I have to see you, S.

S for Sabine, I think. But who’s the person she’s communicating with? I read on.

Sorry. Got to go to Atlanta for a couple of days. FaceTime at 9?

Not as good as the alternative.

We’ll see.

Then three days later:

Just so you know, the strapless dress I’m going to be wearing tonight? It’s for you. And whatever happens to be under it—or not under it—that’s for you as well.

Yes. Go on.

Not now. B here.

B. That must be Ben.

I’m back . . . ready for more?

I’m ready . . .