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1
CATIE
Hey Dad. Just wanted to check in to let you know I’m okay.
Love you. Miss you.
“Why does this have to be such a nightmare? It’s just album artwork.” I shoved my computer mouse to one side and shot a look of loathing and disgust at the image on my computer. “And it’s country music. This isn’t Pink Floyd. Now those were covers.”
An incoming message alert chirped on my phone, presenting me with a great reason to look away from the muddled graphic design polluting my monitor. Happy for the distraction—because God knew I wasn’t making progress on my latest project—I snatched up the device, hoping it was from my bestie, Naomi Ryan. Yesterday she’d had a date with a new guy. I’d helped her pick an outfit and loaned her my classiest sandals. I was dying to know how it went.
Naomi and I had been attached at the hip since forever. Folks in our tiny Oklahoma hometown declared us the CatieandNaomi show. Inseparable. Comrades in arms. If you crossed one of us, you crossed us both. When her fiancé left her at the altar, I’d taken her on a girls-only trip, a laSex In The Cityafter Carrie got dumped by Big.
Likewise, Naomi stood up for me at my wedding, even though she didn’t really like the man I’d chosen to spend my life with. Ultimately, she was the reason I moved from Oklahoma to Tennessee. Well, her and my recent divorce from the man who’d been my college sweetheart. Steve Brinker had been my reason to smile, my reason to get up each morning, knowing I’d get to end my day by sleeping in his arms. My everything.
Until eight years into the relationship, he decided to be someone else’s everything. Once I’d learned of his infidelity with his co-worker, Tiffani, I’d filed for a no-contest divorce and walked away from a relationship I’d been in for most of my adult life.
My fatal flaw is that I’ll put up with a lot. But my husband sticking his dick in someone else was where I’d drawn the line.
Everything hit the wall for me after I realized Steve’s new plaything had posted a video on social media that Steve had made of us, without telling me he was doing it. That’s right, I had my own version of the Kim Kardashian release of a sex tape. Except I hadn’t known of the existence of this tape. I’d been shocked as shit when one of my brothers called me demanding answers. When I’d broken down in tears about the tape, and all the comments people had made, my brothers paid Steve a little visit. He proclaimed that he didn’t know anything about his side piece posting the tape, or how she’d even known about it. Which, of course, my brothers called bullshit on. For whatever reason, Steve had shared that recording with Tiffani, and God knew how many other folks. One black eye…for Steve…later, the video had been taken down. But everyone knows the internet is forever.
I’d licked my wounds for 2.8 seconds then called Naomi. She’d flown to Oklahoma, helped me pack, stopping only long enough to set a bunch of Steve’s shit on fire in our backyard, insisting we toast marshmallows and drink wine. “Catie Marlowe, stop your fretting,”she’d said when I’d worried about the Fire Marshall showing up.“If your rat bastard husband were here right now, you know I’d hold his stinking feet to the fire. Besides, you know the Fire Marshall has always been sweet on me.”She was right. We’d graduated high school with Walsh Bretson and, while we’d gone away for school, he stayed put, joined the fire brigade, and worked his way up the ranks faster than any rookie in the history of the department.
Naomi rode shotgun all the way to Pineridge, Tennessee; population around twenty-two hundred. She’d walked me through the process of reclaiming my maiden name, arguing that Catie Marlowe was a way better name than Catie Brinker. She wasn’t really wrong about that.
With her guidance, I’d rented a small house with three bedrooms. Naomi was there the day the moving truck arrived with the only things I wanted out of my marriage. She set up my kitchen like a professional chef, even though I couldn’t cook a lick. The weekend I converted one of the bedrooms to a home office, she labored right next to me, painting, putting together the Ikea desk we’d driven all the way to Memphis to pick up.
Pineridge was the smallest town I’d lived in, but it was where Naomi lived and owned a popular bakery and coffee shop. The small burg was close to Nashville, where all the country music producers and recording companies were located. Commissions for album artwork and graphics for their stars were what paid my rent.
Naomi also set up an online dating profile for me, but I’d been dragging my feet about activating it. After eight years in one relationship, the idea of dipping back into the dating pool freaked me out more than a little.
Naomi was also the reason I had a new phone number. Well, her and that asshole, Steve. He wouldn’t stop texting me, asking for forgiveness, begging me to come back, and then confessing he’d knocked up Tiffani, the husband-stealing hussy. The minute I fussed about that tidbit, Naomi dragged me to the cellphone shop and picked out my new phone. She insisted, rightly so, that I’d have access to more producers and country music artists if I possessed a local area code.
And, I finally got a pet. Steve was against pets, claiming nasty allergies. Which was a load of bull crap. He didn’t want a cat or dog in the house. Not even fish. So, I made sure I had a lease that allowed pets. Naomi went to the shelter with me to adopt a cat. An adorable gray and black shorthair, with startling blue eyes. Naomi insisted I name him Frank, as in Sinatra. Those eyes were really striking.
I glanced toward the kitty bed I’d set up in the corner of my office. Frank was curled up, fast asleep. I clicked my tongue loudly and he lifted his head to blink at me, before settling back in for another nap. After breakfast this morning, we’d played mouser and I guessed I’d tuckered him out.
I’d have to remember to order more treats for him later. He was such great company, and well-behaved. He hadn’t started jumping up in my lap to distract me while I was working. Fingers crossed he never did.
Now I settled back on my desk chair, and propped my feet on an open drawer, ready to answer Naomi’s text and start a long, chatty session with her, when I glanced at the notification on the screen. I pouted when I saw it wasn’t her name on the screen.
The area code displayed was from Nashville, but I didn’t recognize the number.
Maybe Naomi was right. Having a local number might have opened doors.
But then I read message.
Unknown Number: Hey Dad. It’s been a minute since I checked in to let you know I’m okay. Love you. Miss you.
A message to someone’s dad?
The text to my new number struck me as deeply personal. And though it was only seventeen words long, there was an inherent sadness to the words. That last sentence,Miss you,tugged my heartstrings and had emotion welling up inside me. It could mean so much.
My extra special imagination was why I picked graphic design as a career. I could visualize things so easily and create stories around them and produce a picture to convey a message that motivated. And this particular text had lightbulbs sparking all around my brain like the fireworks display from the recent July Fourth celebration.
What if…
The text was from a girl who’d moved away for college to play softball. Her dad had always been her coach, had always cheered her on. Had been her best friend all her life. And now, for the first time, she’d moved away and missed her best buddy.
