We text constantly. Boundaries I should maintain keep dissolving.
She sends me photos of her day: a sunset from her balcony, a latte with foam art she’s proud of, a dress she’s considering for the rehearsal dinner. Too much? she asks.
Not enough, I reply, and I’m not talking about the dress.
On Tuesday, she calls me at midnight her time.
“I have a confession,” she says.
“I’m listening.”
“I googled you.” She sounds guilty. Almost embarrassed. “Like, extensively. After our first date.”
“And what did you find?”
“Almost nothing. Which is somehow more suspicious than finding something terrible.” She pauses. “Julian Blackthorne is basically a ghost. A few business articles. No photos. No social media. No interviews. It’s like you materialized out of thin air five years ago.”
“I value my privacy.”
“No one values their privacy that much. Not in this century.” I hear her shifting—settling into bed, probably. The image in my mind is dangerous. “It’s like you’re hiding from something.”
“Maybe I’m just old-fashioned.”
“You are old-fashioned. The way you talk. The things you reference. You called someone ‘insufferable’ yesterday like it was a normal word people use.”
“It is a normal word.”
“It’s a word my grandmother used.” She hesitates. “Julian? How old are you?”
“Thirty-two.”
“That’s what your profile said. But you don’t feel thirty-two.”
My hand tightens on the phone. “What do I feel like?”
“I don’t know. Older. Not physically—you look thirty-two. But the way you carry yourself. The way you talk about time. Like there’s so much of it that you’ve stopped counting.”
She’s too perceptive. Too smart. She’s going to figure it out eventually—not the supernatural truth, maybe, but enough of the edges to make her run.
“I’ve lived a full life,” I say carefully. “Travel. Business. Experience. It ages you in ways that don’t show.”
“That’s the most non-answer answer I’ve ever heard.”
“I know.”
“But you’re not going to give me more.”
“Not tonight.”
She sighs. “You’re infuriating.”
“I’ve been told.”
“By who? More mysterious ‘various people’?”
“Something like that.”
“I should hang up. I should decide this is too weird and too secretive and too much.”
