Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
Callie
“Stop hogging the popcorn, Cal. Pass it down here.”
Scooping out a handful of salty, buttery goodness, I pass the bowl to my sister, Joey, who passes it to her best friend Twila, who then hands it off to Raven. We’re all scrunched together on my single couch, gabbing while a romantic comedy we’ve seen a dozen times plays on the television.
“Oh, hey, did you ever text that guy back?” Raven asks, and Joey and Twila both turn their heads toward me.
“What guy?” Joey asks, her brows lifting nearly to her hairline.
“We don’t know if it’s a guy ,” I say to Joey, then turn my gaze to Raven. “And no, not yet. I got another text this morning, and I didn’t get a chance to text them back before my students arrived.”
“What did it say?” Raven asks.
I pull out my phone and open the text thread before handing the device to Joey, who reads both messages aloud. When she finishes, a weird silence falls among us as the same emotion I felt this morning ravages through me. I can tell by Joey and Twila’s expressions, they feel it, too. Raven just looks thoughtful.
“You should text him back,” she says when no one else speaks. “It sounds like he thinks he’s texting a ghost.”
Joey passes the phone back to me, and I read the last message again silently. Raven is right. These messages weren’t meant for me, and they feel…intimate. And sad. Like the intended recipient isn’t in the sender’s life, anymore. Whether separated by distance or death, it’s none of my business.
I need to respond before the messages get any more personal and private than they already are.
Tapping the screen, I stare at the blinking cursor for a long moment as I collect my thoughts. Then, I begin to type.
Me: Hi. I don’t know who you’re trying to reach, but I just got this number a few weeks ago, and I know your messages weren’t meant for me. I’m sorry for the confusion.
I read my text aloud for the girls, and Joey and Twila agree it’s sufficient while Raven frowns. I meet her gaze for a moment, then cock my head.
“What? You don’t think it’s good?”
She shrugs, saying, “I told you. I’d just go with, ‘New number. Who dis?’”
I huff out a chuckle when her expression remains perfectly serious for a few beats, and at the sound of my humor, she breaks, a laugh bursting through her lips. Twila giggles and shakes her head, holding up a palm.
“Please don’t write that.”
I shake my head, take a deep breath and hold it, then I tap the icon to send the message I typed out before saying, “There. It’s done.”
Setting my phone on the armrest next to me, I hold out a hand and motion for Raven to pass the popcorn bowl back my way. The four of us settle in and refocus on the movie, and soon, the others are involved in a running commentary about the storyline and quoting bits and pieces of it along with the actors.
I try to join their antics, but my attention keeps straying to my phone. Every time the screen lights up with a new notification, my gaze zooms in to see if it’s my mysterious texter responding to my message. I tell myself I’m not disappointed every time I see a different app notification, but there’s no denying the hollow feeling in my chest and the way my body sags each and every time.
I don’t know why I’m so invested in this. It’s a simple case of a wrong number. That’s it. The person on the other end of the messages probably saw my text, got a little embarrassed, and decided to never text the number again.
That’s it.
It’s over.
Finito.
We can both move on with our lives, now.
I stretch and blink my eyes open to see a bright ray of sunshine sneaking into my room through the gap in the curtains. Grabbing my phone from the nightstand, I tap the screen to wake it up. The first thing I see is the time––I actually slept in a little after my late night with the girls.
The second thing I see? A notification that my mystery texter responded to my message.
Sitting up quickly, I open the app and see he sent not one, but two text messages a couple of hours ago.
760-555-9090: Hi. Thank you so much for letting me know. This number belonged to someone I lost two years ago, this week, and I’ve been feeling a bit…nostalgic. Sorry to bother you. I didn’t know her phone number had been reassigned.
760-555-9090: Sorry, that was a bit heavy to drop on you this early on a Saturday morning. Not to mention way too much information from a total stranger. I just wanted to explain why… You know what? No. I’m going to shut up now. Thanks again, and have a nice day.
I read the messages again, my teeth nibbling at my bottom lip as I try to decide what to do. Ignore them and let the conversation end? That would probably be the smart way to go. I don’t know this person, and now that he or she knows I’m getting their texts, they’ll stop sending them and we can both move on with our lives.
But on the other hand, I feel like I should say something . Let them know I wasn’t bothered by the messages. That they have no need to feel embarrassed on top of the grief they’re already experiencing.
Dropping the phone to the bed beside me, I heave out a long, noisy breath. I don’t know what the right choice is. If this person is being genuine, a nice response from me would be appropriate, right? But if they’re some sort of scammer trying to tug on my heartstrings so they can infiltrate my life and empty my bank account? Well, then, I’d be smart to disengage immediately.
But how do I know which is true?
Rolling out of bed and leaving my phone where it is, I head into the bathroom to empty my bladder. When I’m done washing my hands, I scrub my face and brush my teeth, my gaze darting toward the bed again and again to land on my phone.
I’m not going to be able to let this go. On the off-chance this person is being truthful, I need to say something.
Spitting out the toothpaste and rinsing my mouth, I dry my hands and head back to the bed. Plucking my phone from the mattress, I climb in and prop my back against the headboard. After reading the messages one more time, I start to type.
