Text Appeal

If I hadn’t been bored and lonely, I’d never have answered the text. But I sent out my new number hours ago and only three people responded. My mother, a guy I’d ghosted, and Grandpa. He sent a fire emoji. It’s his answer to everything: Dad sharing his recipe for apple and walnut salad, Cousin Charlie and their partner getting engaged, Great Uncle Doug dying in his sleep… No one knows for sure what he thinks it means, but it enriches the family chat to no end.

But back to me and my sad state. My body might be worn out from hauling my belongings up three flights of stairs (boo to the broken elevator), however, my mind is wide awake. Though that’s not unusual. Insomnia sucks.

Time to check my cell for the hundredth time. There were so many promises to keep in touch from my various friends and acquaintances, but they’re not responding. They’re probably out hitting the bars before heading to brunch in the morning, as per usual. Every weekend at home is the same. Heck. Every day is the same. Which is why, despite being allergic to change, I have made the move from a city in the desert to a small town on the coast.

All my life I’ve dreamed of living by the sea. Most of my childhood was spent watching The Little Mermaid, SpongeBob SquarePants, and The Blue Planet. And to think—it only took me twenty-nine years to get my shit together. While the fantasy was a lighthouse shrouded in mist sitting above a jagged coastline, an apartment on Main Street also works. The lease is for three months. More than enough time to figure out if I belong in the Pacific Northwest.

Like any self-respecting small town, things quiet down after nine when the restaurants close. Though some bars stay open, since it’s Saturday. Two hours from the nearest city, there’s no hum of traffic. But there are still many new noises to distract me and keep me from settling in. The salt wind racing past the big old brick building. The faint strains of jazz music coming from a neighbor’s apartment. And the delightful chime of my cell receiving a text.

Unknown: You can’t just ignore me. We need to talk.

Me: Wrong number.

Unknown: C’mon, Connor.

Me: No one named Connor here. You have the wrong number.

Unknown: Stop lying to me. We’ve known each other too long for this shit.

Me: But not long enough for him to give you his new number, apparently.

Unknown: Ouch. No. I don’t believe it. There’s no way you’d give up boobs.

Me: Boobs?

Unknown: The last five digits of the number. 80085

Me: Ha. I hadn’t noticed.

Unknown: He’s had it since high school. It was his juvenile pride and joy.

Me: Maybe he finally outgrew it.

Unknown: Hang on. You’re his new girlfriend, aren’t you?

Me: No again.

Unknown: I don’t believe you.

Me: Okay.

Unknown: You admit it?

Me: Nope. Just acknowledging that being wrong is a choice you can make. It’s your life.

Unknown: Giving you his cell and getting you to deal with me sounds about right. The last time we spoke he was not happy. Do you make him happy?

Me: I don’t even know him.

Unknown: I don’t believe you. Things have changed. Tell him I need to talk to him.

Me: He still isn’t here.

Unknown: I wouldn’t give him the cell either if I was you.

Me: When did you two last actually talk?

Unknown: Christmas.

Me: Yikes. That’s months. The relationship sounds broken. Have you thought about putting it in a bag of rice?

Unknown: Very funny. Time for another drink. Hotel mini bars are the best. I don’t usually get to meet his female friends. Guess I should introduce myself.

Unknown: Hi. I’m Ava. What’s your name?

Hmm. Logic would suggest I block her and move on with my life. As sad, pathetic, and sleepless as it might currently be. However, writers are notoriously nosy creatures. Especially when it comes to relationship drama, and I write romance.

Me: Riley.

Ava: Nice to meet you. Sort of.

Me: I don’t know your story, but is he worth all the angst?

Ava: You haven’t heard about me? Are you new to Port Stewart?

Me: You’re from Port Stewart?

Ava: Yeah. Born and bred. Connor and I were high school sweethearts and we’ve been on and off ever since.

Me: How long is that now?

Ava: Fifteen years. Are you planning on staying in town?

I hesitate again. It’s one thing to exchange nonsense texts with a random stranger. However, giving details about my life and location doesn’t feel safe. Not that she has asked me anything which might identify my new address. The conversation just seems weird suddenly. Weirder. You would think area codes cover a decent distance. What are the odds these people would be local?

Me: As my mother says, drink a glass of water before you go to bed.

Ava: You seem nice. But he will come back to me. He always does.

Me: Okay. Good night, Ava.

Ava: See you soon, Riley.

And that doesn’t sound ominous at all.

My previous phone number was spammed out of existence. Just endless nuisance calls and texts trying to scam me. It had to go. I wonder why Connor changed his—if it had anything to do with his ex. Or maybe he decided to throw his cell into the sea. To shun the modern world and do away with technology. It’s not a bad idea. Though the Ava situation seems more likely. The timing is certainly curious, what with her coming back to town. Imagine having over a decade’s worth of romantic conflict with someone. It really takes it beyond second-chance romance and into the realm of complicated as fuck. But why wouldn’t he just block her?

I’ve dated a variety of people over the years. None of them lasted long. And the only on-again, off-again relationship I have is with tequila—we’re toxic together.

