“I’m sorry.” My new mantra. Hope my repetition of those words—I’ve said them maybe a hundred times this morning—doesn’t cheapen them. When my mom died, that was the expression I hated the most because it seemed like an easy way for people to deal with me and move on, the words a beautifully wrapped gift box with nothing inside. No recognition that her having died meant that she was now dead, every day, forever.
“I’m getting your phone.”
“No. Please don’t.”
“It must be done.” She grabs my phone from my bag, swipes the screen. “What’s your code?”
My tongue burns and my eyes water from the hot sauce. Still, I take another sip of soup. Avoid her eyes. Stir noodle and seaweed into a tangled knot.
“Fine. I know it anyway.”
“You do not,” I say, though of course she does.
“One-two-three-four. Yup, right in. How many times have I told you that you need to change that?”
I laugh, but I’m scared. What’s in my phone? What does SN have to say for himself? Why are both Dri and Agnes texting when they know I’m away? I pray that they’re writing to tell me that Liam came to his senses and he and Gem are back together, not because they’re mad. It’s strange that Wood Valley has seeped all the way here, halfway across the country.
“No way!” Scar squeals and claps. “I was so hoping it wouldn’t be him!”
“What are you talking about?” I ask.
“Look!” Scar hands me the phone, which is open to a three-way message between me, Agnes, and Dri.
Agnes: BIG NEWS. Just saw Caleb at Barney’s.
Dri: So?
Agnes: HE WAS WITH HIS SISTER!
Dri: She’s not dead?
Agnes: Nope. Alive and well, and buying a thousand-dollar handbag.
Dri: JESSIE!!!! OMG!!! OMG!!!
Agnes: Told you Caleb wasn’t SN.
“Wait, what?” I look at Scarlett. I’m confused. Of course SN is Caleb. I mean, he has to be. The way he dresses like someone who wants to remain anonymous. The fact that he had his phone out at the party. And the way he showed up at Book Out Below! after I told him I work there. The way he always texts minutes after we talk in person. That whole phone-shake code thingy. Did he make up his dead sister?
And didn’t SN and I talk about my coffee offer once, that time when I took it back?
I search for the message. And there it is:
Me: (3) Just so you know, I take back coffee.
SN: okay, no sugar for you.
Me: What?
SN: a joke. Seinfeld reference.
Me: It’s not funny.
SN: it’s just coffee. relax.
I give my phone back to Scar, like it’s something toxic. Did I have it all wrong? Did SN think it was a typo? That I was saying that I take my coffee black? I thought he meant it was just coffee, that meeting in person was no big deal.
“Yeah! I was so not rooting for Caleb. He seems like kind of a dick—no offense. Kilimanjaro notwithstanding. Like, if he was going to spend all this time messaging you, he should want to hang out.”
“Wait, so you think it’s not him. For real?” My head is spinning again. Scar was wrong. This soup is no hangover cure. I feel the hot sauce make its way up the back of my throat, burn, burn, burn.
“Of course not. Who makes up a dead sister?”
“Weirdos who anonymously text their classmates.”
“No way. It’s official. SN is not Caleb.”
“Then who the hell is he?” I ask.
“Look,” Scar says, and hands my phone right back.
SN: I’m worried. are you okay? you can be mad, but just tell me you are okay?
SN: hello?
SN: okay, trying to calm down, even though it’s the middle of the night and impossible to think clearly. i’m just going to tell myself that your phone died or you turned it off because you didn’t want to talk to me, which is fine, though i don’t get it, but you’re not in some ditch somewhere drunk with that stupid jerk who wouldn’t leave you alone.
SN: three things: (1) I’ve only told you one lie. the rest, everything else, has been the truth. and though it was a big one, I think you’ll understand why. god, I hope so. (2) THIS is more important than anything else. this is real. even if everything else feels like it’s not most of the time. (3) I’ve been thinking about it all night, have reread your messages a million times, and I’m pretty sure I