11. Chapter 11
Chapter 11
Chase: When will I stop counting time in days?
I look down at my phone, scrunching my brow. I’m currently sitting on the couch watching television as I eat a bowl of pralines and cream ice cream for dinner. It’s how I’m coping with my dad and June, and Robin and Dawson.
I need someone to talk to, but Hannah wasn’t here when I got home and when I asked her when she’d be here, she just sent back that I shouldn’t wait up. She’s been working on a case that’s kept her at the office late at night for the past week.
So I’ve been spending my night with ice cream and reruns of Seinfeld .
I text a question mark back to Chase.
Chase: It’s been ten days since my mom died. Tomorrow will be eleven.
Maggie: Oh. Right. In my experience, it’s days, then weeks, and then months. Then years … I’m assuming. I haven’t gotten to the year part yet.
Chase: Is there anything else we count like this?
Maggie: Babies? That’s all I can think of.
Chase: So birth and death. Kind of interesting.
Maggie: I’d really never thought of that until right now.
Chase: I’m a thinker … sometimes .
I smile at my phone.
Maggie: How is day ten?
Chase sends me back the poop emoji. Such a fitting response.
Maggie: Sounds about right
Chase: I’m tired of feeling sad
Maggie: It’s not fun
Chase : I need to think about something else. Whatever happened to that guy with the nice butt?
My eyes go wide at my phone and I let out a little yelp. I’d somehow compartmentalized this whole thing. I’d put the stranger that had my mom’s number, who read my texts for two weeks without telling me, in one box. And Chase, who’s just lost his own mom, in another. I’d forgotten they were one and the same.
I send him back the dead emoji—the one with the x on both eyes.
Chase: Did I kill you?
Maggie: With embarrassment
Chase: Sorry. Didn’t mean to embarrass you. So what happened to him?
I cover my eyes with one hand and try not to think about all the things that I told Chase. So many things. It was like he was reading my personal journal. Actually, that’s exactly what it was.
Chase: I’m waiting …
Maggie: You’re very pesky for someone I don’t really know.
Chase: What do you want to know?
Maggie: Do you like Star Wars?
Chase: Of course. But only the original three.
Ha! I was right about that. I wonder if I’m right about what he looks like. Lately I’ve been picturing him as a tall, lanky guy with brown hair. A bit like Benedict Cumberbatch. This could be my own manifestation of what I want him to look like, because I’m totally a Cumberbabe.
Chase: My last name is Beckett. There, you can stalk me on Insta. But I have to warn you, I don’t post a ton.
Chase: I’ll wait while you stalk me.
I smile at my phone again.
I open up Instagram and search for the name Chase Beckett. Ten names come up and I scroll through, wondering which one is him. I also feel a tingle of anxiousness travel down my spine. This whole situation is so unbelievably strange.
I scroll through the different profiles, narrowing down who I think the Chase Beckett I’ve been texting might be. There are a couple of young kids that I rule out, a guy with a man bun that I do a silent prayer is not him. There’s one guy standing with a yellow dog next to him. I can’t really see much of that guy, since the profile pictures on Instagram are so small and this one is zoomed out pretty far.
Maggie: Which one are you? There are like ten.
Chase: There’s a dog in my profile picture. A golden retriever .
I click on the Chase Beckett with the dog, and as it opens up I feel butterflies dance around in my stomach, almost not sure I want to look. I don’t even know why I feel this way. It’s just the reality of it all. I’m about to see what Chase looks like. I’ve had a picture in my head and I’m curious how he will match up.
“You really do suck at posting,” I say out loud to my empty living room.
There are maybe a dozen posts, and only half of them are pictures. The rest are quotes or memes. I scan over them and find another one of him and the dog and click on it, watching as it fills up the screen.
The caption on the photo says: Me and Oscar.
