Together, Separately

Chapter One

Well, I’m not dead, and I haven’t been abducted or mugged or blackmailed yet, so I consider that to be a win.

But here I am, heading to the romance section of the most gruesome place: the big-box store that is Maple Leaf Books with its overpriced books and haughty open spaces.

My heart is beating alarmingly fast and I can’t help but side-eye every innocent person around me.

That lady in the manga section, it could be her.

It could be that woman in the fitted sweater at the cash register; I think she just looked this way.

Hell, it could even be that guy over in the coffee shop with the dark glasses and the snapback who may be watching me now.

The pages of the book he’s reading remain suspiciously unturned.

I try to shake off the paranoia and focus on my task.

I guess I’d better explain.

Four days ago I found a strange envelope sitting on the doormat in front of my apartment.

I was rushing to my apartment, heaving slightly from the two flights of stairs I had to navigate with my arms full of groceries and work stuff and whatnot, and there it was.

It was a small white envelope with my full first name written on it in sloppy blue pen, just sitting there on the mat outside my apartment door.

I initially stepped over it because, well, I couldn’t possibly carry another item, so after fumbling with keys and knobs and depositing my mess on the kitchen island, I made my way back to the doormat and picked it up cautiously, holding it for a long time, flipping it over and inspecting it.

The envelope wasn’t sealed, just closed. Inside was a small white card, neatly embossed with a fine line around the perimeter. Written on the card was the beginning of what has become this whole crazy adventure.

The card read: “Kashmo’s Coffee Inc. September 13, 2pm.”

That’s it.

I found myself flipping the card over and over, looking around the landing of my apartment for suspicious people, peering out over the railing looking for anyone out of place.

The card was handwritten with blue pen in the worst possible penmanship.

Whoever wrote it refused to commit to an upper or lower case, recklessly ignored line spacing, and it was, to be sure, unsigned.

Using my thumb, I felt the edges of the paper and the scrawl of the ink, hoping for some clue.

As you can imagine, my first real instinct was to stuff it back in the envelope and chuck it.

Which I did, at least the stuffing-it-back-into-the-envelope part.

I mean, I’m way too smart to send my bank account number to a stranger in South America, or follow the chainsaw man into the barn.

But, after I closed the envelope, I couldn’t stop thinking about it.

What if it was friendly? What if it was from someone who genuinely meant for me to go to this coffee shop?

What if… it was from a secret admirer? Like an old-school, genuine, admirer?

Yeah, right.

As preposterous as the idea seemed, I couldn’t escape it.

I eventually set the card face-up on the counter in the kitchen where I could watch it, in case it sprung to life or something.

I also dug through the replays of my daily life, looking for some image of who might qualify as a secret admirer.

Likewise, I played through scenarios where I was being hunted or abducted or scammed.

I couldn’t conjure up a single reason for either admiration or stalking, so I simply spent my efforts justifying a possible trip to a coffee shop: It was a public place.

I could scream for help if necessary. Surely, trying to serve poisoned coffee at Kashmo’s is a complex endeavor.

So I went to Kashmo’s at 2pm on September 13.

And there was a coffee with my name on it.

I watched the clerk slide the small cup, or should I say “tall,” across the counter and call my name, so I felt pretty confident that it was safe.

So I took it, sneaking a look around the shop and behind the counter to see who might notice that I accepted it.

Nobody lurched or diverted their eyes quickly.

Sure enough, my full first name, William, was printed on the label, and it was my favorite coffee: a flat white with whole milk.

I allowed myself to get a little foamy inside rather than afraid, because I was mildly touched that my coffee order was mine and my entire name was printed on the label.

Everyone knows me as Liam, which is pseudo-short for William, my grandfather’s name.

He went by Bill; very retro. I go by Liam; a tad more modern.

And since my grandfather and I couldn’t be more different, it feels right.

But, it seems I have a secret admirer who knows both my coffee order and my full first name.

And is using it. Rather than thinking doomsday, stalker-crazy things, I chose to focus on the absurd idea that I have a secret admirer who knows some things about me.

