Chapter Eight

Daphne was at a coffee shop, trying to get some work done. She did this once a week or so—"treat" herself to an expensive chai latte and the chance to get out of her apartment, hoping that the change in scenery would somehow make the words come easier. Usually, it seemed to have the opposite effect. She found herself logging onto the Wi-Fi and then back off, telling herself that going off the grid would help her be more productive. But then two minutes later she'd have her phone out just to check one really quick thing, and the cursor on her blank document would keep blinking.

At least the coffee shop was a safe space. No one seemed to recognize her from TV or care anything about what might've happened at a baseball game, and she no longer took either of those things for granted.

Another notification popped up on her phone, but she was determined to ignore it. But then she thought about how much more distracting it would be if she didn't check it, and she needed her full focus to figure out how to write about digital media services and CDN strategy. Sometimes it felt like playing the driest possible game of Mad Libs.

It was another message from Chris. If you ever want to say hi…and his phone number.

What the hell? It seemed like a pretty straightforward message, but for the life of her she couldn't figure it out. He'd bailed on their last conversation, then three days later he'd sent…this?

Did he want her to say hi? He must, if he'd given her his number. She clicked on his profile picture to see what he might've posted lately, but there was nothing. Not the professional photos she'd seen uploaded before, not the brief bio that stated he played third base for the Carolina Battery. Nothing.

The message had been sent only a few minutes ago. She knew what Kim would say if she were here—she'd tell Daphne to play it a little cool, wait a full day at least before responding. She might even advise Daphne not to respond at all, if she knew the whole story. Nothing good could come of it.

But Kim wasn't there. And Daphne had felt a zip along her spine at seeing the digits on the screen. She'd spent the last few days thinking about their conversation, reading back through the messages. He must've thought about her, too, just a little, if he was messaging her now. The very idea put butterflies in her stomach. This was another open door, and she wanted to walk through.

hi

She started to text more, but then left it at that single word. She'd take his invitation literally and see where it went from there. If he came back with some Who is this? type of response, maybe she'd see it as a sign and give up, claim a wrong number.

But his response came back quickly, almost like he'd been waiting for her text.

Much better. Hi.

You never told me what kind of plane traveler you are.

She'd been at the coffee shop for an hour and had maybe three hundred words to show for it, but she closed her laptop while she leaned back in her chair.

D: Seat back: never (I worry it's rude??). Earbuds in: sometimes—I love a good audiobook on a plane. Window: also preferably (sorry!)

C: Why sorry?

Daphne wished she could go back and delete that part. She tried to think of a way she could spin it, where it didn't seem like such an obvious slip, like if he'd said he preferred the right side of the bed and she'd said so did she. Not that she was thinking about what side of the bed he slept on.

She'd say she didn't want him to think she was copying his answer. That was reasonable. She was starting to type it out when another message came in.

C: I'd let you have the window seat.

She bit her lip, unable to stop herself from smiling at that. This felt like a perfect opportunity for her to try out those rusty flirting skills, say something clever back, but her mind was a blank. His words sat there on her phone an uncomfortably long time before he followed them up with another message. She was relieved that the conversation had been brought back to a place that didn't make her stomach flip; she was disappointed, too.

C: We just took off from LA twenty minutes ago.

So he was bored on a plane again. Maybe she should mind that he only seemed to text under those conditions, but she couldn't bring herself to.

D: That's an early flight. It's such a weird feeling, isn't it? Waking up in one state and then ending up 3,500 miles away by the end of the day. You're probably used to it.

C: Yes and no.

She rolled her eyes at his nonanswer. If he was going to go back to that, she didn't see the point in communicating at all. She thought about what Layla had said, about what a tough interview he was, but this wasn't an interview.

But then a block of text came in.

C: There is a lot of travel in baseball—at least it's by plane. In the minors, a lot of it is by bus, which could be a nightmare. The bus would break down, you'd never be able to get any sleep, etc. You adapt to whatever your current situation is. But there are always these little moments, where it all really hits you. Like now, the sky is streaked with orange and the clouds are so close. Yesterday, I was looking up from the field at Dodger Stadium, and I could barely see a strip of blue. Only rows and rows of people, going up so high it was like there was no sky at all.

As silly as it seemed, she'd never actually thought about what it would feel like, to be out there on the field in front of all those people. She supposed that was what had gotten her into trouble in the first place, heckling him at the game. She'd been like a toddler with her eyes closed, believing that if you can't see them then they can't see you. But the way he described it, she felt how big that experience could be, how small it must make you feel.

C: What's your name, by the way? I can't put you in my phone as duckiesbooks.

Daphne's fingers froze over her screen. There'd been a brief mention of her as the heckler in an article in the local paper—she didn't know if he'd seen it, but she couldn't give him her real name now. So far she'd been able to justify her lies as ones of omission, but a fake name would be clear, deliberate dishonesty. She didn't know if she wanted to take that step, but couldn't think of what else to say.

D: Why not? First name Duckie, last name Books. :)

C: What does the S. stand for?

