Chapter 4

4

E LIZABETH

Thursday Evening

I’m spent.

This has been one of the most intense, longest weeks of my life, and it’s not even over yet.

My old car sits in front of my place.

My new ride sits around the corner.

I used my old car these past few days because… Well, I went to school, and Chloe was there to have lunch with me. And then, I went to work, and it made no sense to come home and pick up my new ride.

She has settled into her old routine.

Well, almost.

Her new routine doesn’t include going to school, which is odd if you ask me.

But she loves it––that’s what she says, and every time she does that, she gets me worried.

Wrapping my fingers around my cup of tea, I sigh.

My eyes are trained on the window. I wish we had some fresh snow. Some flurries came down the other day, but it was all gone in the evening.

I love it when it snows.

Things get quiet, and right now, I need a lot of silence.

She got the job.

Yes, she did.

Maggie was thrilled to have some help during the holiday season. And why not start working now? Right?

She’ll start tomorrow.

So Friday won’t be the day David and I talk or do our little sex chat thing.

Our arrangement––so far––works.

We had our first chat the other night.

I have an account on an online platform, and he is my only client.

We joke about him being my only client. Or follower, I should say.

Once in a while, I get some random guy in my inbox, although I’ve done my best to change the privacy settings, not show my face, and never engage anyone.

The only downside is that I used my phone number and had to provide accurate information when I signed up.

Still, I’m not that worried.

This is only a momentary thing.

It's not exactly a solution to our problem, and for sure, it’s not what he has in mind. But we won’t be doing this for long, and for now, it’s fun.

We role play a lot. We enjoy ourselves. And we try to forget that time is not on our side.

I’m his sweet girl on call as he plays the naughty billionaire addicted to some dirty pleasure.

I get tips that make me blush, and I have opened a new bank account to transfer all the money there and never think about it.

He wants me to go to New York for Halloween, but that isn’t easy to pull off.

What am I supposed to say?

Chloe already makes plans for Halloween.

She wants to throw a big party to reconnect with her friends. And I don’t know how to say no to her, hop on a plane, and go see him.

My phone vibrates on the table.

I flip it over and check the notification.

That’s what I was talking about.

Some dude just sent me a message.

I ignore him and rise from my seat before heading to the bathroom.

I check my hair and makeup and lotion-covered smooth skin.

I wear no lingerie tonight.

I want him to see me naked.

The robe is soft and fuzzy and smells like perfume–– wet flowers at the height of summer. I secretly bought a bottle last night from a store across from Maggie’s.

It’s expensive yet worth every penny.

All I have to do now is wait.

He’s in a meeting right now, so I go back to the kitchen, light a candle, make sure the door is locked, pour myself a glass of wine, and return to the bedroom.

I put on some music and start fussing with my laptop.

I haven’t written anything since I met him in the coffee shop that day.

This dream of mine to become a writer might never happen.

Reality is different than what I want to put in my story, and I'm still undecided whether I want to pen an epic love story or a smutty one.

I open a new document and stare at it, my eyes vacant, my brain empty.

I’ve never experienced something so intimidating.

Eventually, my fingers rest on the keyboard, and I start typing.

A new title.

Maybe a new pen name.

‘When Stars Fall by Ella Moore.’

I'm typing a few words and quickly realize I’m writing a letter to him.

David.

‘When stars fall, we pick them up, dust them off, and put them back in the sky, their glow never lost, their stories never forgotten.

When they tumble to the ground, our souls dip into the shadow of the crescent moon, like children playing hide and seek, unwilling to come back to light.

When stars fall, we contemplate our end, our fate, our broken hearts, the one-way road, the inky black sky, and above all, the hovering bad omens.

When stars fall we feel empty, useless, pointless.

We lose direction, our mind, our dreams, our elusive future.

Without them, our love can no longer live. It gets old and vanishes into the thin, cold air of the early mornings.

When stars fall, we get buried in tombs of sadness, self-pity, and regret.

And we begin to die, alone and frightened, not knowing that those very stars will rise and wait and smile on us, highlighting the road that in the end will take us to each other.’

A lump forms in my throat, the tension in my jaw becoming unbearable as I stare at the few paragraphs written in a stream of consciousness.

Reality pinches me hard, and I slap the laptop closed before falling back into my pillow.

