Two

THAT EVENING, I MAKE myself wait to check for messages.

One of the things I’ve discovered in the past two years is that a primary source of stress in my life is the constant need to check my phone, to scroll social media for news or hits of stimulation, to be constantly on.

After Chris died, I mostly disconnected, but when my platform started to grow, I found myself getting obsessed again.

I had to force myself to limit my screen time to an hour in the morning and an hour in the evening. During the day, I’m brainstorming posts, taking photos, and drafting out reflections and meditations, but only twice a day do I post, scroll, and check messages. I will check text messages and calls throughout the day, but only my close circle can reach me that way.

Everyone else—including my pen pal—uses my social media accounts to connect with me.

More than once, I’ve been tempted to give him my private contact information, but I’ve talked myself out of it each time. That would make the correspondence real in a way it isn’t right now. It would mean something, and I’m not ready for it to mean anything.

But every day I’m more and more excited to check my messages and see what he’s said to me.

I make myself a quick panini for dinner and eat it outside, chatting with the retired couple whose RV is parked next to my house. I finish the chapter of the fantasy novel I’ve been reading. Then I finally let myself go inside and get on my computer.

I make this evening’s post first. Then reply to several business-related inquiries. Then finally click on the bolded name: GVPioneer13.

The Pioneers are the Green Valley High School sports team’s name. None of my followers know that I’m from Green Valley, so I have to assume this person is actually from the same town and knows who I am, at least in passing.

We probably weren’t friends. If we were, why not come out and tell me his name? More likely, it’s someone outside my circle who reached out randomly after noticing my success online and then fell into daily correspondence.

It’s a man. I’m convinced of it. But I have no idea who or how old or whether our paths ever crossed in person.

The message is short this evening. He says he heard I was back in town and hopes I’m getting to connect with friends. He gives an update on the biography he’s been reading. He asks me about this morning’s post on how weird and unsettling it is to discover you’re starting to heal from grief. And he explains he’s got plans this evening and so doesn’t have time for a longer message but he’ll get up early tomorrow so he can write more.

I read the message over twice, quickly getting past my initial disappointment in the brevity of the note. I write back, asking how he heard I was back in town and then writing a paragraph responding to his comment on grief.

I’ve hit Send and am clearing out more messages when another reply from GVPioneer13 comes through.

A couple people mentioned you’re back. More in the morning.

I frown, disappointed because this reply gives me no clues as to his identity. Why won’t he just tell me who he is? After all, it’s not like I’ve ever tried to make our online relationship romantic or sexual. He doesn’t need to be afraid that, as soon as I get his name, I’ll be pounding at his door and trying to throw myself at him.

I don’t care if he’s a multimillionaire—Green Valley has more than a few of them—or a groundskeeper or if he’s just out of college or in his sixties. If he’s married, it will be a little cringey since some of our messages have been emotionally intimate, but otherwise I can think of no reason not to tell me.

I’ve asked him directly, and all he’s said is that it doesn’t matter.

Honestly, it’s getting a little frustrating.

With a surge of determination, I pull out the notebook I always carry around with me to jot down ideas or lists or sketches. I turn to an empty page and start making a new list.

Green Valley local

Pioneer (went to high school there???)

13 – Graduated in 2013? 13 on team? Moved to town at 13????

Reads biographies and historical nonfiction

Went to college. Maybe grad school. No idea where???

Only child

White

Knows about my art show senior year. Attended???

Met Chris

Still lives in Green Valley

Not an artist or a poet

Deep, intelligent, emotional, genuine, sensitive

With a sigh, I put down my pen and stare down at the items on the list. The last ones are characteristics I gleaned from our messages, but they don’t really help me with his identity because they’re characteristics that often aren’t immediately obvious in a person.

The other items do narrow down possibilities considerably but not enough. Because Green Valley kids so often stick around after school or move back after college and grad school, there are far too many people I know who fit this list.

He could be dozens of men.

My best guess is he was probably in school with Chris and me. Maybe in one of our years or else only a couple of years before or after us. He seems so familiar with my history, and his experiences in Green Valley very closely match my own.

So maybe I’ll start with that. Tomorrow I can get my hands on some yearbooks and begin writing out names.