Chase Beckett is a real person. I mean, of course I knew that. But that’s him, on my screen. He has a dark-brown, thick head of hair. I can’t really tell his eye color because of the lighting in the picture, but they look brown. He’s got a good smile—a genuine-looking one. He’s wearing a brown leather jacket over a white T-shirt and jeans. And he’s handsome. Definitely not a Benedict Cumberbatch look-alike with those broad shoulders under that leather jacket. Also not Dawson handsome, because no one else could be that good looking, but by all definitions—at least my own definitions—Chase is handsome.
I’m not sure how I feel about this.
My phone beeps in my hand.
Chase: You might be the slowest stalker ever.
Maggie: You have a dog?
Chase: Yep. Oscar. Best dog ever.
I click out of the picture of him and Oscar and scan over the other ones on his page, looking for more clues about him. I see one of a family and click on it. It’s his family. It has to be—they all look like they’re related. Same color hair, smiles that look like they go together.
I let my eyes focus on his mom. She looks so young for her age … if this was taken recently. She’s beautiful, with shoulder-length brown hair, curled in waves. She’s wearing a red sweater and jeans with knee-high black boots and standing next to a man that’s probably what future Chase will look like—it’s definitely his dad. Tall, like Chase, but lots of gray in that nice head of hair.
There’s a woman standing next to Chase—his sister, I’m assuming. It’s not hard to assume, they look so much alike.
Maggie: Your mom is beautiful
Chase: She is
Maggie: How old are you in that picture?
Chase: 28. We took it last year.
Maggie: Your sister? Older or younger?
Chase: Kenzie. She’s older by two years. She’s getting married next February.
Maggie: Oh wow. How is she doing?
Chase: About the same as me
He sends another poop emoji.
Maggie: My last name is Cooper
Chase: Let the REAL stalking begin!
Maggie: I’m the one in the pink baseball hat.
In my profile picture I’m wearing a Cooper’s hat, and it was my mom who took the photo. I’d just bought my Jeep and she snapped a picture of me through the open driver’s side window. The future felt big and bright then, my smile full and wide. I found it on her phone after she died and made it my profile picture.
I go back to Instagram and pull up my page, feeling slightly nervous now about what he’ll see on there. Not so nervous about the pictures of myself, because like all people my age, I tend to post only the best ones. I go minimal on the filters, but there are pictures in there that I took ten times (or more) before I got the one I felt was good enough to post.
I definitely post a lot more than Chase does, but not gratuitously. No pictures of my food or oversharing of my life. I post a lot about the shop, and pictures of my family and the things we do together, or used to do together. Going on jumps—so many pictures of that. But also zip-lining, bungee jumping, snorkeling. We did so many things together. My mom loved to try new experiences and would remind us constantly how lucky we were to be able to do all the things we did.
My heart does a little twisting thing when I think of those jumping pictures. It was my mom’s favorite thing to do. She said she felt so free, so light up there. It still doesn’t sound appealing to me. In fact, I don’t much feel like doing any of the things we used to do together.
There are also a lot of pictures of my mom. Some of just her and me, some of the family, some with only her in them. I posted a lot about her after she died. It felt cathartic, in a way. I’ve hardly posted anything else since. It’s all been her. Of course, it doesn’t feel like much has happened since that November day. Nothing Instagram worthy, at least.
Except that right now a stranger I met because he has my mom’s phone number is currently looking at my Instagram. That’s not Instagram worthy, but it is therapist worthy .
My phone beeps.
Chase: I like all the pictures of your mom. She’s very pretty.
Maggie: Thanks. I posted a lot. It was … therapeutic.
Chase: I thought sending her texts was your therapy.
He adds a winking face. If we were in person, I would throw my well-worn flip-flop at his head.
Maggie: We shall never speak of that again.
Chase: Lips are sealed
Chase: Oh wow. Whose Lambo is that?
I pull Instagram back up and scroll down to see a picture of me sitting inside my dad’s Lamborghini. This was from last year when we were doing Drives for Dreams. The car is wrapped in a bright-blue vinyl with our logo printed on it, similar to what you’d see on a race car. I’m in a racing suit, also covered in the Cooper’s logo, and wearing a Cooper’s baseball cap. I only sat in the car for the picture. I never race … we let Devon do that.
