Beyond that, I remember nothing else. I don’t remember the blood, I don’t remember rolling forward off the toilet seat and hitting my head on the bathroom floor (yuck) and laying there for God-knows-how-long before a med student found me.
“Did anyone bring the package that was left for you?” the nurse asks as she jots down notes on a clipboard.
I look around my private hospital room, ignoring the floral arrangements that, I have to say, should have gone to the women who not only knew they were pregnant, but carried their babies to term. The thought makes me want to cry my face off, so I try not to think of it too much.
“No,” I manage to choke out. “I didn’t get a package.”
The nurse nods. She checks the IV tube, throws a band around my bicep and takes my blood pressure.
“How are you feeling today?” She asks.
“Curious. About the package.”
She grins. “I think they’ll send you home tomorrow. Maybe even tonight.” She starts to leave, then looks back at me. “I’ll get that package.”
She leaves my private hospital room. The silence settles in with the swoosh of the door, as thick as a milkshake (fuck I would go for one of those right now), and I wonder why Will isn’t sitting here with me. Part of me knows the answer, but another part wonders if he might surprise me for once.
Yesterday I woke up to the sound of Will sobbing with his back to me. I pretended that I was still asleep, waiting for him to stop and wipe his face dry. I only opened my eyes once I knew he was sitting up and reading his Kindle. I watched him for an entire chapter before creeping closer and kissing him.
I can’t think too much about Will because the nurse comes back and hands me a box big enough to accommodate a pair of toddler’s flip flops. The box is wrapped in shipping paper all nice and tight, and has nothing but my name on it, written in black permanent marker. No address, nothing else – just my name in a script that I do not recognize. I stare at the box for a minute or so, then catch myself jumping at the swoosh of the door.
It’s just the nurse leaving, but I know that any time that door opens, it can bring more flowers and more guests. It’s that time of day when people will start taking their lunch breaks and, with nothing else but the pity on their mind, will want to visit me.
I rip the package open, quickly yet carefully enough to preserve the wrapping paper. Incidentally, the box is for a popular but inexpensive pair of children’s shoes, the kind they might hand out at a shelter or the Salvation Army to less fortunate children. But the weight of the box tells me that it holds something more substantial than a pair of cheap shoes. When I remove the lid, I’m instantly confused.
A Samsung Galaxy S4. It’s obviously not new – I see fingerprints and the corners also show signs of wear – so I’m not quite sure what the purpose of this gift is. I tap the screen to bring it to life and immediately recognize the photo in the background.
It’s Jake.
My stomach tightens. The sight of him makes my palms clammy and my heart rate pick up its pace, something the quickening chirps from the EKG monitor confirms.
A whiff of the flowers snaps me back to reality.
I am in a hospital bed.
I am holding a Samsung Galaxy phone.
It doesn’t belong to me.
Who sent this? And does this mysterious person know that I just lost Jake’s baby?
I scroll through the screens, past the usual and popular apps (games, utilities, anything that hits the Top 10 it seems) and come to the email icon. I click on it, a little surprised to see that the mailbox is empty, or it has been cleared out on purpose by the Galaxy’s owner. I wonder why.
My next stop is the jAppe application, a popular texting tool that keeps chats private and secure through some kind of encryption process that leaves the intelligible message existing on only the sender’s and receiver’s phones.
Surprisingly, I find three conversations in jAppe.
One of them is between Jake and the phone’s original owner, a woman named Katie (who I am about to find out, is actually barely a woman). But it’s the only conversation I seem to care about right now.
With my heart beating a mile a minute, I check on my surroundings to make sure I’m still alone, then access the conversation that I am sure will change my life forever.
Thursday, April 4, 2013
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4:34pm:
Hey, Jake. How’s your day been?
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4:38pm:
Katie! I’m surprised to hear from you!
4:39pm:
Don’t you have a paper or something due?
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4:43pm:
I figured if I kept waiting for you to contact me, I might be waiting a while. I can’t work on papers when I’m waiting for someone.
4:45pm:
Hope that wasn’t too forward of me.
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4:47pm:
No, that’s fine.
4:49pm:
What’s going on at Columbia today?
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4:50pm:
I guess this might be even more forward of me, but I’ve got nothing going on at Columbia tomorrow night. Want to hang out?
4:56pm:
Are you ignoring me now?
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4:54pm:
Something tells me it’s probably best not to ignore you.
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4:55pm:
Something tells me you’re right ; )
4:56pm:
So what do you say? Want to show me what old men do for fun on a Friday night?