‘Waxing poetic now,’ the voice inside my head mutters, eyeglasses on, a piercing stare streaming from above their tortoise rim.

‘Shut up,’ I retort, even more annoyed.

Clearly, I’m not good at this.

‘I heard that,’ she murmurs.

‘That’s your fucking job,’ I toss at her.

She laughs.

‘That’s not funny,’ I reply in my head.

‘Your writing is good, just not in step with what’s going on.’

‘What is going on?’

I close my eyes and listen to the music, the smart ass voice chattering in my head.

‘For one, you’re naked, waiting to hear from him, so you can do your little web chat virtual sex business. Both pretending that this is filthy and lustful, pure sex, when your head is in some creepy writing cave, spewing out lyrical shit.’

I ponder before pushing out a chuckle.

“Lyrical shit? Who the fuck talks like that?”

‘The voice inside your head.’

She gives me a smile.

We are in better terms now.

‘Go on.’

‘You’re screwed, babe. You like this man. You like him like he’s some dude from school. You’re taking small trips into your soul, searching for deep meanings. He’s told you about that woman, and you already resonate with him. Do you know what I mean by that?’

I probably do, but I want to hear it from someone, and why not be her?

I love where this is going.

‘Not exactly.’

She chuckles.

‘You’re a petty liar, but I indulge you.’

She goes serious again.

‘It’s like you put your heart to his and felt things he could not even acknowledge. You’re talking about loss and grief and pain that go deeper than the usual ache when you stub your toe. You describe resilience, hope, and healing. And hope is the most important one. Perhaps his journey comes to an end. And that end means a door opens to some normalcy. But…’

I’m still all ears.

‘You don’t know if any of that is real. That’s how it feels. Perhaps that’s how he feels. But a heart’s way is strange and convoluted. One moment, it goes to the light, and the other, it spins away from it, embracing the dark. He might not be who you think he is. You’ve already hit a roadblock with him. Life can be harsh like that. Unwilling to make amends. It can put a wrench in your plans when you expect it the least and likes to test things, people, and feelings. His journey is not yours to take. He has to show you a few things so you can believe him. Does he treat you nicely? Yes, he does. But that’s in his blood.’

Silence follows her words while I soak them in, each bearing nuggets of truth.

The phone buzzes with a message.

It’s my mother, to my chagrin. Not that I don’t want to hear from her. It’s just that I want to hear from him more than anyone else right now.

Am I a little off?

Am I wrong?

Or am I right?

Has my intuition sharpened and caught clues otherwise hard to spot?

What if I put out what my heart wants to happen?

Oh, I’m so not ready for it.

I send her a reply and put the phone back on the bed, face down.

As much as I’d love to move away from speculating, I become restless and pick up the phone again before eventually sliding it down and opening the laptop.

I hate it when I run in circles.

Who is this man?

Truly.

Who is he?

I'm searching online for random posts connected to his name. After filtering out the random men sharing his name, I get very little.

Most scraps of information are related to his business.

A few business meetings, official assignments, and local interviews.

Nothing of relevance to me.

I’ll need to go back and maybe check some official records.

Times flies quickly before I get a notebook and scribble down the bits I find.

Some obscure websites offer information about his past. It might be bots scraping the Internet for information. Beggars can’t be choosers. And then the first surprise pops up.

David Moore––if it’s the same person––was born in Colorado.

Oh, my.

Oh, my.

I’d lie if I said my mouth hadn’t fallen open just a little.

David was born in Colorado? What are the fucking chances?

“What?” I mutter, still not believing my eyes.

This is huge.

It’s never crossed my mind he might have roots in Colorado. He always acted like he had nothing to do with this place. That he was some sort of a guest, never willing to put roots down.

Like a drifter, he always passed through town, having no interest in settling down.

My hand softens on the smooth covers.

This is so strange.

I noticed how he had spoken about this place as if it was the last option on his list of possible towns where he could live permanently.

First off, he never seemed interested in a place to live. Hence, the multiple hotel suites.

He is like someone living out of his suitcase, only outrageously pampered in luxurious hotel suits that come with the kind of comfort that's fit for a king and the cold anonymity needed by a player.

I understand his reasons.

The man travels a lot.

