Chapter 14
As I glance down at the bootcut jeans, running shoes, and University of Texas sweatshirt I threw on this morning, it occurs to me I’m not cool enough to be in the Apple store.
A salesman approaches and interrupts my thoughts of escape. “May I help you?”
Can he help me? The super-trendy teenager standing in front of me sports a signature cobalt-blue T-shirt with an Apple icon adorning the center of his chest, paired with dark-wash skinny pants. His brown hair is swished to the side in a way that defies both gravity and hair product.
I shift my weight from my right foot to my left. “Uh, I know there’s a fancy system to sign up for appointments here, but could I speak to your manager, please?”
His hair sways with his nod, causing a different but equally perplexing disheveled look. “Can you give me more information about what you need? I know I resemble a twelve-year-old, but I have a college degree and I’m married with a kid on the way.”
I can’t mask my shock. “Really?”
“No. But I’ve worked here for two years.” His genuine smile improves his appearance, upping his estimated age to twenty. “My name is Cade. How can I help you, ma’am?”
Cade. I bet having a hipster name is required for employment here.
My gaze travels from one side of the store to the other, looking for someone born in the 1900s. The giant room is packed with hopeful patrons, eyes glazed, ready to sign their latest paycheck over to the computer cult to obtain a pristine white-packaged electronic device of the modern era.
“My screen has lost sensitivity, so when I try to do things, either I have to stab the screen into submission or it won’t complete the task at all.”
“Unfortunately, that can happen,” he says. “Can you tell me specifically what doesn’t work?”
“Texting. And some settings.”
“What kind of settings?”
“I’m pretty sure the problem is the screen.”
“You’re probably right, but before we go down that path, I just want to make sure I understand the problem and it’s not something I can solve with a simple settings adjustment.”
I square my shoulders and lift my chin. “Do you have customer privacy rules?”
Cade’s brow furrows. “What do you mean?”
I clutch my purse closer to my side. “If I show you something on my phone, are you bound by some kind of agreement not to tell anyone?”
“Yes.” He draws his answer out to four syllables and nods knowingly.
Wait. That must have sounded bad.
I hold up my hand. “I just need to delete a contact and a photo.”
His face reddens while his body jolts like he’s holding back laughter. I made it worse.
“It’s not inappropriate.” My voice is so loud, a customer nearby glances over with big, round eyes. She leans down and steers her toddling son away from me.
Cade’s face is now contorted with a forced earnest expression. “Yours wouldn’t be the first awkward photo problem to walk through our doors.”
Taking his elbow in my hand, I guide us to the least populated nook of the room.
“Someone programmed it with things I no longer . . . appreciate. It’s not inappropriate.
” I crane my neck to search our close surroundings and catch possible eavesdroppers.
When I’m sure we’re in the clear, I huddle and expend a lot of energy holding my emotion at bay while steadying my voice.
“The contact is a celebrity, and I need to know you’ll keep what you see confidential. ”
His eyes narrow. “I will not tell a soul.”
Lord help me, I’m going to trust this boy-man. I dig the phone out of my purse, press the power button, turn it face down, and hold it out to him. “Please don’t tell me about any of the waiting messages.”
He opens his mouth to say something.
“Please.” I jerk my outstretched arm. “I don’t want to know what they say.”
Ignoring Harlan, Stanley, and Molly is the trifecta of avoidance, but once Cade and his hair help me fix my phone, I’ll have to deal with them.
“Okay.” He takes the phone and stares at the screen. “What are you trying to do with the settings?”
“Several things. But first, a quick question that might solve all of this. Can I exchange this phone for a pager?”
His face contorts in question. “A what? Do you mean an iPod? I think those were around when I was a baby.”
“You’re making this worse.”
“Well, that’s not good. Let’s go back. Talk to me about the settings giving you issues.” He holds up my phone and waves it back and forth in the air.
“Can we talk about the screen first?”
He looks at me expectantly. He might be young, but he’s focused. Apparently, I’m not getting out of this conversation until I talk about the settings.
“Okay. When I go to change a ringtone and picture assigned to a certain contact, I can’t get it to work.” When the words leave my lips, my chest hurts, and I rub a spot beneath my collarbone.
“Oh, wow. Notifications are popping up like an out-of-control fireworks show.” Cade turns the phone to show me.
“No.” Thrusting out my right hand, I block my view while throwing my left hand over my eyes. I peek at him through my fingers.
