by JB Salsbury
I put on my seat belt and pull up the text message with the myBubble logo. “I haven’t talked to her since I deleted all my accounts. This myBubble thing says it’s small, more secure, and private.”
“If she wants to catch up, why doesn’t she text or call you?” He pulls out of the parking garage onto Highway 1, which leads down the coastline.
I look from my phone to his face then back. “Good question. I guess I’ll have to accept the request to find out.”
“How did she get your new number?”
“Probably the same way Jack did.” I would call my parents and ask them to stop giving my number to anyone who asked, but that’d open up too many questions. Because it wouldn’t make sense that I don’t want Jack or Dawn to call me.
“Are you thinking of downloading the app? If you’re asking my opinion, I say go for it. It’s a safe step to getting you back into the whole social thing.”
I glare at my best friend. “You hate social media.”
“I do, but I didn’t say social media, I said social. You remember what that is, right? Talking and spending time with people who share your likes and dislikes.” He smirks, but it’s not teasing. He’s gentler than that. “Come on, Sadie. Give it a shot. You don’t need to hide from the world forever.”
“I know that,” I mumble to the window as I watch the great black abyss of the sea stretched out before me. “I’m afraid of my own judgment when it comes to meeting new people.”
“Dawn’s not new people. Give it a shot, use a different screen name, and if you hate it, then delete it and be done.”
I look at him. “You must get so sick of me.”
I cut everyone except Ricky out of my life a long time ago, and he’s the only person I’ve been able to talk to. I should accept the app request for his sake. Give him a break from being my only source to vent to.
“Never.” He winks and turns up the radio. Duran Duran’s “Rio” comes pouring through the speakers.
One of the many things Ricky and I have in common is our love of eighties rock. My parents introduced me to all kinds of music growing up, but my love of old rock came from Jack’s mom, Layla. She was always blasting Metallica, Queen, and Guns N’ Roses.
I sing along with Simon Le Bon while following the instructions on downloading the myBubble app. “I need a name.”
“That’s easy.” Ricky’s fingers are thumping out a rhythm on the steering wheel. “Van Gogh.”
Chapter Five
Jack
My couch sucks.
Usually I’m only home to sleep, so I’ve never spent this much time on the piece of furniture that cost more than my first car. After adjusting my position for the millionth time, I discover what I have is more of a padded bench than a couch. The low to the ground, clean, modern look seemed to fit well in my tiny apartment—another thing that costs a fortune and doesn’t seem worth it.
At midnight on a Sunday night—or, I guess, it’s Monday morning—I should be sleeping. Instead, I stare at the screen of my television with the remote in one hand and my phone in the other.
Sadie received a myBubble request from Dawn hours ago. Seven hours ago to be exact. She still hasn’t responded.
I check my phone again in case I may have been so zoned out I didn’t feel the vibration of a text ping.
Nope. Still nothing.
I’ve gone over all the reasons why Sadie could’ve disappeared from social media and can’t come up with any logical explanation other than she’s too good for public consumption. Which she is. She’s never been overly obsessed with herself or even all that comfortable talking about herself. And that’s all social media is, right? Self-promotion.
As much as I wish she was still reachable through one of the big four social media outlets, I respect her for not participating. Hopefully she’ll find myBubble non-threatening enough to join.
My eyelids get heavy, and when I’m about to either crash on the couch or drag my ass to bed, my phone vibrates and pings. I say a quick prayer it’s not Tanner, then slowly open my eyes to find the message I’ve been waiting for.
* * *
Your myBubble request has been accepted. Click here to chat with VanGogh.
* * *
My fingers move so fast they’re practically a blur. I punch out a quick message and hit Send.
* * *
Sadie, it’s been a long time.
* * *
Hi Dawn. I know. How did you know it was me?
* * *
Oops. I didn’t think that through. I stare at my television, searching for an answer.
* * *
You’re the only person I sent a request to. How are you?
* * *
As she types her response, my stomach clenches with excitement. I’m talking to Sadie. My Sadie. I’m finally going to get some answers.
* * *
Good. You?
* * *
Good? That’s it? “Shit, this is going to take longer than I thought.”
* * *
Still married in Florida. How about you? Why aren’t you on social media anymore? In a relationship with anyone special? Are you married?
* * *
I bite my lips, waiting for her answer. Seconds pass. Both my knees bounce in time with my rapidly beating heart. Text bubbles come and go. Then finally an answer.
* * *
Nope. You know me. Haha.
* * *
“What the fuck does that mean?” No, she’s not married, or no, there’s no one special? And I know her, all her life I’ve known her better than anyone, but now? I know nothing.
I type my response and hit Send.
* * *
What does that mean?
“What do you think that means?” I ask Tanner in the break room as we huddle around the coffee pot. “She never responded. I did what you suggested and it’s not working.”
