The Despair of Strangers Page 3

  Chapter Four

  Sundays became the hardest day of the week for me. I didn’t have a shift at the diner and Birdie’s shop was closed. In between shifts at the diner, I spent time with my landlord as she filled the silence with local gossip. She was the best kind of distraction and I got lost in her stories, despite not knowing any of the players. She’d put me to work too, gathering up petals for her gorgeous bouquets.

  In my life before, if I didn’t have an event, Sunday was reserved for time with Jake. He wasn’t good at planning dates, so it became my responsibility to find something fun for us to do. My parents owned boxed seats for the New York baseball and football teams, which meant at his insistence, most Sundays were spent at the field.

  I figured being single again meant I could enjoy the freedom of nothing to do. However, I felt like I was crawling out of my skin the entire day. I couldn’t focus on a movie or a book. Instead, my mind would replay that last day, the most awful day of my life, and I’d feel the urge to scream until my lungs gave out.

  Instead of screaming, I drank to dull the ache. I drank to forget my stupidity over missing human beings who were truly terrible people. I drank because I was only about a month away from what would’ve been my wedding day.

  Dozing off around eleven o’clock, I woke up with a red wine headache a few hours later. Groaning, I forced myself to crawl out of bed and gulp down some water. I had to work in four hours and felt like a freight train had hit me.

  I tossed and turned for another half an hour before admitting defeat. I wasn’t likely to fall back asleep anytime soon. As I grabbed my phone at my bedside, I noticed a text alert from an hour earlier.

  I would never tell anyone else, but I’m losing the battle. I really don’t know why I’m alive anymore.

  Oh, fuck me, I thought. I could no longer sit back and do nothing. Emily’s ex sounded suicidal and I was being cruel by not answering. He probably thought Emily was seeing these messages and not giving a fuck he was going through hell without her.

  With my brain still fuzzy from the wine, I hit the option to call back the phone number. I didn’t really care it was the middle of the night. The man was obviously an insomniac if he kept texting Emily after midnight. Maybe I’d luck out with the call going to voicemail and not have to explain the mix-up.

  “Hello,” a raspy voice answered immediately. His tone was colored with shock and I belatedly realized he must have thought I was Emily, finally returning his call.

  Cringing over the thought, I wanted to hang up immediately. If I wasn’t still drunk and nursing the start of a hangover, I would’ve thought my plan out better. I should’ve just texted back and let him know he had the wrong number.

  But some personality traits can’t easily be erased. I was the caretaker of everyone and for some reason, I wanted to make sure he wasn’t going to hurt himself.

  “Hi,” I said meekly. “I’m sorry to bother you, but you have the wrong phone number.”

  A heavy beat of silence followed before he grumbled out, “Who is this?”

  “You don’t know me. I got this phone number a few weeks ago and I saw your messages and thought I should let you know that Emily hasn’t received them. I guessed she changed her number,” I blurted out. The conversation was painfully awkward and I couldn’t wait to hang up.

  “Emily changed her number?” His voice sounded less sleepy, but still had that distinct rasp. I couldn’t tell if the tone was his normal speaking voice or he was only using it to talk to the half-drunk woman who had to burst his bubble that Emily was no longer taking his calls.

  “I’ve had this number about a month, so…” I trailed off before adding. “But the phone company said it takes three months to recycle a number, so I think she disconnected the account a while ago.”

  I heard a sharp inhalation over the line. “You had this number a month? But I’ve been messaging all that time.”

  Fuck, I lamented. Nothing got past this guy. What had he expected me to say to that reminder? “Yes. Well, sorry I didn’t get in touch sooner.”

  “But the messages I send, they are very, very private. I’m sure you read them and realized that? Why didn’t you write anything back?”

  He sounded accusatory and I became annoyed. “Sorry, but when Emily wasn’t writing back, I figured you’d take the hint.”