“Sorry. What’s the contact name?”
Maybe if I tell him, he’ll change out the picture and ringtone for me, fix my screen, and I’ll be on my way back to the predictable reality of my life.
“Hercules.” I make every effort to state this name like it’s normal. As if Bambi, Superman, and Princess Leia are also on my list.
He nods and maneuvers my contacts to find the name. His eyes grow into saucers, and his head shoots up. “Wait a minute. Is that really—”
“Hush,” I say entirely too loud.
“Sorry. It’s just . . . is that really him? I’ve seen that awesome video of him saving that girl. I mean, it’s a cool pic of the two of you. If it’s really him.”
Yes, that’s really him, I want to say. That’s really him before he told me he wanted to kiss me. And it’s really him a few days before he was embracing his ex-wife. I glare at Cade.
“Right.” He returns his gaze to my phone.
A UPS guy sporting a fuzzy blond mustache approaches our area. Carrying a large box, he walks past us the exact moment the aforementioned toddler decides my side of the store is more interesting than his mama’s. A look of awe shines from the child’s cherubic face.
“Whoa there, little man.” The UPS guy shifts his hips and legs backward in a partial hopping action while the forward-moving box is lifted higher to accommodate the runaway.
Cade, clueless to the stray child, continues to stare at my phone.
I turn to smile at the boy but instead find calamity looming. He reaches his little arm up to a counter, stretching as far as he can to grasp a shiny new silvery laptop. One of his chubby hands finds purchase on the charger cord, and he pulls the computer just enough that it teeters on the edge.
The UPS guy lowers his box, momentum pressing him forward.
The runaway’s mom uses her stealth speed to slide in front of and past the man to save either the laptop or her son.
The delivery man, unprepared for the Olympic-worthy mommy move, loses his balance.
None of this would have mattered to me, except this incident causes the UPS guy to fall into Cade while Cade is pressing commands on my phone.
“Oh, shoot.” Cade regains his balance and his head pops up, eyes filled with terror, cheeks fire-engine red. “I’m sorry. I’m really, really sorry.” He shoves the iPhone in my face.
“Hercules” and “Calling Mobile” are splashed across the screen, accompanied by the selfie of Harlan and me at the Garden of the Gods.
No. Nononononono. Noooooooooooo. I’m aware of the computer crash behind me, but all I hear is my pounding heart.
“Did you just—” I slam my hand on my chest. “Did you just call him?”
Cade’s nod is so vigorous, his hair layers flop like the wings of an eagle.
“What do I do?” I stare at the screen. WhatdoIdo? WhatdoIdo? WhatdoIdo?
The ringing phone taunts my paralysis.
I bug out my eyes at Cade.
He shakes his head strenuously, his hair now resembling twirling helicopter blades. I half expect him to take flight. “You could hang up the phone.”
“But then he knows I called!”
If I hang up and don’t leave a message, what will that look like to him?
Desperate? Aloof? Interested? Insecure? Presumptuous to not at least leave a message?
Why can’t we live in a time when phones don’t document each and every call we make?
My parents talk about what it was like to live pre–caller ID, and while it sounded lame to me growing up, it sounds like a pretty great setup right about now.
“This is Harlan, leave a message.”
I almost injure myself from whiplash when I snap my head down at the sound of the deep-toned voice coming from my phone.
I have six point two seconds to decide what to do while the automated voice lady explains how to end the call. If I hang up, he’ll still see that I called. I’m about to jump into shark-infested voicemail waters.
My shaky hands bring the iPhone up to my ear while I pray I don’t vomit all over Cade. Though it might serve him right. I hunker over the display next to us and place my free hand up to my head to brace for the ominous beep.
“Hey, uh, it’s me.” I clear my throat. “It’s Meredith.
From the Broadmoor. I mean, there are probably a lot of Merediths who’ve been to the Broadmoor.
I just mean it’s me. Meredith.” I cringe my eyes shut.
“I didn’t mean to call you. I mean, it’s good to hear your voice.
Or, uh, the six words you left on your outgoing message.
Not that I called to hear your voice. I didn’t mean to call at all. ”
Someone please bring me some Imodium for my diarrhea of the mouth.
I glance over at Cade. His lips purse as he sweeps his forefinger across his neck in a swift motion signaling me to cut off the call.
Think of something. Think, think, think.
“So, uh, yesterday I drove east on Highway 30.”
Cade grunts and jerks his hands out in question. Even his hair looks upset.