Page 10 of Dying to Meet You
Her tail swishes.
After taking her for a halfhearted walk around the block, I change into my pajamas upstairs and settle into bed with the TV remote. The dog is a comforting weight against my knee. But after a half hour of surfing Netflix, nothing sticks.
Muting the TV, I eye my phone the same way I’d contemplate the last cookie in the jar. There’s nobody around to see how far I’ve fallen, so I grab the damn thing and wake it up.
Even so, I just hold it in my hand for a long beat, gazing at the lock screen photo I took last summer of Natalie in front of the palace of Versailles. I can see the whole photo, because I have no notifications. It’s after eight p.m., and my work colleagues are occupied with their lives. I’m almost forty years old, and I barely have a life outside architecture and Natalie.
Being with Tim was a little like uncovering one of the murals in the mansion. Before I met him, I’d painted over my romantic life with the brushstrokes of a workaholic and single mom. I’d done this for so long that I’d forgotten anyone else was under there.
Then he showed up, and there was someone to meet for coffee. Or Thai food. And, eventually, slightly awkward sex.
I wasn’t in love with him. The truth is I don’t think I’m capable of really falling for someone. I was burned so badly in my twenties that I’m probably just numb inside.
Tim, though. He was a good man. And I could have sworn he had real feelings for me. It was the way he looked at me sometimes. With a banked fire behind his eyes.
Or so I’d thought, right up until the evening it all ended. His departure from my life was so abrupt that he’d left a watch—one of his collection—and a set of cuff links on my bedside table.
Who leaves his watch if he’s not planning to be back?
It nags at me. The violence of it. Like he’d finally caught a whiff of my neediness, and couldn’t get away from me fast enough. I spent the first twenty-four hours feeling ashamed that I’d misread the situation so terribly. I did a lot of looking back on our time together, wondering what I’d done to scare him.
Wondering whether I’d leaked desperation from every pore.
I poke my phone again, but instead of opening a text box, I tap on the FriendFinder app. It’s a recent habit, since Natalie got her driver’s license. That’s how I reassure myself about her safety.
But the week before our breakup, Tim and I got separated while jogging together on a trail. I’d texted to ask where he was.
Rowan: Can you share your location?
Tim: Sure, if you tell me how.
He’d shared it, but then forgotten. And now I’m obsessed with peeking at his location. The night after our breakup, his avatar had appeared on Middle Street at Honey Paw, the bustling Asian fusion place he’d brought me on our first real dinner date.
I’ve alwayslovedthat restaurant, and when I’d suggested it, Tim had given me a quirky smile and said, “That’s my favorite. And it’s kind of a litmus test for me with people—to see whether they’ll like it or not. I guess you pass the test.”
Obviously, I failed some other test, because his avatar has shown up all over town this week.
Last night he went to a movie at the Nickelodeon. I’m not proud of immediately googling the lineup, trying to guess which film he’d seen. It’s possible he’s going all these places alone. But I doubt it.
How could I so badly misread the nature of our relationship? So badly misreadhim?
And here I am again, watching the spin as it tries to make contact.
Natalie’s avatar appears first, glowing on Munjoy Hill, at Tessa’s house. I wish the app could also tell me if they’re really studying for the bio final, but technology only allows me to invade my daughter’s privacy up to a point.
Then, inevitably, I tap Tim’s name.
Once again, he’s not at home. But he’s not in a restaurant, either. He’s driving, his icon gliding down Spring Street.
He stops at a light. I wait and watch like a stalker, although I feel no actual remorse.
When he zigzags onto Park, prickles rise at the back of my neck. What’s he doing in my neighborhood?
Never mind that thousands of other people live on this end of the peninsula. His location brings on an irrational fantasy, where he pullsup in front of my house and knocks on the door. When I open it, he’s standing there with flowers—peonies, my favorite.
I don’t know what I was thinking, Rowan, he says.I was an idiot to let you go. I care about you so much. I must have panicked.
Ugh. I want to kick myself for even thinking it—and for opening this app in the first place. I need to stop. All it would take is a couple of taps on his icon.Unfollow this user? Confirm.