My smile in that photo looks pained to me now. I remember that day well. Mom was supposed to be there with us, but she wasn’t feeling well, so she stayed home. That was two months before her diagnosis.
Sometimes I hate looking at these pictures.
Maggie: It’s my dad’s
Chase: Are you for real right now?
Maggie: It’s for work
Chase: What does he do ?
Maggie: We have a family business—Cooper’s. We vinyl wrap cars.
Chase: That car … wow. So cool.
Maggie: It’s not as cool as it looks
Chase: Stop trying to ruin my dreams
Maggie: That’s what I’ve been called. A dream ruiner.
Chase: I wouldn’t have thought that about you. So sad.
Maggie: Right?
Chase: Who are the two little girls?
He must be looking at the picture of me with Alice and Avery. One of my favorite pictures of the girls and me. It was a month before my mom died. I needed a break from the hospital visits, so I volunteered to watch them while Chelsea ran some errands.
It was one of my better ideas. For a few hours I was able to put aside all the hard things and just play. In the picture, Avery has her little arms around my neck and Alice has a pout on her face. That’s a normal look for Alice: pouting. I love her so much, my sassy little Alice. I love Avery too. She looks just like my mom did when she was her age, and she gives the best hugs, just like her nana used to.
Maggie: My nieces
Chase: Where do you land in the sibling order?
Maggie: Middle. Chelsea is older, Devon is younger.
Chase: Oh right. Chelsea is stubborn and bosses you around, and Devon is a player.
Oh, gosh. Did I write that to my mom? It sounds so crass coming from him .
Maggie: Chelsea is a typical older sister, but she has her heart in the right place. And Devon … well, he’s a player. But I love him. I feel bad that I wrote those things.
Chase: I’m not judging
Maggie: Thanks. I appreciate it.
Chase: So, how old are you?
Maggie: You never ask a woman that.
Chase: My bad. I’m a little rusty. Been a while.
Chase sends the sweating/smiling emoji.
Chase: My guess is you’re in your thirties.
Maggie: I will cut you
Chase: Forties?
Maggie: I’m ending this text string and deleting you.
Chase: Kidding. My real guess is 25.
Maggie: Not bad. I’m 26.
Chase: But you don’t look a day over 40.
Maggie: Don’t make me find out where you live so I can slap you.
Chase: Tempe. There, I narrowed it down for you.
Maggie: I’m in Scottsdale
Chase: Of course you are
Maggie: What’s that supposed to mean?
Chase: Snotsdale. That’s what we call it where I live.
Maggie: Super original
Chase: Don’t blame me. I didn’t make it up.
Maggie: But I’m sure you say it
Chase: Of cours e
Scottsdale, where I grew up, has a reputation around here for being a little uppity. Or a lot uppity. I don’t see it that way. It’s just home for me. We’ve lived in this area since I was a baby.
Chase: Okay, now that the stalking is out of the way. What about the guy with the butt?
I sigh at his text. What can I say about Dawson? I had a chance, blew it, and now he’s with someone else?
Maggie: Nothing is happening.
Chase: I let you stalk me for that?
This time I laugh, out loud.
Chase: I thought he was finally single.
Maggie: I don’t like that you have my texts memorized.
Chase: Not all. Just parts.
Maggie: I thought we made a deal that you’d delete them.
Chase: I did. I promise. I just have a good memory.
Maggie: Well, try to de-memorize them.
Chase: I’ll see what I can do. Have any hypnotizing skills?
Maggie: I wish
Chase: So there’s nothing going on? This is not the distraction I was looking for.
Maggie: Sorry to disappoint
Chase: VERY disappointing
Maggie: Well … I mean, nothing’s going on. He’s dating my employee now. Fun times.