Pleased with this resolution, I finish my work online, too distracted to do any scrolling or research tonight. Then I close down my laptop and start my winding-down routine. Yoga. Shower and pajamas. Herbal tea with relaxing music and a snuggle with Claude and Ed. Then I brush, floss, do my skin regimen, and get into bed to read a few more chapters before I go to sleep.

My mind doesn’t want to turn off this evening. At first I think it’s because of the frustration of not being able to identify my pen pal, but the face I keep seeing, the conversations I keep rehearsing, when I close my eyes all belong to Theo Humphrey.

***

THE FOLLOWING DAY, my eyes pop open before seven o’clock. Normally, if I wake up too early, I’ll try to doze for another hour, but this morning my mind leaps into action, so there’s no reason not to get up.

I try to go through my relaxed morning routine of lemon water, walk, meditation, and yoga, but resting my mind simply isn’t happening today. I finally give up, make coffee in my French press, and sit down with my laptop to see what’s going on in the world.

My pen pal has already written back as he promised, telling me a funny story about a coworker who chides anyone who makes unexpected noises like sneezes or laughs and reported him for letting out an exclamation when he stubbed his toe.

I giggle over his description. He sounds more amused than angry about it, although I can imagine getting reported over such a thing would be incredibly annoying.

He goes on to talk about a Christmas when he was a boy. He was getting suspicious of Santa’s existence and so was determined to get proof one way or another. After his parents went to bed, he snuck outside and set up a strategic position on the back steps, bundled up in a blanket and staring at the sky until he finally fell asleep. His mom found him out there in the morning, still sleeping.

I’m touched by the little story, and I immediately send a message back, responding to both the coworker and the past Christmas story and then confessing I never believed in Santa but used to pretend I did so I could fit in with the other kids. I also mention that I’m not much in the Christmas spirit this year, but I’m going to try to conjure a more festive mood, so I’m planning to watch the carolers who have been singing in the town park every day at lunchtime this week.

Part of me hopes he’ll take the hint and show up to confess. If not, it’s still a normal thing I might mention in our daily messages.

I read over my note once before I send it to catch any obvious errors. Then I start working on my posts for the day. One is a very nice photo of the gray winter lake with a reflection on how all the artificial cheer of our commercial Christmases has stolen for us the instinctive solemnity of the season that nature itself guides us toward. The other is a reel of the creative ways I fit all my winter sweaters into my tiny home.

When I finish, it’s not even nine o’clock and I’ve done everything I need to do this morning. My brain still won’t let me rest, so I shower and dress to go hang out with Tee for the morning.

Later, at a few minutes before noon, I’m on the sidewalk downtown on my way to the park. I’ve got three packages to mail for Tee, a thermos of spiced tea she insisted I bring, my sketch pad, and a bag with the sandwich I just bought.

I’m juggling everything relatively well, but I’m not stable enough to withstand the bump and startled jerk when a door opens onto the sidewalk from a popular local coffee shop.

The packages and my sketch pad scatter on the ground. With a combination of luck and effort, I manage to hold on to my thermos and my lunch.

I let out a breathless exclamation, more surprised than upset by the altercation. But then I see a stunned, frowning Theo glaring at me, still holding the door to the coffee shop open.

“Oh. Oh, I’m sorry,” I say reflexively even though it’s quite clear I did nothing wrong.

“It’s fine,” he mutters, still standing frozen, his shoulder propping open the door and his eyes fixed disapprovingly on me.

It’s fine, he says. As if he’s being incredibly gracious in making allowances for my clumsiness.

Trying not to make a face at him, I lean over to collect my stuff.

Unfortunately, he leans down at the same time, and we bump heads. Not gently.

“Ow!” I straighten up abruptly, rubbing my head and trying to clear the pain from my brain. “I’m sorry. What a mess.”

“It’s fine,” he says again, frowning even more deeply as he bends back over to pick up my packages.

It’s fine. As if, yet again, it’s all my fault.

I lean over to retrieve my sketch pad. Some of the pages are crumpled, so I try to smooth them out.

He watches me with that same grumpy detachment, as if I’m an alien creature for caring about the state of sketches I’ve worked very hard on.

“I’ll carry these,” he mumbles, nodding down at the packages he’s still holding.

“I can—”

“I’ve got ’em.”

I want to argue because I want to get rid of this man as quickly as possible, but he’s as stubborn as a mule. He always has been. And having a debate about who is going to carry my packages will only serve to extend our time together.

