Chapter Nine #4
My mind has a million ragged thoughts and questions, but for some reason they swirl around in my head calmly, almost peacefully.
I can’t stop smiling, swinging the remainder of my sourdough loaf.
Our silence is only broken when we reach their car and Jeannie turns to me for a final goodbye and says, “Now you can go read that message from your…” she enunciates her message by grabbing and squeezing Brad in a tight embrace, “secret person!” She’s beaming, Brad looks exhausted.
I smile back at her, and him, but I’m not sure what I’m smiling about.
We exchange our final goodbyes and I watch them drive off, waving.
When I get back to my apartment I’m ready to drop, but that white envelope with its blue string seems to be calling my name from the counter where I left it.
I’m feeling so satiated from my full day of friends and people, and bread, too, that I’m almost overwhelmed by the thought of reading through whatever this journal might contain.
Drawing my mind back to my secret person, I flip through the journal, the familiar blue scrawl warming the pages.
I flip past my last entry, which is essentially a blank page with five words.
The whitespace of the page sends lonely images of coffee through my brain, so I flip quickly to the next entry.
It’s nearly as empty, one line of sloppy writing.
It reads:
“No more journal; text me anytime.”
I think my jaw actually hangs open. What does this mean?
I flip through previous pages again, the river of words flowing across the pages, ending abruptly in these two stubbornly short sentences.
The weight of the untouched page, the empty lines, feels immense.
Does this mean we’ve evolved, like our relationship has been elevated to the next level, or does it mean we’ve run out of words to say?
I flip again to the last message I sent and I feel it: the shock of loneliness that surged when I wrote it. I was ready to not be doing things alone. The memory burns in my core.
But then a thought occurs to me: my secret person senses it too.
Maybe we are functioning on the same wavelength.
Since I sent that written message, we’ve only communicated via text, and now the journal is no more.
The realization almost seems magical to me, igniting a blaze in my core I thought I was too exhausted to feel at this late hour.
I grab my phone, fight the urge to justify hesitation, open our app, and text: “Is now anytime?” The words slide up my screen and I’m half in shock and half exuberant that they are there.
The reply is nearly instant and strikes hard: “No.”
What? There must be a misunderstanding. “Are you available for texting now, I mean?” That should be clearer.
This time the reply is more delayed. I’m almost worried for a second. “Oh, sure. LOL. I think I misread that.”
“No worries. I got your journal message.”
“I see. That’s why it’s anytime now.”
“Now is anytime!”
I catch my smile in the reflection of my phone.
“It is late, you know,” it says.
“Goodnight then.” I text. My heart is beating through my chest and I’m hoping it comes across as a joke. I really want to text.
“Wait…” The single word slides up the screen and I discover that I am breathing again. You never know how someone will interpret a text. “We should chat. It’s not that late.”
“Ok,” I send. Then suddenly I have no earthly idea what to say next. My mind is overflowing with a thousand blank thoughts.
“Ok,” comes the reply, which turns out to be entirely unhelpful in parsing through blank thoughts.
I scramble for a thread of conversation: “I’m glad to be texting.”
“Me too.”
“Yeah, me too.” I click send before I realize how stupid I sound. I begin typing frantically in an attempt to make the words inert by dilution factor alone. “I enjoyed the journal for a time, but I’m glad to be texting instead. The dead-drops were fun!”
“I’m glad. I started to get the feeling that our together-separately time needed to swing more toward ‘together’ and away from ‘separately’ if that works for you.”
“It does. I like texting… together.” I’m struck by the clarity of his writing and find myself coming up short with matching replies, like I don’t want to be outwitted and left behind.
I’m also struck by a ghost of a thought: Sabrina and I had a together-separately relationship; casually parallel lives, logistical closeness. This thought vaporizes as my chest whispers: This is becoming something quite opposite. Something unexpected.
And what could be more unexpected than having a mystery man? I feel my brain struggling to reconcile these two versions of my life.
“I’d like to get to know you.” I type, my adrenaline surging. “What important thing can I possibly learn?”
“Well...”
An idea strikes me: “Tell me about your couch.”
“My couch?”
“Yeah, your sofa. Your living room furniture. I can tell what kind of person you are by what kind of couch you have.”
“I’ve never been asked about my couch before.”
“Are you declining to answer?”
“No.” There is a noticeable delay before my phone pings again. “It’s brown. Leather. Comfy. Vintage.”
“You say ‘vintage,’ you mean ‘old?’”
“It was my granddad’s. I got it when he died. It’s better than any couch you could buy today and will last the rest of my lifetime.”
“Do you have a spot on the couch that’s yours? Like it has your imprint in it?”
“Absolutely.”
“Is it the same imprint as your granddad’s or different?”
“That’s never occurred to me. It’s the same. I used to sit on the other end when I was a kid. Now I’ve moved over, I guess.”
“See. A couch is telling. I already like your couch.” My heart is beating through my chest and I realize I can’t stop smiling.
“So, what about your couch?”
“I decline to answer.” I actually laugh out loud as I click send.
“You can’t decline!”
“There are rules? I don’t recall there being any rules.”
“Fine, I’ll guess your couch. I happen to be a couch psychic.”
“Good luck. I’m waiting.”
Then there is a pause, a long one. Long enough for me to realize my posture has straightened.
“I just realized something, William.” The words seem heavy on my screen, like the next text will be hard to accept. “I found a limitation of our together-separate relationship.”
I’m gasping at the sudden change of tone. I’m finding it hard to breathe. “What?”
“I’m not a stalker. If I guess your couch right, it won’t be coy or clever or funny. It will be creepy. I haven’t ever wanted you to feel that way about me. I don’t ever want to be that for you.”
I stare at the words, unbreathing.
In every task and adventure, my secret person has always been intentional about making me feel special, not watched. Honored, not manipulated. My heart has known this all along, so my skin tingles as my brain is hearing it articulated so purposefully. “You’re right. Thank you.”
I feel my eyes begin to glisten, my inadequate words becoming blurred pixels.
“It’s a vibe killer, I guess. Sorry.”
I wipe my palm across my eye and type frantically. “My couch is blue with some kind of corduroy pattern. It sinks in all the right places and is super cozy.” I click send with a sigh, leaning back in my chair, wiping the blur away again.
“Do you have couch pillows? I bet you have couch pillows.”
“No! I mean, yes. But just the ones that came with it. And maybe a few more that just happen to match perfectly.”
“Do you change them at Christmas?”
Now I’m bothered, huffing at the screen. “At Christmas you’ll know!”
“Hmmm. Can’t wait.”
Before I know it we’ve had ridiculous, important discussions about hotdogs, great or terrible fonts, types of cheeses, and—my favorite—the proper way to fold and store underwear. It’s gotten quite late, or early I should say, but my typing fingers don’t seem to notice. My smile muscles do, however.
“I have another adventure for you if you’re willing.” My screen tells me. “And it’s not alone.”
“I’m intrigued,” I text, hopeful.
“I’ll send you a GoodWord message tomorrow. It’s more mysterious that way.”
“I do love the mystery.”
There is a long pause which should feel odd, but I welcome it warmly, like silent texting is a sign of something promising.
“I’m glad you texted. You’re a very special person, William.”
“Likewise, mystery man!” I text without thinking, then smile when the words become canon.
“Well, goodnight then.”
“Goodnight.”
And that’s how texting ends. The words just hang there on the screen. There’s no click or closing or ceremonious finality. Just stillness. I let this stillness vibrate through my body for a moment before dropping my phone on the bedside table and falling into bed with a crash.