He flicks his finger onto the screen, scrolling, reading. “I think it’s pretty obvious.” He slides my phone across the counter to me. “You suck at being a chick.”
“I don’t even know how to respond to that.”
He huffs annoyingly. “You’re talking to her like you’re a guy talking to another guy, going straight for the important information.”
“That’s the whole point of this. To get information. To get in her head and find out why she’s ghosting me. And I talk like a guy because I am a guy.”
“No. You’re Dawn. Female conversations are a marathon, not a sprint.”
I slump against the nearest wall. “I don’t know if I can do this.”
“You can.” He stirs his coffee and tilts his head. “Don’t you ever listen to girls when they talk to each other?”
“Honestly? Not really.” I’m not surprised that Tanner would eavesdrop on conversations between women, probably hoping to hear his name.
“What are conversations like between your sister and your mom? Think about the way they talk to each other about their lives. Have you ever had a conversation with your mom or sister that lasted less than thirty minutes?” When I don’t respond, he calls to a female employee passing by. “Mikaela? Can you come here for a minute?”
She comes in, iPad in hand, pushing her glasses up her nose.
“Have a seat.” Tanner nods to the nearest table and we all sit.
She seems a little put out but does what he asks. She looks between us. “What’s up?”
“Did you have a good weekend?” Tanner asks.
“Yes,” she answers suspiciously. “Did you?”
“I tried that new restaurant on Fifth.”
“Oh, the Moroccan one?” She relaxes a little. “How was it?”
“Really fucking good. Best bastilla I’ve ever had.”
“Is it as good as Uncle Ali’s?”
“I’d say it’s better. And that gelato place right across the street? So good.”
“My friend Janice lives for Moroccan food. I’ll have to tell her about the bastilla. We tri
ed Kitchen25 Friday night and the food was meh.”
“They have a great bar though.”
She shrugs. “It’s all right. It’s a scene. Everyone who wants to be seen was there.”
I watch their back and forth as if I’m watching a tennis match.
“That can be so annoying after a long week,” Tanner says with more empathy than I’ve ever heard from the guy.
“Right?” Mikaela’s expression morphs from guarded to open and animated. “This guy kept buying us drinks, but it was so obvious he only wanted to show off in front of his friends. I hate that.”
“What a douche. Bet it felt great to blow him off.”
Her cheeks flush. “Oh, I didn’t. I brought him home anyway.”
“Women have needs,” Tanner says and high-fives her. “No judgment.”
They laugh together as if I’m not even here. Tanner swivels his head around and smirks.
After her laughter calms, she checks her watch. “Shit, I have to get back to work.” Her eyes warm on Tanner—not in a sexual way but with a genuine look of appreciation. “It was really great talking to you.”
“You too. And let me know what you think of the Moroccan place.” As soon as she’s gone, Tanner clears his throat. “And that, my friend, is how it’s done.”
“How did you do that?”
“With women, you have to build up to the big stuff. Start off small, non-threatening, totally irrelevant, then you do what’s called spider-webbing. That’s hopping from one subject to another—in this case, Moroccan food to a dirty but no doubt thrilling one-night stand.”
“That sounds really confusing.”
“Look, Dawn and Sadie haven’t seen each other in years. You can’t just hit her with direct personal questions. You have to warm up to that. It’s like foreplay.”
I stare at my best friend. “Every single part of me is saying I shouldn’t listen to a word you say.”
He throws his hands up and slumps back in his chair with a satisfied grin. “You can’t ignore the result. You could keep blowing up Sadie’s phone until you’ve pissed her off so much she blocks your shit.” He leans forward, elbows on his table. “Face the facts, brother. You’re great with authentic relationships, but I’m great at manipulation. If you want information on Sadie, my advice is your only option.”
Chapter Six
Sadie
As I sit at my favorite table on the patio of the best coffee shop in Hillcrest for people watching, I’m aware of all the couples surrounding me. Some pass by on the sidewalk, holding hands. Another bickers in whispers at a nearby table. Some tag-team their coffee experience by one ordering while the other grabs a table.
I wouldn’t have noticed them before, but for some reason, today I do. Only because of the twinge of jealousy I feel. And where the hell did that unwanted feeling come from?
It’s been over a year since my last attempt to date. Over a year since I last trusted anyone. Over a year since I last trusted myself. And as terrified as I am to try again, to trust again, there’s a deep yearning welling up inside me that longs for romantic companionship.
I blame it on my run-in with Jack.
I miss what we had, the ease of our relationship.
They have names for it.
Puppy love.
First love.
High school sweethearts.
Everyone knows those are the most fragile kinds of love. They rarely, if ever, manage to withstand growth and change, and rather than being a dependable kind of love a couple can build a life on, they’re the feeble feelings of an untouched life and underdeveloped brain.