  I must’ve been tipsy because I normally never became snappy. Right away, I regretted my tone, reminding myself of the dark and depressing messages I had received. I adopted a more sympathetic voice as I said, “But hey, maybe you could find her new number and work things out?”

  His laugh was dark. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  What a dick, I mused. The entire time I’d been feeling sorry for him and he sounded like a complete asshole. “Well, as much fun as this has been, I think I did my civic duty and let you know this is my number now, so don’t message me anymore.”

  He sighed. “Can you contact the phone company and request a new number?”

  “What?” I demanded, the request completely unexpected.

  “If it’s a hassle, I can pay you. What would sound fair to you? I can write a check out to you for five hundred dollars. What did you say your name was again?”

  “I didn’t,” I retorted flatly.

  “And you don’t know who I am either? Or Emily?” His voice was laced with suspicion, which was ironic since he was the one sending intense, borderline creepy messages to a disconnected number.

  “What is wrong with you?” I practically shouted through the phone. “I just told you that I got a new phone a month ago and was lucky enough to get this number. A number belonging to a girl with a psycho ex who wants to buy her old phone number.”

  “You don’t understand—”

  Before he could continue, I disconnected the call. Placing the phone on silent, I flipped onto my belly and let out a shaky breath. I usually hated confrontation, but I actually felt strangely exhilarated. Telling off a stranger almost felt like a step in the right direction of leaving Alyssa Carmichael behind for good.

  I could concede he was right to be annoyed about me reading his messages, but honestly it was his own fault. I didn’t have any responsibility to let him know about her changed number. And what was the big deal anyway? I had no clue who he was. What did he care if I saw his very, very private messages?

  My alarm was unyielding at five in the morning. I didn’t want to go into work after barely any sleep, but I couldn’t leave Jenny in the weeds. Mondays were one of the busiest days of the week with the exception of Saturday mornings.

  Annoyed, I saw the mystery texter had called a couple times after I hung up on him. He had also sent another text. I’d have to block him after all and should’ve guessed he was unhinged. Maybe confronting him was reckless, but I didn’t believe he could track me down through the mobile number.

  My heart fell into my stomach as I read the text.

  Emily was my fiancée, she died 18 months ago. Her parents had continued paying her phone bill after she passed away, I had no idea it had been disconnected.

  I bit down on my lip hard, feeling overwhelming sadness all of a sudden. Tears sprang to my eyes and I felt completely depressed by the news. I had thought I was witnessing a similar situation as Jake and me. I’d assumed his heartbreak was over a breakup. I never once considered Emily was dead.

  I texted him back:

  I am so, so sorry. I had no idea. You asked me last night why I didn’t say anything sooner. The truth is your messages meant something to me. What you said about how you felt, I’m feeling the same way. I’m going through a terrible breakup and ended my engagement to my fiancé. We were together for seven years and it’s just tough to be without him. Obviously, now I know your situation is different, I feel terrible.

  A minute after I sent the message, my phone rang. Does the man ever sleep? I wondered. “Hi.” I felt shy again because I told him more about myself in a text than I admitted to most people in my
life.

  “Hey, I got your message.”

  I cleared my throat before saying, “I can change the number if that’s why you’re calling. I don’t need the money.”

  “No, it was an asshole thing to ask. I’ve had the same phone number for years and I know it would be a headache to change.” His voice was still deep with the distinct raspiness, but the anger had seeped out. Instead, he sounded bone-tired.

  “Okay,” I said with a lack of anything better to add to the conversation.

  “I thought I should explain. After Emily died, my…friend thought it was a good idea to write her letters. I was supposed to pretend she was still alive and tell her exactly how I felt. Our schedules were always crazy when we were together, so we’d text constantly. When she died, that was one of the things I missed the most. Instead of writing her, I just began texting her again.” His sigh was heavy enough I felt the weight through the phone. “I don’t confide in anyone, but I used to tell her everything. I should’ve realized her parents weren’t going to keep her phone on forever.”

  “I’m sorry I read them.”

