Page 7 of Second Chance

I’m frustrated with Denton’s attitude although I don’t even know him—this version of him anyway—and I really should excuse social media as it’s hard to read tone and intention in messaging. Still…

I’m not certain what it is. It’s sealed in an envelope. Chris asked me to send it to you. I’m just following through with his wishes.

I pause a moment as three dots appear like he’s reading the message. Another thought occurs, and I type a second response.

If you’re worried about size, it isn’t too large. And if you decide you don’t want it, you can dispose of it afterward. That would be up to you.

Words appear almost instantly.

Still following whatever Chris wants. A smiley face follows, and I assume it’s to soften the blow of his comment. It stings a bit.

Just do your own thing, Mati. Make up your mind for you.

He wasn’t wrong; he just didn’t see how many times I did make decisions that were centered around myself. He also wasn’t wrong that many times I didn’t act on those decisions.

I’m ready to type a retort when another message appears.

Sealed envelope? Sounds mysterious. Maybe you should just open it and tell me what it is. I give you permission.

I hear his demanding voice in my head, the one I remember from twenty-seven years ago.

Jump. I’ll catch you.

Another message appears.

As for size, there’s no such thing as too big.

My mouth falls open. He can’t possibly…is he…did he just…he can’t be teasing me. I stare blankly at the screen.

As for disposing of it, I’ve never gotten rid of anything which had to do with you or Chris. I’ve held on to everything.

I sit back in the chair, astonished at his words. What does he mean? Am I reading too much into this? Is there an innuendo there? He was hurt when he left all those years ago, but so was I.

I think of the gifts over the years. Handmade cards. Personal jokes. Little tokens. Denton hated the holidays. I loved them. However, I can’t think of a single thing worth keeping in the sense of past presents.

Deciding I have no idea what he means, I’m ready to respond again when another message flashes.

Hello? Still there? Did the too big comment scare you off?

My lips twist at his audacity, and then I laugh. Damnit Denton.

I’m still here, though I’ve gotta go. In your dreams are things too big. And nothing scares me, remember?

I hesitate on the last question but hit enter too quickly. The message is permanent. Darn it, why can’t there be an edit button in the message box?

Oh, I remember, lion cat. I remember everything. As for too big, that might be in dreams. Gotta go? Have a hot date?

My eyes widen, stunned. Did he just call me lion cat, a nickname I hadn’t heard in years? Too big in my dreams. Snort. I don’t have dreams. They dashed a long time ago. Although, if I think about it, I have been dreaming of Denton lately. At least, he’s been in my dreams, but they don’t make sense. I brush them off in the morning as my subconscious pulling him forward because I reached out to him. It’s all memory tricking me. As for a hot date, it’s the first issue I respond to.

I don’t date, so very funny.

That might have been inappropriate. Sorry about that.

Why was he sorry? Should I not date? Is it still inappropriate? Mother said I needed to mourn a year, but I was still young enough to find a good man. My now best friend Cora tells me I need to get back out there. I don’t know where there is—or where I’d go. I don’t do social media, so all those virtual dating slash matchmaking places are out. I know every man in this town and most are married. The few eligible bachelors happen to include my brothers and some of their single friends, so that’s just a big double ew.

Where would I even go to find a hot date if I wanted one?

Do I want one?

Why does my head rush to thoughts of dating Denton?

I realize I’m talking to myself again, asking these questions aloud and I clamp my mouth shut.

Well, you always were inappropriate, so glad to read things haven’t changed. As for needing to go, some of us work…real jobs…like during the day and need sleep at night. Just let me know where to send the envelope. I’ll take care of it as soon as you do.

Rockstars don’t have day jobs, and I roll my eyes at the thought. I imagine being a photographer and model doesn’t provide him a regular schedule either like us working class minions. I scroll back through the conversation until something catches my eyes.

I remember everything.

Does he? I’m hoping he doesn’t, and I convince myself he’s just saying it to rattle me. Another message hits the chat box.

I’d be a fool to think anything stayed the same, lion cat. I guess I lied about remembering everything because, from your profile picture, I see you’ve changed.

My mouth pops open. What is he saying? I know I’m older, a little rounder, my hair a lot lighter. I’ve had babies, for Christ’s sake. I live in a small town where we like to eat—my heart races at the potential insult. Fuck off, Denton, I scream in my head until another message hits the screen.

I don’t remember you being so gorgeous.