Chapter 13 Elias
ELIAS
“Large caramel latte, please,” I say to the cashier at the coffee shop, needing caffeine more than I’ve needed anything in a very long time.
My eyes feel like sandpaper every time I blink. I have today off—even though I’m on call—and I should spend the time sleeping, yet I don’t want to waste my only day off.
“Sure, no problem. What’s the name?” The pink-haired barista has a sharpie in hand, preparing to scribble on the paper coffee cup.
“Elias.”
“Coming right up, Elias.”
I sit down at a small black table near the window, watching as people walk by in a hurry. In New York City, there’s no time to slow down. If anyone stops, there’s no catching up. People will get left behind and replaced quicker than I can blink.
It’s starting to snow. The first fall of the season. The white flakes are light and fluffy, falling slow, melting as soon as they hit the sidewalk. People are bundled up in thick coats, and scarves cover half their face to protect them from the wind.
My eyes dart around the room, a wave of loneliness hitting me when I see everyone else with someone. Everyone is talking, laughing, sipping their coffees together, catching up, building a life, and I’m here at a table, alone.
Pulling out my phone, I open my messages to see a text from Miss Wrong Number.
I grin, warmth spreading across my chest. Maybe, somehow, this can move forward.
I’d love to learn her name, where she works, what she does, if she wants to travel, if she wants to have a family.
I want to learn about her. I want to know the small things that lead up to the big things.
Me: I’m doing alright. I’m grabbing a coffee now. I’ve missed talking to you too. How’s your day going?
“Elias!” My name is called from the counter and I stand, nodding at a few strangers as my shoulders graze theirs.
I grab my caramel latte, taking a quick sip before heading back to my seat. The warm liquid eases down my throat, calming the anxiety webbing within my chest. Sitting back in my seat, I take out my filthy mafia book and open to the page that’s dog-eared.
I know. Blasphemy.
My phone buzzes again and I pull it out of my pocket, placing it on the table.
Miss Wrong Number: I’m okay. It’s been a weird day. My boss sent me home, and I’m nearly there now.
My fingers fly across the screen.
Me: Is everything okay at work? Are you okay?
I reread the same sentence a few times in the book I’m reading, but I’m too worried about her to focus. Did someone harass her, or did she get fired, suspended? My mind drifts back to Olivia at the restaurant and the man who put his hands on her.
What man could ever lay a finger on a woman?
Miss Wrong Number: Oh, everything is okay.
It was a heavy day. My boss had something personal going on and decided to take care of his brother today.
We had no idea he was seeing someone, and he loved her, but she died, and it’s been devastating.
I’ve worked here for a few years now, so they’re kind of like family to me.
I nod in understanding. That’s what happens when a person spends so much time at work. Coworkers become closer than actual relatives.
Me: I understand what you mean. That’s tragic. Losing someone you love is painful. I’m glad he has you and his brother. It’ll take some time, but he will be okay.
Miss Wrong Number: You sound like you’re talking from experience.
Me: All of us have experience with death, unfortunately. I’m no different than everyone else.
Miss Wrong Number: I’m here if you want to talk about it.
I lost my dad when I was little. I only remember certain things now because so much time has gone by.
I can almost remember his voice if I think about it long enough, but it isn’t the same.
If it weren’t for the photos, I wouldn’t remember what he looked like at all.
It’s sad, knowing he loved me, and I can’t remember the type of person he was.
After so long, the image that was once is gone, and the only thing left is love.
I know I loved him. I still love him, but it’s sad that’s all that is left.
I take a sip of my coffee, loving and hating this conversation. This is what I wanted. I wanted to get to know her more, and now it’s happening naturally. The downside of getting to know someone is having to rip yourself open to allow them to get to know you too.
It’s the hardest part, I think, about allowing someone inside. To get past the grit and pain to hopefully appreciate the soul that has taken a few beatings throughout the years.
Me: I disagree. I think it’s really beautiful that love is left after you’ve forgotten so many things that made them real because that’s what it is, right?
They no longer feel real. They almost feel like they were never there.
They happened in another time, another life, another world, and then you’re reminded that at one point, you were their entire world.
You always want to think back to that moment and as time goes on, it’s harder to grasp.
I lost my mom when I was younger. It was horrible.
No way could we have seen it coming. One minute she was there and the next, she collapsed on the floor.
Brain aneurysm. Nothing could be done. Now, if I close my eyes and really try to imagine her, I always see her knocking on my bedroom door, smiling at me as if I just cured her horrible day, and she’d swipe my hair away to give me a kiss on my forehead.
I have to really focus, and if I get lucky, I can get a quick whiff of her perfume.
For a split second, it feels like she’s with me.
It’s like getting a second with her all over again.
“Shit. That’s a long message.” I debate sending it. I want her to know I relate, that I understand.
I press send before I can think better of it and pick up my latte to distract me. The warmth seeps into my palm and I look out the window to see the snow still falling, the people still hurrying by, and the world existing. With and without our pain and grief, life goes on.