I swirl my coffee as a group of three ladies sits at the table next to mine. They’re all smiling and laughing as they talk about last night’s events, which include alcohol and a house party. Two more things I’ve cut out of my life—close friends and booze. Neither help with my trust issues.
Except Ricky.
He’s the only person who’s stuck by my side, putting up with my otherwise irrational fears without making me feel stupid or like a freak. Probably because Ricky was always treated like a freak himself. Nothing grows compassion in a soul quite like suffering.
My phone buzzes, and I see I have a new myBubble message from Dawn. I contemplate ignoring it when it buzzes again.
Dawn left San Diego before my life fell apart. I don’t need to worry about her asking a million questions about what happened. With her, I can be the old me.
* * *
Remember sushi Sundays? I’d give anything for a salmon roll.
* * *
I grin, remembering those nights that had more to do with sake than sushi. I type back.
* * *
I thought you hated salmon. You always ordered Cali rolls.
* * *
I love it now. Remember the selfie we took in the bathroom? I still laugh about that.
* * *
Do I? Yes. The image of you stumbling drunk out of the stall with your pants around your ankles is burned into my memory forever.
* * *
We had some good times.
* * *
Yeah we did.
* * *
I think back to the time I spent with Dawn. That was the beginning of when life got hard for me. Jack was my entire world until he left for New York. I stayed in Las Vegas for two years, until finally, with my parents’ blessing, I decided to move to California, go to school, and live outside of waiting for Jack. That’s when I met Dawn in Art History. She was a year older and showed me around. The following year, she moved away.
Once I was left on my own, I managed to fuck up everything.
I type back and hit Send.
* * *
Remember my twenty-first birthday?
* * *
How could I forget?
* * *
I chuckle sadly.
* * *
I know. I was a mess.
* * *
Alcohol will do that to a person. ;)
* * *
I wasn’t even that drunk! Thanks to you. I remember you saying drowning a broken heart in liquor won’t kill it, it’ll only make it hurt more.
* * *
Her text bubbles come. Then go. And come and go again. As I wait for her response, my phone rings.
I check the caller ID.
New York area code.
I send the call to voicemail, gather my things, and head home.
Jack
Goddammit, Sadie, answer your phone!
Her twenty-first birthday.
Fuck.
I’d had plans to fly out and spend the weekend with her but ended up cancelling last minute to go to a dinner party with two CEOs of a prestigious ad firm.
I remember telling her I had to cancel and apologizing all over myself. I swore I’d make it up to her. She said it was fine, assured me that she understood, and even said she didn’t want to make a big deal over her birthday anyway.
She’d lied to me.
Heartbroken? On her birthday. And I did that!
I drop my phone facedown on my desk, not surprised that she didn’t answer. If she’d given me the chance, I would’ve told her again how sorry I was. I wish I could tell her I made a mistake. I never should’ve cancelled my trip to spend her birthday with her. It was a dick move, but she should’ve been honest and told me I was breaking more than just our plans.
I broke her heart.
Chapter Seven
Jack
Being Dawn is a part-time job. Between scouring her social media pages for things to talk about with Sadie, crafting vaguely worded messages to her, and my usual workload at the firm, I barely have enough time to squeeze in gym hours.
The more I talk to Sadie, the more I realize how much she’s changed. She’s guarded, secretive, and when I get close to anything personal, she diverts the conversation to a different subject.
Tanner wasn’t joking when he said female communication is a marathon. In four days, the most I’ve been
able to get out of Sadie is that she lives in a town called Hillcrest, loves the coffee shop on the corner called the Magic Bean, and is finishing up her fine arts degree with an exhibition in six weeks.
Oh, that’s another thing I’ve spent hours studying. Art. Who knew that Salvador Dali thought he was his dead brother reincarnated or that Edgar Degas was obsessed with painting ballet dancers? We’ve spent time discussing art, and the passion in her messages comes across so clearly, I can almost hear her voice in her words. Makes me wonder though, how often did I ask Sadie about her passion for art when we were together?
Not as much as I should have.
My phone pings on my desk, and I scramble to check it.
* * *
Sorry to do this to you, but do you have a minute?
* * *
I type back quickly and hit Send.
* * *
I have as much time as you need. What’s up?
* * *
Which dress do you think looks best on me?
* * *
I wait with trembling hands and sweaty palms. My pulse pounds because I’m finally going to get a recent photo of Sadie.
The first image comes in and I’m knocked back in my desk chair. She took a picture of herself in a dressing room mirror, her slender body encased in a red dress that clings to her full breasts and hips, and fuck… her feet are bare. I zoom in. My eyes dance over every inch of her body, my memory so sharp I remember the taste of her neck, the weight of her tits in my palms, the slick heat of her tongue. My muscle memory sparks as it pulls up the feeling of her soft bare thighs straddling my hips, her chest pressed to mine.