Chase: Well … that’s a bummer
Maggie: It’s the story of my lif e
Chase: All the guys you’ve ever liked have ended up dating your employees?
That makes me snort laugh.
Maggie: No, just the guys I like always go for someone else.
Chase: Well, did you ever get to tell him you liked him?
Maggie: No, but I made it pretty obvious.
Chase: How obvious?
I think about this for a few seconds. I didn’t outright tell him, but Dawson would have to be an idiot to not know. He’s caught me staring at him more than once during our weekly staff meetings. I’m always all nervous and tongue-tied around him. I’m so obvious, I’m surprised Chelsea or Devon haven’t caught on. They probably have and have kept it to themselves, a secret joke between them.
Maggie: Obvious enough
Chase: Want advice for next time? In case he’s ever single again.
Maggie: Sure
Chase: Men are dumb
Maggie: Helpful
Chase: You have to spell things out for us.
Maggie: Like, actually spell things out? Should I have written him a note and asked him to check yes or no?
Chase: Pretty much
Chase: No, but you do have to be straight up .
Hannah is convinced that I’ve got this all wrong, that they aren’t dating, so at the anniversary party this Saturday, she’s going to play the role of my wingman. Or wingwoman, as she said she’d prefer to be called, before going off about the man-centric world we live in. She plans to check out the situation and find out what’s really going on.
Then I have to do her laundry for a week if she’s right. Joke’s on her. I do her laundry anyway. Doesn’t she wonder how her underwear is always clean? A magical fairy?
Chase: Too bad, though, about the girlfriend.
Maggie: Yeah
Chase: Unless all those pictures you posted on Insta are photoshopped, I’d say he’s a fool.
I feel my cheeks heat up instantly from the compliment. I’ve never thought I was unattractive, but I’ve also never thought of myself as super attractive. Just … cute. Like girl-next-door cute.
There were a lot of implications in that last text from Chase.
My phone beeps and I look down at the screen.
Chase: Too far?
I smile and shake my head.
Maggie: No … just processing. Also, thank you.
Chase: Well, save all this advice for the next guy. It’s worth gold.
Maggie: And then if I try and fail miserably, I have you to blame.
Chase: Win-win
Maggie: I have only myself to blame with Dawson .
Chase: Right, Dawson. Forgot his name.
Maggie: Like you’re supposed to. Good job. Forget all the things.
Chase sends back one of those emojis with the head exploding.
Chase: Why are you to blame?
Maggie: I should have just been blunt. I should have asked him out. But I’ve become a chicken since my mom died.
Chase: A chicken? You didn’t tell me about this side effect. So month … what is it?
Maggie: Month 4
Chase: Okay, so month 4, I’m going to turn into a chicken. I’ll put that on my calendar.
Maggie: I think it’s been going on for longer than that, but I haven’t had a chance to test it out until recently. Let’s hope you don’t get this one.
Chase: I’m guessing it’s an anxiety thing, and I’ve been feeling that already.
Maggie: Right. That “what else could go wrong” feeling.
Chase: Yeah, that one
Maggie: It could be an extension of that. Never thought of it that way.
Chase: Who needs therapy when you’ve got me?
Maggie: Not sure I should be getting therapy from a stranger over text.
Or from someone who recently lost his mom. I don’t think that’s necessary to say, though.
Chase: We’re not strangers anymore .
Maggie: True. You know too much already. I, however, don’t know all that much about you.
Chase: I don’t know anything. I’ve un-remembered it.
Maggie: Liar
Chase sends a smiling emoji.
Chase: Thanks for this. For chatting with me. It helped. I’ve got some stuff I need to do, and I guess I should let you get back to whatever you were doing.
I look down at the tattered pajama shorts and cotton tank I’m wearing and then over to the now completely melted ice cream that I was drowning my frustrations with before Chase texted me.
I felt heavy tonight when I sat down to watch my shows and eat my junk food. But now I feel lighter. Interesting.
Maggie: Happy to help, and thanks for the tips.
Chase: Have a good night