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4:58pm:
Hey, who said anything about “old men?”
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4:59pm:
It’s not like I said “geriatric,” Jake. Relax :P
4:59pm:
Besides, since I’ve met you, I have a new appreciation for men over the age of 30.
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5:01pm:
Ouch. I haven’t fallen over THAT ledge yet.
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5:02pm:
So that’s a “yes.” What time are you picking me up?
--------------------------------------
5:04pm:
Wait a second. How did we get to YES?
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5:05pm:
How else will I get to see your driver’s license to prove you’re not 30 yet?
5:06pm:
That’s what I thought.
5:07pm:
Corner of Broadway and W 169. Now you tell me what time?
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5:10pm:
OK, I guess I can do some babysitting tomorrow night. How does 8pm sound?
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5:11pm:
8 sounds good. But the whole “babysitting” comment implies you’ll be putting me to bed. Or spanking me. A little creepy coming from an old man.
5:12pm:
Should I bring my pepper spray?
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5:13pm:
Yes, bring it.
5:14pm:
I might need it.
5:15pm:
You scare me, Katie!
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5:16pm:
Okay. Pepper spray for the old man and for me, an outfit that makes me look like I’m 16. Perfect.
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5:20pm:
Great. Looking forward to it.
5:21pm:
Have a good night, and don’t forget to get to bed early. Old men like me like stay up long a
fter the Disney channel goes off-air on a Friday night.
5:35pm:
Did I take that last one a little too far?
5:45pm:
OK, see you tomorrow at 8pm.
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Non Friction
Thank you for purchasing and reading the first book in the Textual Encounters series. I hope you are enjoying the story so far and that you enjoy Textual Encounters: 2 just as much.
While waiting for Textual Encounters III to get published in December 2013, why not pick up a copy of my first full-length, stand-alone novel Non Friction in November 2013! In my shameless attempt to seduce you into the story, I’m including the first chapter right here.
And don’t forget to head over to TextualEncounters.com to check out the audio and learn more about this exciting new story!
Prologue
“Our Story”
As a child, Oliver Weaver often confused the John Hancock Center with the Sears Tower. It happened, mostly with tourists or people unfamiliar with Chicago. Both structures were tall, dark and beautiful, and they were both essential landmarks in one of the country’s most impressive cities – Batman Rises and Dark Knight were filmed there, for instance. But that night so many years long after his childhood had faded into a single memory of “everything before Olivia,” sitting at a window table on the ninety-fifth floor of the John Hancock, Oliver Weaver recognized that drawing similarities between two distinct objects of beauty was something he had always done.
While the waitress took Olivia’s order, Oliver watched the way his date’s lips moved somewhat crookedly when she spoke, the way her long and slender fingers brushed her hair behind her ear to give him an uninterrupted appreciation of her face. He memorized every feature like his life depended on it. And although this woman was not his wife, making a comparison between them was finally something he refused to do.
“It’s beautiful up here,” Olivia Warren told him once the waitress left. She wore bright red lipstick and a semi-formal dress that he preferred to imagine on the floor of her hotel room than draped over her petite figure. “Have you always lived here?”
He admitted to spending his entire life in Chicago – elementary school five miles West from here, a semi-private, faith-based high school in Wilmette, and finally college at Northwestern, followed by his MBA at Kellogg right before his youngest was born. “And you? Has Vegas always been home?”
Their conversation went on in this manner for most of their meal. Innocent and ultimately meaningless, but it meant something- no, it meant everything to Oliver because he knew their time together would end sooner than it should.
When they finished their dessert, they strolled N. Michigan Ave under the lights – walking past Macy’s and Burberry on the one side, and past the Grand Lux Café, Hershey and the Water Tower on the other.
“It’s not Vegas,” he admitted, holding her hand as they walked, “but it’s alive. I always love this part of town after a nice dinner.”
Olivia sighed. “I had a wonderful time with you, Oliver.”
At the lobby of her hotel, they stopped. They were still holding hands, still smiling from that first moment they truly saw each other. He noticed a glimmer in her eyes that reminded him of the stars or, more appropriately, the lights on N. Michigan Ave a few minutes ago and a single world came to mind: alive. He knew he had the same glow in his own eyes because Olivia made him feel that way; alive.
“I hope to see you again, Oliver,” she said.
“You will. I promise.” Not soon enough.