  “No, don’t be sorry. I sent them; I should’ve thought someone else could end up reading them one day.” He paused before asking, “But they helped you?”

  “Yes, which sounds strange, I’m sure. But I don’t have anyone now. My friends were really my ex’s friends and to be honest, my family belonged to him more than me.”

  His messages scrolled through my head. The context of the message changed after realizing he was talking to a woman who certainly wasn’t going back to him. He said his fiancée died a year and a half ago. I hated the idea of someone completely desolate for months and months. He had told Emily he couldn’t move on, but he didn’t exactly have a choice. I added in a rush, “But it sounds like you have people in your life who care. You should talk to them and let them help you through this.”

  “They don’t understand.” His certainty made me sad, like he was carrying around his mourning without anyone to share the burden. What had happened to Emily? Maybe he was still reeling because her death was sudden, unexpected. But did seeing someone suffer after a long illness lessen the sorrow?

  “I’m sure they want to understand.”

  “Maybe you should take your own advice and talk to the people in your life.”

  I curled up my nose at the idea. “That’s a hard no. My family made it clear I was making a poor choice by leaving Jake.”

  “Maybe you’re underestimating them?”

  “My parents sat me down and told me if I didn’t marry Jake, I’d likely be alone for the rest of my life. And this was after they found out he had cheated on me.” I cringed, realizing I overshared with a complete stranger. Thinking back to the moment was gutting. I refused to cry in front of them or Jake. My father never uttered a word during the exchange, never fulfilling the role of protective dad by offering to do anything in retaliation against Jake for mistreating me. My mother, pretending to give pragmatic advice, stated Jake was merely sowing some wild oats before we got married and moved in together.

  “Wow, fuck them then,” he said, the astonishment clear in his voice.

  I burst out laughing, probably the first time I belly laughed in forever. “Yeah, fuck them.”

  “No one in my life gets it because they’re too focused on the moving on part. It’s like they gave me this time limit on grief and my time is up,” he explained.

  “Grief is intangible, so how can it be measured?”

  He was quiet for a beat before continuing. “I wish you were my friend. Instead, my friends keep trying to set me up on dates, even though I tell them I’m not ready.”

  “I met a new friend at a job I just started. She had the same advice about dating again.” I inwardly cursed as I noticed the time. “Crap, which reminds me, I’m late for work. I better go.”

  I said the last phrase with uncertainty because I actually didn’t want to hang up. He was easy to talk with and even though our heartbreak occurred under completely different circumstances, he seemed to understand what I was going through. Also, I still had a persistent worry about his mental health. I didn’t like the idea of him being alone, shutting everyone out, when he had sent messages that made me wonder if Emily dying took away his will to live.

  He interrupted my thoughts. “You never did tell me your name.”

  “The only solid lesson my mother taught me was not to give my name out to strangers.” I had no idea who was on the other line, not really. “I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to know who I am.”

  His laughter was sudden, unexpected. “You don’t want me to know who you are, that’s funny.”

  “Why is that funny?”

  “Forget it, it’s not important. What should I call you then?”

  I was still thrown by his earlier reaction. Had I come across as paranoid by not giving him my name? But what did I know about him besides that he sent tragic messages to the dead? “Why do you need to call me anything?”

  “I thought…” he trailed off before saying, “I thought we could talk again sometime. If you’d like that, I mean.”

  “I would,” I said honestly. We had only talked for a few minutes, but the idea of never hearing from him again left me with a sense of loss. When he said that he wished I were his friend, I had felt the same way. “How about a first initial?” I suggested. “I’ll be A.”

  “I’m D then.”

  “And you’re sure about me keeping the number? If texting her was helping you, I don’t want to get in the way.”

  “No, I was slightly drunk and bitter when I suggested it last night.”

  “We are alike then; I was also feeling slightly drunk and bitter last night.”

  “We’ll talk soon then, A.”