Thanks to the texting, I am now more awake than ever. Time to take another stroll through my new place. The apartment came furnished. There’s a solid-wood dining set, a chunky gray sofa, and an old-style black metal bed frame. As for the rest, it’s basically a blank canvas. The walls are white, the floors are polished wood, and the kitchen counters are dark stone. Mom would immediately cover the place with bright throws and pillows. But I am going to sit with the space for a few days and see how it feels.

There’s not much of a view from the bedroom, but the large windows in the living/dining/kitchen space more than make up for it. A full moon is shining down on the bay. There’s something mystical about the way the water moves in the moonlight. How dark shadows show the ebb and flow. I still can’t believe I am here. Going from a city in the desert to a small coastal town is going to be an experience. Having whole-ass states between me and the place I used to call home. But I wanted to challenge myself. To be somewhere totally new.

“You can do this,” I tell my reflection in the window. “It is going to be great.”

It rained all day Sunday, making it perfect weather for settling in and unpacking. My first official outing takes place on Monday morning. I’ve tied back my shoulder-length light blue hair (necessitated by precipitation making it bouffant and fluffy as fuck), and am wearing jeans and a white tee. The goal is to look like a local—to blend and belong. Though while people-watching through my window I observed an array of styles. From hiking gear to ren faire to quiet luxury and back again. The population might only be five thousand, but they clearly come from all walks of life.

Out on the street, the sky is clear, and a cool breeze blows off the water. The scent of salt and sea fills the air, and I hear gulls crying. My heart feels two sizes too big, straining at the bars of my rib cage, and my smile can barely fit on my face. Being here, making my dream come true, is amazing.

My new apartment is in an old, ornate building with stores on the ground floor. A secondhand bookseller and an ice cream parlor. It’s how I knew this was the place. Books and sugar—an unbeatable combination.

There hasn’t been a single communication for Connor this morning. No texts or calls or nothing. Guess he’s sent out a new number, since I doubt everyone suddenly stopped talking to the man. His plethora of messages from yesterday include:

Any news on the mustang?

Grab some beer if you’re coming over to watch the game.

You were right. The bronco is dead as a doornail.

Any idea on the numbers for the party? Will the back room be big enough or should we have it in the bar?

Are we still on for Seattle tomorrow?

Let me know when you and Ava can come to dinner.

This was followed by a selfie from the woman herself, along with a message wishing Connor and me a great weekend. Which is funny in a shit-stirring sort of way. Her long dark hair shines and her olive skin is flawless, and I don’t even think it’s a filter. Ava really is the worst.

Next was a voice message from his mother asking when he’s picking up Ava from the airport and if she should make her blackberry cobbler or hazelnut bread for the welcome home party. Apparently his mother is unaware of their relationship status.

And last but not least, my personal favorite, a late-night booty call. Which is how I met my new friend, Yumi. She’s an accountant in a neighboring town and knew all the great places to eat and visit. I asked her about Connor, but all she would say is that she doesn’t call him for conversation.

I should have just turned off my phone. It would have been the sensible thing to do. But receiving random details about this man’s life is fascinating. The mustang and bronco mentions are particularly interesting—makes me wonder if Connor is a cowboy. You have to appreciate someone who knows their way around a length of rope and is good with their hands. Of course, he might just be a general horse enthusiast. Either would be fine with me.

So far, I’ve received a thumbs up on the change of number from a school friend who moved to Missouri, and a slightly harsh Who is this? from an old college roommate. Such is life. Some fellow authors messaged to check that I had arrived in one piece. Which is nice.

The relative quiet over my new number announcement has made me think that maybe I’m to blame for the lack of meaningful connections in my life. I’ve been focused on building my business for the past five years.

As I walk down the block, I smile at the people I pass. And some even smile back. My goals for the day are thus: coffee, check out the local area, grocery shop, and get my word count done. Find new friends, true love, and the meaning of life would also be great. However, I’ll settle for managing to make conversation with at least one person in real life. I could use the practice.

The espresso machine hissing and spitting behind the counter in the Main Street Coffee House is a beautiful thing. And a number of people are gathered waiting, which is a good sign. Colorful paintings share wall space with notices for local events and some of the windows are stained glass. There’s also a whole lot of beautiful, lush potted plants. I am officially obsessed.

Soup and salad are listed on the chalkboard menu, and sandwiches and pastries fill a glass cabinet. Music plays and people chat. The overall vibe is so warm and welcoming. I can see myself working at one of the small wooden tables tucked away in a corner and gorging on coffee and cake.

“What can I get you?” asks the smiling barista when I finally reach the front of the line.

“A cold brew and a chocolate chip cookie, thanks.”

“Sure thing.”

She’s older than me and the embroidery on her tee says Shanti. Her skin is umber, and her hair is in Dutch braids. I pass her a twenty-dollar bill and she hands back the change. Now is the time to make friends by tipping big, and they’re doing dueling jars. How cool. The pizza place back home did this all the time. Things like boxers versus briefs or cats versus dogs.