He is away right now.

But still.

Why would he dismiss the idea of Colorado?

He had a flicker of displeasure in his eyes when we talked about settling here, or maybe I’m inventing things.

He must’ve left Colorado a long time ago.

He behaves like someone who has lived in different parts of the world and doesn’t connect to his old place anymore.

I can’t say I’m not disheartened.

This is not what I had hoped to find.

I return to the laptop and my amateurish search, leery of what I might find. A lot of things can actually surface if you’re willing to pay a few bucks, and I’m doing just that, my curiosity ignited.

I find an old address on some paperwork he filed out for the state many years ago.

Going further with my investigation, I check the names connected to the address.

The website courteously provides a short list.

One name stands out.

Eleonora Winston.

I write down her name and address before clicking that link. My face falls as I hit a dead end.

The woman is an elderly woman who lives––or lived––at that address. Maybe she had no connection with him. Yes. Maybe. I don’t know what to believe.

I have a feeling I’m doing something wrong. Immoral. Illicit. As if I’m trespassing a graveyard of memories that belong to him.

Digging into his past can’t bring out anything good.

I don’t think so.

I can tell.

But something clutches my heart inside my chest and makes me pay attention. It’s a burning need to dive deeper and learn more about this man.

I find my way around that website again.

On some almost defunct social media platform, the bots come up with a couple of pictures of him.

The kind that people used to scan and post on the Internet. I know that from Terry.

She did that before deciding that posting online would only make her hate her life.

These are not digital pictures with good lighting and nice filters. The images are blurred.

On top of that, the pictures had been posted on someone else’s account. I check that man’s profile picture. He wears a uniform like David. Enlarging the imagine, I manage to retrieve his name.

Ned Sutton.

I write it down.

My chances of finding that man are practically null.

Sure, I can spend more money to gather more information on that individual, but I’ve already crossed a line with my inquiries.

So, I don’t know. We’ll see.

If I could find something about him without leaving a trail on the Internet, I might check that lead as well.

For now, I have an old woman’s name, an old address, and this guy’s name. Probably a friend.

And then David’s pictures wearing a uniform.

I can’t say my heart doesn’t pitter–patter as I resume staring at his photos.

As blurred and smudged as they are, I can still make out a few details.

His stance, a soft smile curling his lips, making his dimple pop. Handsome man.

He was in his twenties, if that.

I wonder what had prompted him to enroll.

The second picture is worse in terms of clarity, and a few more people are nearby.

I wish I had a magnifier, although it probably wouldn’t do much for me since it’s hard to tell who is who.

Slowly, I scan that picture, frustrated that I can’t get a good photo of him.

It’s like I’m peeking into the past. And I surely am.

And then, something catches my eye.

What is this? Or better said, who is this?

A woman stands nearby, holding a bouquet.

Something makes me think they are connected.

But what is it that makes me think that?

It’s the way he glances in her direction, although she talks to someone else. Perhaps that person had given her the flowers, or she had brought them for one of the men.

Why would she?

I almost pull a muscle while tilting my head and trying to get more from the fuzzy gray picture.

Fuck, I’m getting nowhere.

But luckily, the social media post has the names of the people captured in the picture.

“Bingo…” I murmur, trying to read those names.

One of the names is hers, It must be hers. There’s no other woman in the picture, although the group is larger than the three people. David, Ned, and her.

I struggle with it but succeed.

Anna. Anna Keegan.

A long exhale leaves my chest.

I can’t see her face. She’s sort of turned to the person she is speaking to, which isn’t David.

But she’s young and has long hair, although I can’t tell what color it is. Brown. I think. It doesn’t matter.

Maybe these people are not the answers to my questions.

But maybe they are.

And the best part is, they all used to live in a nearby town.

I don’t know if that adds up to anything or not, but it just might. I’ll sleep on this.

And maybe I’ll move on with my investigation. Or maybe I’ll let the ghosts be ghosts.

If he walked away from that life that just happened to shape up his current life, he might have a good reason.

And I might have no business sticking my nose where it doesn’t belong.

“We’ll see,” I murmur again, bookmarking the website, saving the pictures on my computer, closing my laptop, and pondering the new developments when my phone starts to ring, and someone knocks on the door at the same time, almost giving me a heart attack.