He falls into step with me as I continue. Maybe he can guess where I’m heading or maybe he doesn’t care, because he doesn’t question me at all as we walk into the park and find a bench.

I put down my bag and thermos before reaching for the packages. “Thank you,” I tell him, trying to sound cool instead of completely frazzled. “Although I could have gotten them fine.”

Theo just stands and stares at me, rubbing the side of his forehead where we collided earlier.

What the hell is his problem? It’s not my fault he opened the door right into me. Is he really all mad about it?

For the first time, I notice he’s got a paper bag tucked in his pocket. It looks like the right size for a sandwich from the coffee shop. He must have stopped there to grab some lunch.

As I’m setting down the packages, one slips off the bench onto the ground again. I sure hope there’s nothing fragile in them.

Before I can lean over, Theo reaches for it and sets it in a more stable position.

Even that annoys me. Like he’s trying to prove I’m clumsy and incompetent in the most basic of actions.

“Okay,” I say at last. “I’m going to sit here and listen to the carolers.” I wait for a moment as Theo does more staring. “I’m pretty sure I can handle it on my own.”

He gives me a short nod, turns on his heel, and walks away.

Not for the first time, I wonder how Chris put up with the man. He can’t even make a pretense of civility with me.

I watch his straight back, broad shoulders, and long legs as he strides away, trying to dismiss him from my mind.

But for some reason, he won’t be dismissed.

***

THAT EVENING, I’VE planned to meet Daniela at a coffee shop at six fifteen. She’s been working as an administrative assistant at a local art gallery for the past few years, and her shift ends at six. Like the rest of the family, she’s not inclined toward regular office work, so it’s hardly her dream job, but she likes that the gallery at least connects her to art and artists.

She’s always been more talented and ambitious in art than I ever was.

The coffee shop where we’re meeting has been around since high school, and it’s clearly still a popular place. Most of the tables are full when I arrive, and there are a few people in line in front of me.

Waiting never bothers me. I’m not an impatient person. I amuse myself as I stand in line by looking around, waving at an older lady who is a longtime friend of Tee, and nodding at the owner of the art supply store.

There’s a large table in the far corner with a bunch of people I recognize from school. Not friends but acquaintances. They don’t see me, and I don’t make an effort to catch their attention.

When I reach the counter, I turn around and blink when I recognize Chase Park taking orders. He was in my year of school, and I always liked him. A laid-back, good-natured guy with the bland, unfocused manner of a stoner or a surfer. I learned early on that he’s far more intelligent than he conveys. I wouldn’t have made it through the coding class I took on a whim if he hadn’t sat beside me and been willing to help.

My surprise isn’t that he’s still in town but that he’s still working at this coffee shop. He bused tables here back in high school.

“You’re still here,” I say without thinking.

His shoulders shake in a silent laugh that’s reflected in his eyes but not his mouth. “I have gone home a few times in the past ten years.”

“Sorry.” I shake my head with a smile. “I didn’t mean it to sound like that.”

“No worries. I’m not offended.”

I can tell he means it. He’s one of the most unruffled people I’ve ever known.

“It is kind of funny to think I might be a cursed soul trapped behind this counter serving Green-Valleyites coffee for eternity like poor Prometheus,” he goes on.

“You probably have it a little better than Prometheus,” I say with another smile, recognizing he’s joking despite his sober expression. Someone as smart as Chase could have gotten another job if he’d wanted one, so he must still be here by choice.

“I’m way better off than Prometheus.”

Peering at his attractive face and mobile mouth, I recognize some sort of energy simmering under the surface of his bland expression. Something new. Something that wasn’t there when I saw him last. “You look happy,” I say, blurting the words out without thinking it through, which is one of my unfortunate habits.

He gives another one of those silent chuckles. “I am happy.”

“I’m glad.”

“It looks like the past two years have been good for you too.”

“I think they have been. I needed to get away.”

“And are you planning to stay away?”

I shrug. “Probably. Although I’m going to try to visit more often now that I’m on better emotional footing.” When a man comes in and stands in line behind me, looking impatient, I order my herbal tea and cranberry-orange scone.

Chase winks at me after I pay.

Since he appears to be manning the shop all alone this evening and it will probably be a few minutes before my order is ready, I don’t wait at the counter. Instead, I turn toward the room to find a table for Daniela and me.