I’m ready to move forward. I’ve been stuck in a loop that I’ve created for myself. One that doesn’t allow change or happiness. I think this woman is the answer to help me step out of the darkness I’ve created for myself.
Miss Wrong Number: Yes! That. Exactly that.
I have this one moment that I dream about sometimes.
I don’t know if it’s real, but it’s of me and my dad.
He’s teaching me to ride a bike. It had training wheels, of course.
He surprised me with it. It was a Barbie bike, hot pink with purple tassels on the handles. Oh! And a little basket up front.
Me: Can’t forget the basket.
Miss Wrong Number: Never! Because anytime we were outside, he’d pick flowers, put them in the basket, then bring them home to Mom.
I dream about it all the time and maybe it’s something my mind made up, but I’d like to think it happened.
That he was outside with me almost every day, picking me up when I would fall and cry.
He’d always wait until I was done and he’d say, “We can stop. We can go inside, but remember pain is temporary, and learning something new can last forever.” So I never quit. I always wanted to learn something new.
Me: That’s really sweet. I love that he brought your mom flowers. I can bet that something similar to that memory happened or you wouldn’t know so many details.
Miss Wrong Number: Maybe it’s him speaking to me in my dreams.
Me: Maybe. I’m open to all possibilities.
Miss Wrong Number: Do you believe in ghosts?
Me: Hmm. I don’t know. I’m open to it. I need to see it to believe it, and I’ve never seen anything like that or had an experience. Evidence is what proves something real to me.
Miss Wrong Number: Oh, we are totally going to watch a ghost hunting show then. They are my favorite! I totally believe it. I want to believe it. How sad would it be if we closed our eyes into darkness for the last time and that would be it? I want there to be more.
Me: That sounds nice. I like that. I haven’t thought about that before. And okay, I’d love to watch your show with you. You just say when and where.
I choke on my latte when my finger presses the button to send the message. “Oh, shit. No, no, no. How can I unsend? Where can I unsend?” I whisper in horror.
I wasn’t thinking. I was so interested in her, in our conversation, that it felt natural to say, but what if she doesn’t want to see me? What if that’s not what she wanted?
Miss Wrong Number: I’ve actually been wondering a few things about you and this arrangement we have.
I like that we’re getting to know each other without knowing what we look like, but I do want to see you one day.
What if we get to know each other for the next few weeks? And if things go well, we meet?
I blow out a relieved breath. I feel like I’ve been let off the hook and…I’m happy. I smile to myself, my fingers twitching over the screen as I think about what to say. I don’t want to appear crazy excited even though I am.
I most definitely am. But I don’t want to run her off before I get a chance to see her in person.
My phone vibrates again.
Miss Wrong Number: You’re killing me here.
I’ve been waiting, holding my breath, and now I need to breathe.
Do you want to meet me or not? If not, let’s call it, because I can’t keep talking with you and pretending I don’t like talking to you.
Or seeing your ridiculously hot, photoshopped body (I mean, come on, who looks like that?) And pretend I don’t want to run my hands down those abs.
I want more. I’m sick of going on these horrible dates.
Wait. She’s been going on more dates? I can’t be mad about that. That wouldn’t be fair of me. She has every right to find what she’s looking for.
But I want to be what she’s looking for.
I continue reading her message. And I want to fall in love, get married, and have a van full of a children.
If that’s not something you want or have been thinking about, then let’s stop this nonsense.
Every time I go on a date, I wish I was talking to you instead. Just put me out of my misery already.
I chuckle, relieved. And I need to hurry before she never talks to me again.
Me: How many kids are we talking when you say a van full?
I chuckle, hoping that’s answer enough to stop her worry. I’m asking because I’m curious. I want a big family too.
Miss Wrong Number: Depends.
Me: On what?
Miss Wrong Number: A compromise might be on the table.
Fuck. My cheeks hurt. How is it possible to be this…excited? Is this what liking someone is supposed to feel like? It feels like more. It feels…big.
All in or nothing, Elias.
Me: Okay, don’t call me crazy because I know I’ve missed my chance at the number of kids I want. At my age, I’d be insane to have that many kids now.
Miss Wrong Number: Who cares? If it’s what you want, isn’t that all that matters? You’re 43. You’re not 80. Jeez. How many?
Me: Between six and ten.
Send.
“That was a choice.” I scoff. “Fuck.”
Miss Wrong Number: Interesting.
“Interesting? What does that mean?” I mutter to myself.
Miss Wrong Number: That’s around what I want too.
Miss Wrong Number: Well, whoever you decide to have kids with will be very lucky. Or you can adopt, get a surrogate, you have options.
Me: I have another option I’m considering. I just have to see how these next two weeks go.
Miss Wrong Number: And then you’ll know who you want to be the mother of your children? Two weeks isn’t a lot of time.
Me: They’re the only weeks that matter.