They hugged, holding on a little tighter and longer than newly acquainted people normally would, but then again they were more than just two people. When they finally pulled themselves apart, Oliver could tell she didn’t want to let go of their time together. He didn’t want to either.
“Come up to my room?” she asked.
At that moment, Oliver knew that his decision would do more than just haunt him for the rest of his life – it would forever change it. More than that, it would change him, his personality, his character, everything he ever believed in and loved and cherished.
So when he agreed to accompany this beautiful woman to her hotel room, he knew that some decisions in life are made before you ever have a chance to think them through. And sometimes that’s a good thing.
Chapter One
I always wanted to do something with my life, so when Jennifer decided that our marriage of 12 years, 4 months and 1 ½ weeks just didn’t “do it” for her anymore, I figured now was as good a time as any to take that first step. The problem was that if I lacked of motivation and direction before her leaving (and I surely did), I didn’t even know those words existed after she left.
As much as I hated her sometimes, I couldn’t imagine a moment without her. But I didn’t fight her, didn’t stop her from packing her shit and all of our daughter’s things into our only vehicle – a minivan that embarrassed me, so I was fine with her taking it just like she had taken the last twelve years of my life – and drove off to some secret place she refused to tell me about. I figured if she wanted to learn the hard way that leaving me was making the biggest mistake of her life, so be it. I could give her a bit of space, no problem.
“Princess, where are you going?” I had asked a dozen times or so on that day, probably way more but I stopped counting.
“None of your fucking business.”
The way Jennifer kept her lips sealed, you’d think she worked for CIA instead of the hospital.
I expected her home within a day. After a week, I started to worry. Two weeks, I became a mess. Reality sunk in hard and fast.
And those real nights without my family sucked. A lot.
I couldn’t sleep for more than a few hours at a time; I had chest pains and thought I was going to die; I lost track of what day and month it was. I ached for Princess’s body in our bed. And I actually missed Evelyn yelling for someone to cover her up because her blankets had rolled off of her four-year old body in the middle of some dream about whatever it was that kids her age dream about - marshmallows, Barbies, whatever.
Alone in the house, I took the blankets Jennifer had left behind, rolled them up and slept with them.
I called in sick at work a lot – sometimes forgetting to make the actual call, which my boss didn’t appreciate too much. And in those lonely moments of self-pity, I began to realize that I really needed to dig deep. I had to find motivation and direction, start doing something with my life because that would set me back on track.
And maybe once that happened and Jennifer saw how much better I was, she might even return. Yes, she might move her stuff back, start bitching at me again about all the crap that went wrong in her day. That was what I wanted, more than anything.
So I finally dug up the motivation I needed (to win Jennifer back, to get her and our daughter back into our home) but I didn’t know what to do with it. Where do I go?
I needed to get laid; that seemed to be the logical place where most newly divorced men my age started. I figured I was no different.
I quickly learned that the art of meeting women today had changed considerably since I was in college. Having sat on the sidelines for so long meant I had a lot to learn because at 40, I wasn’t exactly “tech-savvy.” The last time I was single, we didn’t send text messages to anyone unless we had a label maker.
And even then, it never got you laid. Not like text messages today.
So after a conversation with Mario, my thirty-something neighbor who seemed to get laid a lot – like so much I used to fantasize about his fuck-buddy-of-the-week showing up at my house by accident - I upgraded my Motorola flip-phone to an iPhone and started taking this texting stuff seriously.
Truth be told, I was hoping Mario could do some of the leg work for me. Instead he recommended a book that he insisted would teach me everything I needed to know about texting women, which was apparently called “sexting.”
Despite the promis
ing title and cover, the book was bogus. None of that shit worked. Like at all.
But there was one revelation that came out of TXT4Sex. And it was this: any idiot can write a book.
So that was what I did.
Without Jennifer on my ass about everything that ever went wrong, I had plenty of time to write my trashy novel. I decided on fiction because I figured the past 12 years of my marriage had been all make-believe anyway, which meant I had some decent first-hand experience with making shit up.
I started with one word, and then added another and another. Before long I had a sentence, a paragraph, a few chapters even. I was well on my way. And this writing gig really filled the loneliness, it helped me forget how much I missed my family.
And after a few weeks, I ended up with this:
Yes, Sextual Encounters. Clever title, right?
Despite TXT4Sex being a major waste of $0.99, it gave me all the technical material I needed to write a story about two morons who fell in love via text messages. And sit down because the best part is yet to come (oh yeah, this is abso-fucking-lutely genius).
Textual Encounters (The Christine + Jake Affair) Page 17