You Can't Catch Me(3)

Numbers and words; they’ve always been my forte despite my lack of formal education growing up. I should’ve applied my skills to learning how to count cards and made a killing in Vegas. Instead, my choices have led me here.

“Impressive,” she says.

“Thanks. You said Jessica was the most popular girls’ name?”

“That’s right.”

I do another search. “Williams is the third most popular last name. Five people in every thousand.”

She takes a sip of her drink. “You see, there’s probably thousands of us.”

“With the exact same birthday? Maybe ten if you include Canada too. I’d have to look at the name distributions to be sure, and July might have more births than other months, but . . .”

“This is weird. Us meeting.”

“I’ll say.”

She drains her glass. “You think our clueless waitress will serve us another?”

“One can hope.”

Two drinks later, the world is tilting and they’re calling my flight.

“I’ve gotta go,” I say.

“Where you off to, anyway?” she asks. Her cheeks are pink. She’s had three scotches, matching me in number. We’ve left the oddness of our name and birthday combo sit there between us, an unseen tie, an unspoken thread.

“Puerto Vallarta.”

“Nice.”

CNN is replaying the panel from earlier—the one discussing me. My faces flashes on the screen briefly, then disappears. Soon, I’ll do the same.

“I’m going to confess something.” I lean toward her. She smells like peat and grain alcohol. “I got fired last month.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No, I deserved it. But I got this trip out of it, so . . .” My petulant tweet announcing that I’m going to Puerto Vallarta next Sunday, bitches had been met with a particular amount of vitriol from the 4Chan crowd. I kind of enjoyed that one, I must say.

She glances at the screen. “Oh, you’re that Jessica. I didn’t connect it before.”

I don’t believe her, but this isn’t the sort of conversation where you voice that kind of suspicion. “You’ve heard of me?”

“My Google Alert did.”

“You have a Google Alert for your, I mean our, name?”

“You don’t?”

“Well, of course, but . . .”

The corner of her mouth turns down. “But you’re famous,” she says. “I get it.”

“I was never famous.” I raise my hand and make the check symbol at our server.

“You’ve already paid.”

“What? Oh, right.”

I stand, wobble, regain my balance. The drinks were a bad idea.

“We should keep in touch,” she says.

“Sure, give me your number.” I reach for my phone on the bar, fingers at the ready.

“I have a simpler way.” She angles her phone to me.

“What do we do?”

“Just tap it with yours.”

“Like a toast?”

She nods.

“What do we toast to?”

“To the Jessicas?”

“Sounds about right.”

Our phones touch.

“To the Jessicas!” we say together.

An alert flashes on my screen: Jessica Williams has been added to your contacts.

The speaker booms again. Ten minutes till the doors close.

“I’ve got to go,” I say.

“So, go.”

“Nice to meet you.”

“Yes, it was nice, wasn’t it?”

“Maybe we’ll meet again someday?”

She smiles for an answer. I’m not sure why I’m lingering. I don’t want to miss my flight; this trip was hard-won.

“You’d better run.”

The way she emphasizes the word run snaps me out of my haze.

I turn without another word and start to jog toward my gate. I just make my flight, the gate agent tsk-ing me as I’m the last one to board.

I settle into my first-class seat and fall asleep promptly right after we take off, all thoughts of Jessica Two banished by alcohol and altitude.

But not for long.





Chapter 2

I Got Nothing

I promised myself to cut off all contact for the week I’m in Mexico, and it’s a promise I keep. Holding to it isn’t that hard. Most of my friendships were work related, emphasis on the were, and the others are not people I need to keep in touch with on a regular basis.

So I cut off all ties and I sit in the sun and read books on my Kindle and plan for what’s to come. I eat my meals alone and drink alone and sleep alone. I run six miles on the beach every morning. The first day I puke at the end of it. The last day, I’m laughing even though my body aches all over. It’s beautiful and restorative, a hiatus.

I take the shuttle to the airport.

I avoid the airport bar.

I keep my phone off even as I reenter civilization.

My resolve remains in place up to the moment I’m back in my closet-like room in my Greenwich Village apartment. I sit in the middle of my one luxury—a queen-size bed that touches the walls on either side—plug in my phone, and hold it in my hands like I’m praying.