The big table has seen me now. A former classmate named Paige is waving at me, summoning me over to the empty seat at their table.

I walk over but don’t sit down, greeting everyone and explaining I’m meeting my cousin.

In addition to Paige, I recognize Dan Mills, Rafe and Jules Archibald, and Carlton Hill. I say hello to Dan’s newish wife, Vicky. After a few minutes of small talk, Paige starts to ask me about my art, photography, and jewelry.

I answer easily, but it feels like there’s a purpose behind her questioning. I don’t realize what it is until Chase comes over with my tea and scone, setting it on the table in front of where I’m standing and then walking over behind Paige. He squeezes her shoulder and then slides his hand to gently span the side of her neck. “Maybe let her get her bearings before you start recruiting her for your site,” he murmurs.

My recollection of Paige is as a hardworking, ambitious student who strove to excel at everything. She’s always been nice to me, but we’ve never had anything in common. It makes much more sense that she’s working on building her business rather than making idle conversation about my art.

I appreciate that she thinks my work is of value enough to recruit, and I’m about to ask for her contact information when I suddenly realize something. “Wait!” I blink at Paige. At Chase, whose hand is still tucked under her hair. “You two are together?”

The others at the table laugh at my blunt inquiry. Paige smiles. “We are. Since last Christmas.”

“I never would have put you two together, but you know, it fits perfectly.” I glance up at Chase, who is still simmering with that undercurrent of excitement. “No wonder you’re so happy.”

Chase isn’t embarrassed by the comment. I don’t remember him ever being embarrassed by anything. He’s about to say something, but then his eyes move to the front door. “There’s your cousin. And I better get back to work.”

I wave at Daniela and then turn back to Paige.

Ever efficient, she’s already pulled out a card and hands it to me.

It’s an old-fashioned business card with her name and contact information as well as the information for her business, a centralized website for local arts and crafts. “Maybe we can touch base sometime soon,” she says with a smile.

I tell her I’ll be in touch and then grab a table for two for Daniela and me.

Daniela is always tired getting off from work because the administrative duties wear on her personality. But she makes an effort to be in a good mood for me, and we have a good time catching up and hearing about each other’s lives.

After about an hour, I can tell she’s exhausted. “Have you looked around for a job that isn’t so much administrative work?” I ask her.

She shrugs and leans back in her chair. I’ve always thought she was prettier than me, and her dark eyelashes are unnaturally thick and long. “I keep looking but so far nothing that would be easier on me than this one is. At least with this job I can sometimes talk to artists and make connections with buyers and collectors.”

“Yeah, that’s something anyway.”

“I really just need to marry a rich man so I can make art to my heart’s content and not have to worry about a paycheck.”

I laugh at that, as I’m supposed to. But I can tell she’s only half joking. Daniela has never been romantic. She’s never dreamed of falling in love or having a fairy-tale romance. If she stumbled on a semidecent man with money who made her an offer, she’d probably accept it.

“Did you notice that Theo came in about thirty minutes ago?” she asks out of the blue.

I stiffen and turn my head to look behind me, realizing she’s right. There is Theo, sitting at the big table with Paige and the others.

I didn’t know he was friends with them. Obviously, I know in theory that he has friends—after all, Chris was his best one most of their lives—but he’s so unfriendly that I can’t imagine many people would want to hang out with him for any length of time.

He appears engaged in conversation, so maybe he exerts himself with people other than me.

When his gaze drifts over toward me, I quickly look away.

“Does he hang out with them a lot?” I ask Daniela. He got his lunch from here earlier. Maybe he just likes this place and they happen to be here too.

She lifts her shoulders. “Not all the time. I’ve seen him with them a few times lately. Losing Chris was hard on him, but he seems to be socializing more lately.”

I try not to make a face.

“I’m not saying it was as hard for him as it was for you, but it’s hard when your best friend dies.”

“I know it is. And I’d never question that his friendship with Chris was real. I just wish he hadn’t always acted like I was...”

When I trail off, Daniela arches her eyebrows. “Like you were what?”

“Like I wasn’t good enough for Chris.”

“Yeah, I don’t know why he always acted that way. He’s not the friendliest soul in the universe, but he’s usually not so frowny as he is around you.” She sighs. “Some people just don’t click.”