Me: You don’t need to be sorry. You weren’t bothering me. I just felt like I was invading your privacy by reading messages meant for someone else. I’m very sorry for your loss.
I tap the icon to send the message, then force myself to put my phone down and not obsess over whether or not the person will respond. I start to climb back out of bed, but a text notification has me snapping back upright and snatching my phone up like a maniac.
760-555-9090: Thank you for your kindness. It’s been a tough week, and I’ve had to wear this mask of normalcy the whole time. It’s nice to talk to someone with whom I don’t have to pretend to be okay.
My brow furrows, and I’m typing back without a second thought.
Me: Why do you have to pretend to be okay? Wouldn’t the people in your life understand?
760-555-9090: Only a couple of people at my work know, and it’s the kind of job where I can’t really bring my personal life into the mix. My brother and my friends know, of course, but I don’t want them to worry about me, so I act like I’m okay. Just a little sad. I feel like I can’t really be honest with anyone, really. I can’t take the pity.
Me: Well, you can be honest with me.
I send the message without thinking, and a hollow feeling erupts in my chest. Oh, God. Why did I say that? I’m a stranger to this person. And they’re a stranger to me.
Even if everything they said is the God’s honest truth, it’s inappropriate, right? Or just plain weird. I wouldn’t be surprised if they end the conversation and block my number for good measure.
When no response comes through, I take a screenshot of the message thread and text it to Raven in a panic.
Me: Look what I did. I’m freaking out.
Raven: Why are you freaking out? You offered to be a friendly ear to a stranger. Some would call that empathetic. Kind, even. Don’t freak out.
Me: But what if he or she is a criminal, and I’ve just opened up myself to a love scam?
Raven: In love already?
Me: Shut up. You know what I meant.
Raven: Okay. Calm down. You can be a friendly ear if they’re legit, and if they’re not, just protect yourself. Don’t give them your real name or any other personal information. And if they ever ask for money, block the number. Easy peasy.
An alert for a message from the stranger pops up on my screen as I read Raven’s message, and I swallow thickly as I navigate back to our thread to read it.
760-555-9090: That’s very kind of you. But don’t you think it’s weird? Talking to a stranger about stuff like this? I don’t even know your name.
I bite my lip again, as I compose a response in my head. Should I tell them to just forget it? It is weird, after all. But at the same time, the thought of ending…whatever this is leaves me feeling a bit bereft. I want to help if I can.
So, I hold my breath and type out a response.
Me: I think it’s better if we remain anonymous. You know, just in case one of us is a psycho-stalker. And by one of us, I mean you.
760-555-9090: Good plan. No personal information is smart. Maybe we can come up with nicknames?
I think about that for a moment, then nod to myself. My thumbs fly over the screen as a smile tugs at my lips.
Me: Nicknames are good. You can call me Elle.
760-555-9090: Elle? Did you just pull that out of thin air?
Me: What? Like it’s hard?
760-555-9090: Okay. Okay. In that case, you can call me Emmett.
I blink a few times when that text comes through just seconds after I sent mine. He––I guess I can assume he’s a “he” at this point––caught the Legally Blonde reference immediately and has obviously seen it recently enough that he recalled Luke Wilson’s character’s name without looking it up.
Me: Impressive.
760-555-9090: Thank you. I am a very talented man.
Me: The offer still stands, by the way, if you want to talk about…anything.
A couple of minutes go by with no response, and I start to tense up. Maybe I pushed too hard. We were having a lighthearted conversation, and I made things all serious again. I’m trying to figure out how to take it back and get this conversation back on solid ground when a reply finally comes through.
760-555-9090: A few years ago this week, my fiancée was in a fatal car accident. This is always a hard month for me, and I’ve found texting her to talk about memories of us seems to help me remember the happiness we shared and not just the pain of losing her.
My eyes sting with emotion as I read the message. I chastise myself for it as I blink back the tears. It’s not like I know “Emmett” or the woman he was going to marry.
And now I have to think of something appropriate to say that doesn’t sound completely…trite.
Me: Tell me one thing you loved about her.
As soon as I send the message, I regret it. Should I have offered the cliché condolences that popped into my head first? He’s obviously still sad over the loss of this woman, but it’s an old wound, and I thought talking about something good and happy would be better than all the things he’s probably heard from people since the accident.
760-555-9090: It’s hard, but if I can only pick one, I’d have to say it was her stubborn streak. That woman would stick to her guns until the end of time even if she knew she was wrong. She loved a good debate, and she rarely lost because whoever she disagreed with––most frequently me––would eventually get exhausted and concede.
I’m grinning by the time I finish reading. Most men would talk about a woman’s beauty or grace. Their kindheartedness. Generosity. Strength.
But not Emmett. What he loved most was her obstinacy.
Me: She sounds amazing.
760-555-9090: She was. Thank you for listening, Elle.
Me: Anytime.
I take a moment to save his number under the name “Emmett,” and as I finish the process, another text comes through.
Emmett: Okay, I need to go get some work done, but can I text you again sometime?
Me: Of course.
Emmett: Great. Talk to you later, then.
Me: Talk to you later.
I blow out a long breath and drop my phone to the bed beside me. I feel good about that conversation, and I really, really hope he was being honest and isn’t a romance scammer.
If he is, I’m going to be extremely disappointed.