D: That's a rather forward question. We barely know each other.

C: Duckie S. Books it is. Should I add Esq. to the end? Feels like a distinguished name like that deserves to be an esquire.

D: How do you know I'm not?

C:…Are you?

Daphne laughed. A lawyer! Her parents probably wished. Not because they'd ever been particularly pushy about education or high achievement—if anything, they'd been super laid-back when she was growing up, often forgetting to even ask to see a report card or progress report when she brought one home. But they'd like knowing that her job was more stable at least.

D: No, definitely not.

C: All I remember about your job is that you have to send invoices and sometimes it makes you cry.

That reminded her, she actually needed to follow up on another one. It had been a roundup of modern fairy-tale retellings for a popular book site, and had been so much fun to write she almost felt guilty for getting paid to do it. Almost. She was still going to get her fifty bucks.

D: That feels like an accurate summary tbh

D: Why did you delete your Instagram?

She was genuinely curious, but also the further they got away from discussing her identifying details, the better.

C: Social media felt like a distraction I don't need right now. That's the short answer, anyway.

D: And the long answer?

A pause, so long she thought maybe he really was typing out another block of text, some detailed explanation of how he was trying to prioritize in his life or rebrand or whatever else someone with a verified checkmark might say.

C: It made me sad.

A woman in a slouchy sweatshirt approached Daphne's table, asking if she could use the extra chair. Daphne smiled and said sure, no problem, watching as the woman dragged the chair over to a table where a couple other women were all talking and laughing. The woman had a stroller pulled up next to the table, and one of the other women had a baby strapped to her chest in a sling. Daphne felt her smile droop a little as she thought, not for the first time, about what she might've given up by divorcing Justin. She didn't want to stay married to someone only because the timing was right to start a family together. At the same time, in her lowest moments she couldn't deny that sometimes she worried that he'd been her chance, and she wouldn't get another.

D: I get that.

C: I did see your post about that book you were reading—the one with the mermaid on the cover. It was good?

Daphne still had the book in her purse, actually. She took it out and set it on the table, as if she'd just arrived at a book club and was ready to discuss. With an apartment as small as hers, she tried really hard not to make false idols out of books as physical objects, but she couldn't deny that this was one of the most beautiful she owned. Hardcover with dreamy, watercolor art printed directly on the textured white of the cover.

D: It's one of those books that you'll think about for a while afterward. It's about a girl who thinks she's a mermaid, and the book's very metaphorical where you're not quite sure whether she's experiencing magic or madness. I love the way the author writes about language and words.

She hesitated before typing anything more. She didn't want to be the one to bring up his brother, but she also felt irresponsible not giving more explanation on the book.

D: Definitely a content warning for suicide, though.

She slid her fingernail along the book's spine, tracing the smooth letters of the title.

C: I appreciate that. I'll probably never read it—I was just interested in your thoughts. I can't remember the last time I read a book.

Maybe it was good that he'd said that. Because Daphne could feel herself starting to fall under the spell of these intimate conversations just a bit, get dangerously close to imagining what it would be like to meet in real life and talk face-to-face. She needed something to knock her back on her ass a little, and a revelation that he didn't like to read would definitely do it.

D: Try. What book do you think it was?

C: It was probably college. We had to read Catch-22 for a class on twentieth-century American literature. I remember liking it at the time but couldn't tell you anything about it now.

Daphne actually couldn't remember that book much, either. She thought she'd read it, but when she tried to conjure details about it she was pretty sure she was confusing it with Kurt Vonnegut novels she'd read around the same time.

The coffee shop was starting to get busier now, people hovering around the door looking for an empty seat. She felt bad about monopolizing a table when she clearly wasn't using it, so she started to pack up, shooting a quick text to Chris.

D: I have to get going. But I'm interested in your thoughts on books, too, so if you think of any others to share, I'm here!

C: Will do.

Daphne forced herself to finish her draft blog post and send it off to the client before she even checked her phone again. She also did the dishes that had stacked up in the sink and extricated some Easter grass from Milo that he somehow kept finding and chewing on. Next year she'd have to tell her parents that, no matter how much she appreciated them still sending her a basket even though she was a grown adult and they were on the road, maybe skip the plastic grass.

By the time she was finished, it was past lunchtime. She made herself a quick bowl of ramen and sat down at her counter to eat it.

At this point, she didn't know what exactly she'd call whatever this thing was with Chris Kepler. Were they friends? But surely friends didn't conceal their real identities from each other, so that didn't feel accurate. But she did like talking to him, got excited every time she saw a new message come in. She wondered if there was some way she could come clean at this point, explain how the misunderstanding had happened in the first place. Maybe if she brought up the heckling situation somehow, she could gauge how he felt about it, find an opening to identify herself.

D: Have you seen the video of your heckler being heckled?

Not the most elegant way to broach the subject, maybe, but it did the job.

C: Yeah.

Or…it didn't. Seriously, that was all she was going to get?