“I guess.” I shake my head. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter. By the way, do you have your old yearbooks?”

“What? No, of course not. Why would I have kept those?”

It probably was a silly question. Daniela is an unsentimental as it’s possible to be.

“Just checking. I went by the high school, and they let me look at the ones for the years I was in school, but I really want to borrow some so I can take them with me and study them.”

“Why don’t you ask at that table?” She nods back toward the others. “I bet one of them kept them.”

I sigh. That’s exactly what I was planning to do, but Theo’s presence has discouraged me.

It’s irrational not to follow my original plan simply because of Theo Humphrey, however. So after Daniela and I carry our dishes to the counter and I say goodbye to her, I wander back over to the big table.

When they all stare up at me, I ask, “Does anyone still have their yearbooks from high school?”

They look at me blankly, evidently taken by surprise by the abrupt question.

“I do,” Theo says. “Did you want to borrow them?”

Of course it would be him. I try to keep a pleasant expression as I turn my eyes to him. “I would if you don’t mind.”

“I don’t mind.” He stands up, reaching down to grab his old leather laptop bag from the floor.

“Oh, you don’t have to get them now! I can grab them some other—”

“I was done here. I can grab ’em for you now.” His coffee cup is indeed empty, and he’s already standing up. “See y’all later.”

The others appear amused—either by my sudden request or Theo’s abrupt departure. I smile and wave at them as I steel my spirit to have a polite conversation with this man.

“I’m just a couple blocks away from here,” he says as we leave the coffee shop. “I can go get them if you want to wait here.”

“I can walk with you,” I say with a perfectly civil smile. “That way you won’t have to come all the way back.”

He nods and starts down the sidewalk. He’s not smiling or looking at me or attempting to make conversation as we walk. I fall into step with him, having to take longer strides than normal to keep up.

After a few minutes, I’m annoyed. He could slow down or say something or crack a smile or something.

Yes, he’s doing me a favor, but still.

“What do you need the yearbooks for?” he asks without segue when we turn onto a street off the downtown blocks that has newish town houses and apartments.

“I’m just looking for someone.”

“Who?”

I don’t answer. Not only because he’s so presumptuous in demanding I tell him but also because I’m kind of self-conscious about admitting I have a secret pen pal.

What if he misinterprets my interest and thinks I’m betraying Chris?

He turns his head to peer at me sharply.

I keep my expression blank.

“You were on the chess team in high school, weren’t you?”

He frowns. “Yes.”

“Do you remember someone in it who liked Count of Monte Cristo?”

His eyebrows shoot up. “What?”

“You heard me, I think.”

“Why would—”

“It’s just a question.”

He’s still frowning, but thoughtfully now. Like he’s searching his memory. “No one comes to mind.”

“Okay.”

“You’re looking for someone on the chess team?”

“He might not be on the chess team. It was just an idea.”

“What the hell is all this about? You searching for a long-lost love or something?”

I’ve managed to trap myself in this conversation. I can either tell him or let him imagine something wrong and ridiculous.

“No, of course not. But someone has been writing to me and won’t tell me who they are, so I’m trying to figure it out.”

“Ah.” His expression relaxes slightly. Evidently he doesn’t believe this situation is as absurd as he might have. “So that’s why you need the yearbooks?”

“Yes.”

He’s silent for a minute until he turns toward a small apartment building that looks to house no more than eight units. “This is me. You want to come up?”

I really don’t want to visit his apartment. “I can just wait down here if you don’t mind bringing them down to me.”

“Okay.” He walks in the front door, and I wait outside until he returns a few minutes later, carrying four bound books.

I accept them when he hands them to me. “Thank you.”

He stares down at me, still unsmiling. “I can help if you want.”

“Help with what?”

“Find this person you’re looking for.”

“Why would you help?”

He gives a slight half shrug. “Doing a favor for Chris’s girl.”

Chris’s girl.

That’s who I used to be, but that’s not me anymore.

But there’s no reason Theo would know or care about that fact.

“I’ll let you know if I need help,” I tell him. “Thanks for the offer.”

He nods. Stares at me some more. Then turns abruptly back toward the front door. “Bye.”

I huff with dry amusement. He’s just as friendly as ever. “Okay. See you later.”

He waves back at me briefly before he disappears through the door.