I know, I should have been running away screaming. Instead I sipped my coffee and felt a little special.

There was a message printed on the cup label, blurred slightly by a coffee splotch, but it was still readable. At first glance, it was gibberish, like a code or a password or coordinates. It said, in one word with no spaces or capitals: “#25tldepot4859.”

I got the clerk’s attention, the original cup-sliding one, and asked: “Can you tell me who placed this order?” I was hoping he’d say something like, “That blond lady with the brooding eyes sitting at that table who hasn’t stopped staring at you since you walked in,” but that’s ridiculous, so that wasn’t the reply.

His actual response involved yelling back to another employee, which startled me: “Johnny, do you remember who placed this order?”

The guy at the register looked at me, then the coffee, and yelled back, “It was an online order.”

Which my guy repeated back to me. Helpful.

Now I knew that technically, there was a credit card record and a receipt and some forensics which might just lead me to my secret admirer, but that’s awkward and probably not lawful for them to share, so I refocused my efforts on the message itself.

I was pretty sure the “tldepot” in the coded message meant the Timberline Depot which is the train station downtown, the beautiful, old brick depot. I’ve been there once. But I couldn’t make sense of the rest of the message.

Taking a seat in a bar-height table-for-two, I decided to stay for a minute. And look around again, stealthily. Not a single person looked my way or made eye contact with me, so I was pretty confident I was not being watched or followed.

I just decided to enjoy my coffee, this bold, intensely flavored gift from someone. A special someone who wants me to have an adventure. And so an adventure I will have! And what better way to start an adventure than two shots of ristretto and foamed whole milk. And a secret code.

It took me a day to realize what the numbers meant.

I had this fear in the back of my head that I was supposed to buy a train ticket to somewhere, but the numbers didn’t translate to anything travel-related.

It wasn’t a route number, or a train number, or a city number.

And then it occurred to me: there are lockers at the train station!

I simply wasn’t going to let this locker go unfound. I was going to the train station.

Of course, I’m no idiot, so I did some thinking first: Kashmo’s was a safe place to venture because it was a public place, so I decided it was safer to visit the depot at what I considered to be a busy time, during the early morning commute.

Same reasoning. I could scream for help.

Also, poisoning at the train depot is probably difficult to pull off.

When I entered the depot, I found myself peering at every suspicious commuter, which was tricky because all of the commuters looked suspicious.

A woman about my age in a red pantsuit smiled at me, then looked away.

The dark-haired lady at the ticket booth watched me walk through the massive vestibule.

I didn’t actually think any of these people could be my secret admirer, but I couldn’t stop suspecting.

My heart raced every time someone looked my way, so I put on mental blinders and just hunted for lockers. I know I’d seen them here before.

Turns out, I had to ask a clerk and follow finger-pointed directions to a small room connected to the massive brick and glass waiting room.

On two walls were banks of brown, metal lockers, each with a number.

I found #25, because the highest number was #57, so the other numbers in the clue must be something else.

The lockers were managed by a single touchscreen, which I had to find, and then navigate some menus before it asked me for a code—the rest of my coded message!

I shakily entered those numbers, diligently saying them aloud like it was necessary for the machine to actually hear, and locker #25 popped open with a snap.

I felt like a kid. My skin was tingling.

I found myself bending to peer into the tiny space as if a snake might jump out.

As if I might have found a portal to another world and didn’t want to be sucked in.

Lying flat in the locker was a small envelope, much like the one I had found on my doormat.

Reaching in, I grabbed it carefully, tentatively flipping it over in my hands.

My name was scrawled on the front. Same blue pen. Same sloppy hand.

I flipped open the flap, again not sealed, and slowly slid out the contents.

Inside was a gift card to Maple Leaf Books in the amount of twenty dollars.

The gift card was just like you would purchase it from the store, glued to a small card with the regular “a gift for you” message printed next to the Maple Leaf logo.

On the inside of the card were written the words, “Unspoken Things by Tim Bauler.”