D: Alexa, play "Karma."

C: Eh. I think karma can take the day off on this one. I just want the whole thing to be over.

So all Daphne had managed to do was dog herself, make herself look catty doing it, and remind him of something he'd clearly rather forget. Well played.

C: You're really not going to tell me your name? Even just your first name? You've read my Wikipedia.

Daphne chewed on her lip. He had a point. She knew his middle name (Ray) and his zodiac sign (Taurus) and where he'd gone to high school (some place in Pennsylvania, it's not like she'd memorized it all). She hadn't gone so far as to seek out interviews or other sources of information, but she knew they were out there.

D: Duckie is my name. Well, a nickname.

That would be less of a lie if she were still four years old. Nobody actually called her that, except for her brother when he wanted to be obnoxious.

C: Like the guy in Pretty in Pink?

Daphne smiled. She wouldn't have pegged him for a John Hughes fan, but she was already realizing that there was a lot she would've gotten wrong about Chris Kepler.

D: Definitely not. That guy was the worst.

C: Are you Team Blane?!?

D: I'm Team Go-to-Prom-by-Yourself-and-Then-Leave-High-School-Behind. Also Team The-Dress-Looked-Better-Before, but I respect Molly Ringwald's singular artistic vision.

C: Who did you go to your high school prom with?

Her face fell as she remembered. She'd hoped Justin would take her, actually—the way it always seemed to happen in the movies. Your best friend's younger sister doesn't have a date, so you step in to be chivalrous, and when you see her coming down the stairs in her prom dress, it hits you, wait, I'm in love with her.

She'd read too many romance novels in high school.

Instead, Justin had taken one look at her in her dress and makeup and said, What's wrong with your face? Then he and Donovan had gone upstairs to get high and play video games, laughing the whole way, probably at her expense.

She'd brought up that moment one time with Justin after they'd gotten together—years later, after she'd graduated college—expecting maybe for him to shed some light on that night. Like maybe he really did like her even then and was playing it cool, or maybe he felt bad for the way he'd treated her sometimes as her brother's friend.

But instead he'd just laughed and said, Oh yeah! You were wearing so much eye makeup. You looked like an alien. Then, seeing her face, he'd pulled her in for a kiss. You're prettier without makeup, babe. That's all I mean.

He was good at those kinds of comments. They seemed like compliments, but they didn't leave you with the warm glow of a compliment.

D: I went by myself! So I know what I'm talking about re the Pretty in Pink situation. And don't think I was a wallflower in the corner with a book, either. I drank spiked punch and danced with friends and did all the stuff movies tell you you're supposed to do. Except for lose my virginity, I guess.

At least when she said something awkward in person, she could blame it on short-circuiting in the moment, her brain causing something to fly out of her mouth that she immediately wished she could take back. But those were typed words she'd just sent. To this person she barely knew.

C: Overrated.

She didn't know if he meant in general or from personal experience, and she definitely had enough social graces not to ask.

D: Let me guess—you were prom king?

C: Ha. No. You're thinking of the football quarterback. Honestly, my life revolved around baseball so much that I barely knew anyone outside of the team. I ended up asking a girl from my homeroom because I overheard her telling a friend she didn't have a date, so I felt pretty sure she'd say yes just to have someone to go with.

D: And what happened?

C: She did say yes. She was very nice, even when I got the wrong kind of corsage. I was supposed to ask her what color her dress was beforehand, I guess. I just liked the yellow rose so I picked that one. It also pinned to the dress and she'd wanted a wrist one. I had no clue.

D: There are a lot of rules. My friends all wanted to pick our dresses out of this one catalog some company paid to have distributed at the school. They thought it would help to make sure that none of us accidentally found ourselves in a "Who Wore It Better?" situation. But I didn't want to use the catalog, and you would've thought I was the only person refusing a blood oath or something.

C: Why didn't you want to use the catalog? Plans to make a Frankendress out of two perfectly good dresses?

That made Daphne snort-laugh.

D: The dresses just weren't cute, in my opinion. And I didn't like the company on principle. They advertised "plus sizes" that were just the same pictures as the smaller sizes, but stretched out with Photoshop.

C: No.

D: YES. Not even Photoshop—more like someone had pasted the picture in a Word document and then dragged the edge to widen it.

C: That's…I don't even have the words.

D: I may still have a copy of the catalog somewhere. It was bonkers.

C: I hope you do. It belongs in the Smithsonian.

Daphne started typing a response when she saw a new message come in.

C: Hey, we're about to land and head right into a team meeting. Will you be around later?

The beauty of texting was that you didn't need someone to be around. You could just send the message and then wait for them to get to it when they got to it. But Chris didn't seem to fully appreciate that, or maybe he just liked knowing that there was a person on the other end, reading and responding to his texts in real time. She could understand that, since it was an aspect of their conversations over the past few days that she'd really enjoyed, too.

C: I promise I won't go dark again.

He also didn't need to make any promises to her. But she found that she liked that he had, regardless.

D: I'll be around.