Chapter 34
CHAPTER
THIRTY-FOUR
The day after my first feature in a series about chronic depression and mental health runs in the Mile High Observer, Randall calls me into his office to celebrate.
I’d given Kyle a pseudonym for the piece, but it was essentially a profile about him and his lifelong struggle.
I cried when I finished writing it, while Randall assured me this was exactly the kind of story he knew I could produce.
And apparently it resonated with people.
A cluster of follows and shares led to a wider discussion of psychiatric and family support, and it was picked up pretty quickly by several national outlets.
One comment stuck with me in particular.
A brief note from a mom whose son’s life drew an eerie parallel with Kyle’s—a head injury early on, which accelerated his already pervasive depression.
But that young man was still here, still fighting, and she thanked me for bringing awareness to his unique situation and needs.
“I thought that would be the highlight of my day,” I say, “until I got this.”
I pass my phone to Randall, who trades me for a celebratory Hershey bar from his personal stash.
He scans the email pulled up on my screen, then looks up at me, grinning.
“A personal invite from the Features editor at Denver Editorial? Are you going to apply?”
I bite my lip. “Probably?”
He scoffs. “I mean, it’s only Denver Editorial. You could hold out for The New York Times . . .”
I roll my eyes.
He chuckles and folds his arms. “You deserve it, Caprice. You’ve outgrown this place.”
My eye catches on a forgotten dog toy sticking out from under his desk, and I frown. “Think of all the lattes I could create, though.”
“Think of the cutthroat piece you could write about career baristas being a source of lost potential in the arts.”
My jaw drops and he laughs. “It’s almost five o’clock. Get out of here and go polish your CV.”
Naturally, I go straight to the gym.
It has been blissful, easing back into a weight routine, getting to focus on toning and strength training rather than just cardio this past week.
I’ve spent upward of ninety minutes every night catching up on lower body, upper body, and core exercises that were beyond the hand weights and yoga mat I squeezed into my tiny living room.
Over the weekend, I even joined a kickboxing class.
What hasn’t been blissful is going home to my quiet, empty apartment.
My phone rings as soon as I step out of the gym onto the sidewalk.
“Hi,” I say, holding the device up so I can see Lydia’s face.
“Ooh, I like your hair!” she says, peering at me. “Did you get it braided?”
“A couple days ago, yep.” I turn my head so she can see both sides. “Hadn’t been to the salon in months. Needed a change.”
“I love it.” Lydia smiles. “God, I need to get a trim before I go into labor. I have, like, twice as much hair than before I was pregnant.” She pushes her voluminous locks out of the way. “What are you up to? Anton said he saw you working out.”
“He did,” I say, playing along with her obvious surveillance. “He was doing hanging leg lifts, and I raised a threatening eyebrow at him from the bench press.”
She grumbles. “I asked him to offer you a ride, but he insisted you’d say no. So, I thought we could just chat on your walk home.”
“His guess was correct,” I mutter, glancing up and down the sidewalk. “But just to set you at ease, there haven’t been any new threatening messages, and no unusual activity on my camera since the flowers.”
“Oh, I know. I’ve been checking it since you gave me the login,” she says. “I think I know Darius and Todd’s work schedules by heart. But doesn’t it make you nervous not getting any messages? That seems . . . I don’t know. Unlike him.”
The “him,” we’re assuming, is Erik Schneider, the co-developer of Unmatched, who I profiled in my latest flop.
And her instincts are dead-on—I’m more terrified not receiving garbage from him than when he was delivering regular notes.
But there’s no reason she needs to know that at more than eight months pregnant.
I check over my shoulder and shrug. “Don’t worry, I’ll be fine. I told you how seriously the police took my report. They’re out there right now hunting down the dead-bouquet stalker.”
She levels me with a stare.
“Wow, your fed-up mom face is legit,” I say.
Instantly, she pales, and I feel a little guilty pinging her anxiety about motherhood . . . but not too much.
“Fine. Subject change,” she says. “I loved your feature.”
“Thanks.” My tone softens. “This one seems like a home run.”
“Because you’re a star. And it’s important.” Her mouth presses into a sad smile. “Maybe since I knew him, it was obvious you were writing about Kyle. But when you described the isolation and despair he went through . . .” Her voice quavers. “Caprice, it was powerful.”
I look away from the camera, checking up and down the street and wiping my eye as I turn a corner. “It felt important to tell his story. Though I’m not sure he’d approve.”
“You know he would have,” she says quietly, pulling her hair over one shoulder. “Giving a voice to the voiceless? He would have been proud of you.”
My feet slap the sidewalk for five heartbeats before she takes another breath and speaks.