Here, however, one tip jar reads AVA THE HOMETOWN HERO and the other says RILEY THE NEW GIRL.

What the fuck?

“Your name?” asks the waitress with a pen and a cardboard coffee cup in hand.

It cannot be real. I blink repeatedly, but the scene before me doesn’t change. What are the chances there’s another Riley in town who was recently accused of dating a certain dude? Ava has obviously been talking and texting up a storm.

When she sees me staring at the jars, Shanti sighs. “That’s just some local nonsense. Don’t pay it any mind.”

“There’s only a nickel in the new girl’s jar, but the other one is almost full.”

Shanti rests her hip against the counter while giving the other barista serious side eye. “Some people are mistaking real life for one of those damn reality dating shows.”

“It’s funny,” says the second barista, a young white man.

“Are you still going to think it’s funny when Connor finds out?” asks an older man in waders standing at the end of the counter.

The smile falls off the young man’s face. “That dude doesn’t have a sense of humor.”

“Not lately, he doesn’t. But he said he’d help you with the colt so you might want to try a little harder to stay on his good side.” Shanti turns back to me and says, “Your order won’t be long.”

I shove the few bills I have in my purse, along with some coins I find rolling around, into the new girl jar. It’s everything I have on me. Then I hide off to the side behind a particularly verdant fern. Shock is the prevailing emotion. I’ve only been in town for two days. How the hell have I already become part of the local discourse?

This could well sink my plans for debuting a new-and-improved seaside version of me. One who knows how to socialize, amongst other things. While I don’t have an exact outline for Riley 2.0, I would also appreciate it if I could stop randomly saying the wrong thing and regularly spilling crap on myself. Of course, it’s the dream to be cool, calm, and confident. Though I am pretty sure hiding behind foliage in public rules out those three. And what has never been on my list is becoming a man-thieving ho.

“I think it’s fate,” says the grizzled old man in fishing gear. “The way Ava and Connor keep finding their way back to each other.”

A silver-haired woman holding a designer handbag and wearing three strands of pearls around her neck nods thoughtfully.

“That’s very romantic of you, Harold.” Shanti plates up a pastry. “I didn’t know you had it in you.”

But the next person in line groans loudly. “Please. She’s always leaving. I don’t know why he keeps taking her back.”

“She’s a successful modern woman,” answers Harold with his head held high. “It’s not her fault her work takes her places.”

Another person in athleisure adds a quarter to the jar. “My money goes to new girl.”

It’s not much, but I’ll take it. With silent thanks.

“You’re both just still pissed Ava got prom queen.” A man with a toddler on his hip stuffs a dollar bill into the other jar. Dammit.

“Way to swear in front of the baby, Wade,” says Shanti.

“She was also captain of the girls’ baseball team, lead in the school musical, and Miss Port Stewart.” Harold counts off each accomplishment on his fingers. “This new girl, whoever she is, would have to be pretty special to compare.”

And the bitch of it is, the bulk of them agree.

But my hero, athleisure woman, shakes her head vehemently. “All of those things happened over fifteen years ago.”

“It’s not as if she’s been slacking since,” says Harold.

No one argues the point. Shit. Small wonder the contents of my jar are so meager. I’m up against an overachieving beauty queen. I came second in a talent show once. My performance of “The Cup Song” was solid. But that was my peak, school achievements-wise. That and being accused of plagiarism by a teacher because the story I wrote for class was too good.

This is all unsettling. Maybe I should tell them the truth. How Ava texted me and jumped to the wrong conclusion. Though it would be my word against the hometown heroine. What’s the likelihood I would be believed?

Two tourists enter the coffee shop. One holds a camera while the other studies a brochure. There are lots of hotels and inns along the waterfront. Port Stewart is a popular place. There’re plenty of restaurants, art and culture, history, and scenery to recommend it. And it’s only two hours from Seattle.

“We’re looking for the farmers market?” asks the man.

“The corner of Hemlock and Lawrence,” answers Shanti. “But it’s only on Saturdays.”

The now sad-faced tourists shuffle back out.

Shanti picks up a cookie with a napkin and places it into a paper bag. “Where is…there you are. Your order’s ready. I never did get your name.”

I rush over and reach for my coffee and cookie. Only sugar and caffeine can save this day. “Thank you very much.”

“You’re very welcome.”

It’s not far to the door. Fifteen feet or so at most. Good thing I wore flats. While I don’t exactly run, I don’t exactly walk either. My cold brew sloshes about inside the paper cup.

Time for a new plan. I shall weather the storm by valiantly hiding out in my apartment until this shit blows over. It’s not like I have any problems hunkering down and introverting. Ava will return and be reunited with Connor and talk will turn to something else. Something that doesn’t involve me. Then I will forget about this shit, relaunch my seaside life, and all will be splendid.

Before I can reach it, however, the coffee shop door swings open and in walks the building superintendent. The same person who gave me the keys to my new apartment. Her face lights up at the sight of me and she loudly proclaims, “Hey there, Riley!”