  I could hear the smile in his voice and it made me feel warm all over. I had no clue if he would actually follow through, but it was the first time in forever a man had made me feel happy. Talking to him was cathartic. I’d been right to sense he was experiencing the same destructive feelings as me. Weren’t we both stuck wishing for the impossible? D longed for a future with a dead girl. Meanwhile, I wanted to go back in time, return to the minute before I met Jake at a college party, and turn away from the boy with the practiced smile. I would choose differently.

  Chapter Five

  “Late night? Did you end up getting together with Zeke from the bar?”

  I stifled another yawn as I stared dumbly at Jenny. Took me a long minute to remember who she was talking about as we stood together by the diner’s coffee machine. “No, I gave him my number, but not sure if I should go out with him.”

  “You should. He’s not relationship material, but he looks fun.”

  “I probably don’t look fun.”

  Jenny giggled. “No, but I bet there’s a fun girl under all that repression.”

  “I was never the fun one in the family. I was the serious, quiet one who was expected to always behave in the responsible way. I never rebelled like ever. This is my teenage rebellion, a decade too late.” Besides college, I never even lived away from my parents. After we got engaged, Jake suggested we remain living apart until marriage. He promoted the idea of a sweet, romantic tradition. I was gullible enough to believe him, instead of realizing living together made cheating more of a challenge.

  “Baby steps then with helping you get unrepressed,” Jenny suggested, wiping her hands on the front of her apron. “You’re definitely not ready for a one-night stand then. Maybe a kiss with another guy first. You were with your ex for how long?”

  “Seven years and I only kissed two other boys before him. And he was”—I leaned in and whispered conspiratorially—“my one and only…you know, partner.”

  “Do you mean he was the only guy you fucked? Alyssa, you can say the word fucked, you know.” Her voice carried, but the seniors at the booths were uninterested by our conversation. They were too busy watching the television mounted on the back corner of the restaurant or read
ing their newspapers.

  “I know,” I huffed.

  “Alyssa, you need to have a nice date with a polite man who gives you a chaste kiss good night.”

  “But why? What’s the rush?”

  “Because your ex treated you like garbage, right?” I nodded before she continued. “So, you need to kiss someone else again to prove you can do it.” She grinned while pumping her fist up and down in emphasis. “He no longer has ownership over your body or your heart.”

  “It’s only been six weeks, though…”

  “Six weeks since you were brave enough to leave him, but how long since the relationship turned bad? For me, years of misery before I left Dylan. Our marriage was dead a long time before the divorce papers were signed.”

  Jenny made good points, but I wasn’t ready to have another relationship. Before I could protest further, she was looking over my shoulder, distracted by one of our customers. She groaned. “Mr. Harris is giving us the stink eye, so you better refill his coffee. We’ll figure out a test guy for you soon.”

  Jenny seemed set on the idea of me dating, but I didn’t feel the same certainty. Although dating after her divorce was a positive experience for her, we were different people. She found her confidence post-divorce. Mine was still missing in action.

  I was home from work by two in the afternoon and decided on a whim to text D.

  Hi, what did you say to your friends who were trying to set you up? My friend at work is persistent about me dating again, but not sure I’m ready.

  A few minutes later, D sent me a reply to my message.

  Working, but we’ll talk soon.

  Squirming, I reread it. I kicked myself for sending him a text in the first place. Of course, the night before he said that we would talk again, but the entire situation was awkward. He was obviously blowing me off, realizing the last thing he wanted to do was exchange messages with a stranger. I couldn’t put into words the reason I felt a connection to him at all. My heartache was partially self-inflicted, the result of being too much of a pushover for twenty-eight years.

  I could talk to Jenny, but I didn’t know how much about my past I wanted to reveal. She had the bare minimum. I moved to Cookstown to get away from my asshole ex-fiancé. Part of the draw of talking to D was the anonymity. He had no idea who I was or what I looked like. I could be completely honest, because what did I care if a no-name man knew my secrets?