After seeing you, all of the youthful feelings and memories came flooding back to me, and now I’ve spent the better part of a month wondering what your life is like. I might be totally out of my mind, but would you like to get a drink with me and catch up on the last decade and a half?
M
(212)-555-3004
My mouth was open in shock as I reread it to myself three times.
“Ms. Porter, is this letter for you? Do you know this M person?”
“Yes,” I said, my voice shaking. Tears began to fill my eyes. I reached out and hugged him. “Thank you.”
“That’s pretty cool. I didn’t think those posts ever worked. Good thing you have that tattoo. Are you gonna call the dude?”
“I think so. Listen, Eli, I really appreciate what you’ve done, but I need to head out. Can I take this?” I held up the paper.
“Of course. It’s yours.”
I gave him a grateful, teary smile, grabbed my things, and hurried to the steps at the front of the school to call Tati.
She answered right away. “Hello?”
“Hey, are you busy?”
“I’m at the salon,” she said. Soon after we graduated from college, Tati got dumped by Brandon. She immediately ran out, cut her hair very short, and dyed it jet black. She’d been wearing it that way for fifteen years, I think as a reminder of some kind. She hadn’t been in a committed relationship since Brandon, except for the one she had with her hairdresser.
“Can I meet you there?”
“Sure. What’s up? Why do you sound so weird?”
“I don’t.” I was breathing hard.
“Okay, come on over.”
Remember speed-walking? It was a short-lived exercise fad in the eighties. It’s a really goofy way of walking so fast that your hips jut from side to side. It’s actually an Olympic event still.
I speed-walked six blocks to the salon so fast, I could’ve won a gold medal.
I exploded through the door and found Tati in the first chair, wearing one of those black salon capes. Her hair was coated in purplish-black dye and covered in a cellophane cap while her hairdresser gave her a shoulder massage.
“I’m processing,” Tati said, pointing to her head.
“Hi,” I said to her hairdresser, “I can do that.”
The girl smiled and walked away. I stood behind Tati and started rubbing her shoulders.
“Ooh, easy, your cello hands are too rough,” she whined.
“Oh, shut it. I have to talk to you.”
“Talk then.”
“He wants to meet with me.”
“What are you talking about?” I had told Tati about seeing Matt on the subway, but that had been two months ago.
“Read this.” I handed her the piece of paper.
A moment later she was sniffling.
“Are you crying?” I asked from behind her.
“I must be hormonal. This is just so sad. Why does he sound so oblivious in this post?”
“I don’t know.”
“You have to call him. Grace. You need to go home right now and call him.”
“What do I say?”
“Just feel him out and see what his deal is. I think this sounds like the old Matt, thoughtful and deep.”
“I know, right?”
She popped out of the chair, looked at me, and pointed toward the door. “Go, Now.”
21. I Looked for You Inside of Everyone Else
Matt
One Tuesday, a few weeks after I posted the letter for Grace to Craigslist, I was walking to my building from the subway when my eight-year-old nephew called, wanting to know if I’d sponsor his jog-a-thon. I adored the kid and said I totally would, but just as I was about to hang up with him, his mother got on the line.
“Matthias, it’s Monica.”
“Hey. How’s Andrew?”
“Great. Working like a dog and outshining all the other partners, as usual. You know Andrew.”
“Sure do,” I said, not unbitterly. “And you? How’s life in Beverly Hills?”
“Cut the shit, Matthias.”
“What’s up, Monica?”
“Elizabeth called me and said she and Brad are having a baby.” My sister-in-law could win an award for figurative ball size.
“Yeah, I’m aware. I get the privilege of working with those assholes every day.”
“She was my sister for eight years, Matthias. Don’t you think I have the right to know?”
I laughed. “You guys weren’t exactly pals, so calling her your ‘sister’ is ridiculous. And she left me, remember?”
“You’re an ass. She wouldn’t have left you if you weren’t so hung up on Grace.”
“Grace had nothing to do with my marriage or divorce.”
“Yeah right. Elizabeth said you never got rid of your photos of her.”
“I never get rid of any photos I take. Why would I? I’m a photographer. Grace was the subject of a lot of my early work. Elizabeth knows that better than anyone. Also, why are we even having this conversation?”
“I just wanted to make sure she gets a gift from us.”
“The postal service can help you with that. She still lives in our old apartment. You know, the one I gave up so she could play house and make babies with her boyfriend.”
“Husband,” she corrected.
“Bye, Monica. Tell Andrew I said hi.”
I hung up, took a deep breath, and wondered again, for the tenth time that week, what the fuck had happened to my life.