“Have you heard anything from—”
“No.”
After the print issue dropped yesterday, I was worried Drew or his family would reach out to complain.
Aside from using a pseudonym for Kyle, I didn’t conceal much about who he was.
If they read the article, they would know it was about him and probably be upset.
But I have a seven-thousand-dollar dress in my closet that I wore, intending to marry him.
It felt like I had the right to honor his memory.
Still, it’s probably best that they didn’t read it.
“Okay, I’m entering my building,” I say, flipping the camera around and turning in a slow circle for her inspection. “Nobody weird out here except the guys who are always vaping on the corner, and the lady walking by with the dyed pink poodle.”
“Oh! She’s a client!” Lydia waves and grins.
“Are you happy?”
“Nope,” she says firmly. “Let’s go for an elevator ride.”
I sigh, following her orders, showing her every nook and cranny of my building’s lobby and empty corridors until I’m standing in front of my apartment door.
“No creepy packages, envelopes, notes, or floral arrangements.” I exhale, admittedly relieved.
“Great. Open the door and let me follow you inside,” she says. “Do you have your pepper spray?”
“Have you been talking to Theo?”
She laughs me off and waits. I stand in the hall, clutching my stomach. Not because I’m scared—well, I am, as much as any harassed woman would be. But mostly I dread what I know is on the other side of the door. Or more precisely, what isn’t.
“Okay, here goes.”
It’s remarkable how huge four hundred square feet can feel once it isn’t being occupied by a sixty-pound animal. I do a quick tour for Lydia’s sake, poking into the bathroom and closets, then circling back and making sure the front door is locked.
“We’re going couch shopping this weekend,” she says. It’s not a question.
“Sure,” I say, navigating around the now-empty living room space as if my destroyed piece of furniture is still there. “Okay, I have work to catch up on. I’m safe, I’m alive. I’m going to go.”
“Great. I love you. Call me tomorrow!” she singsongs as we disconnect.
I set my things down on the kitchen counter next to a pretty glass bottle I repurposed as a bud vase. I spent the first five days vacuuming and Cloroxing every surface after Drew took Rufus. The downside now is there’s nothing left to clean. My entire apartment is spotless.
“Fine, shower it is,” I mutter, then close my eyes. I never used to talk to myself before I had the dog.
Once I’ve unwrapped my hair and snuggled up in my PJs, I work on my CV for an hour, then settle at the counter with a bowl of noodles and steel myself to open my email.
I’m not looking to freak myself out. But I’d almost feel better if something unpleasant was waiting for me.
Nothing too intense—a nasty note. Something criticizing my use of verbs.
Maybe a comment about my name. A week of silence was not at all what I expected to follow a dead bouquet.
But when I open my inbox, what I find hits me harder than any nasty comment or threat.
There’s an email from Kyle. Sent an hour ago.
Bile rises in my throat. If this is someone’s idea of a sick joke, they’re going to be so fucking sorry when I track them down. I click on the message, bracing myself for whatever they’ve written while trying to focus through a blur of tears.
Monday, April 12, 20__, 9:11 PM
To: Caprice_Phipps@
From: Kyle.Forbes@
Subject: Re: no subject
Caprice, this is Drew. Sorry—I hope this doesn’t freak you out. I read your article yesterday. It was perfect. Rufus and I have been sitting here, trying to figure out the right thing to say. But then I opened up Kyle’s laptop and . . . I hope you don’t mind. I read the emails you’ve been sending.
Can we talk?
-Drew
Below his reply is the long string of messages I’ve been sending Kyle over the past year, culminating in the long one I wrote after reading his letter, two years late.
I close my eyes, thinking about Drew reading them—that message in particular.
My lungs seize up, my entire body prickling with fear, with hope, possibility .
. . and at least a hundred other things.
I hop out of my chair. Then back into it immediately to send a reply.
Monday, April 12, 20__, 10:09 PM
To: Kyle.Forbes@
From: Caprice_Phipps@
Subject: Re: Re: no subject
Yes. I’d like that.
Could you bring Rufus here?
Caprice
I’m on my feet again a moment later, checking my face in the mirror.
Brushing my teeth again. Looking around my weird, half-empty space, trying to find something to straighten.
I put on music—downtempo, casual. Just something light to fill the air.
My chest feels flooded, everything inside me loose and swirling.
He read what I wrote about Kyle. He wants to talk.
Maybe what happened between us wasn’t the mistake we both thought it was.
When the knock comes at my door, I don’t register how fast it came. How it feels like hours, but I only replied minutes ago. All I can think is how much I want to see Drew, see Rufus—throw my arms around both of them.
But when I fling the door open, that’s not who’s waiting for me at all.