Virtually Mine (The Lindstroms Book 5) Page 4
She took a deep breath, feeling dreamy, and then opened her eyes, all of that delicious warmth turning to Arctic cold as she read the last paragraph.
Wouldn’t it be amazing to start a relationship with someone based on truth…not have to backtrack later?
Her stomach rolled over and her mouth watered the way it did before she threw up. She stared at the words, feeling exposed, feeling caught, then telling herself to calm down: Paul was thousands of miles away. He wasn’t accusing her of anything. He didn’t know she was deceiving him.
But she knew, and her already-heavy conscience dipped lower.
She was pretending to be the girl she was before the accident. She was, in fact, deceiving him, while he was, as he said, putting his cards on the table. He was being up front with her; he was looking for love—for true love and honesty—and since Zoë could offer neither, it was her responsibility to delete his message and not write back again. It was the right thing to do. The kind and decent thing to do.
Decision made, her finger hovered over the red delete button. She felt a bead of sweat run from her hairline, down the ragged seam of her scarred face to her neck, detouring between the tattoos on her shoulders.
Press it, she told herself.
She meant to press delete.
Really, she did.
A good person would press delete and cut Paul loose without looking back.
Instead she shoved the phone into her black leather purse and hustled back upstairs before Stan noticed how long she’d been gone.
CHAPTER 3
Dear Paul,
You have a way with words. A romantic, indeed. As it happens, you chose my favorite scene from TPB, but not my favorite line. My favorite line dovetails nicely with yours: “Move? You’re alive. If you want, I can fly!” Don’t you love that? I’m guessing that’s how it feels.
As coincidence would have it, I also went to school in Rhode Island: at Salve Regina in Newport. I think I was sold the first time my mom ever took us to see the mansions on Bellevue Avenue when I was very little. I thought I’d do just about anything to live in the Breakers. As it turns out, the closest I could get was a dorm on the same road. LOL. Like you, I enjoyed many days of sunny sailing. I wonder if we did, as you suggest, rub elbows at the same bar, once upon a time, waiting for the bartender to slide a cold beer our way.
It suddenly occurs to me that you have me at a disadvantage. Because you answered my ad, you’ve seen my picture, but I don’t have a picture of you. Can you send one so I know who I’m talking to?
I agree with you, in theory. It would be something to get to know someone’s heart and mind before anything else.
—Holly
***
Dear Holly,
Sorry I didn’t write back yesterday. We ended up camping in Yellowstone and my phone died at some point overnight. The signal’s not great in the park anyway, but as we got closer to Gardiner, my phone dinged as it was charging, and I got your message. My friend Lars thought I was crazy, grinning at my phone like a fool.
He’s a tour guide and his family business was just contracted by Trend magazine for a photo shoot with the super model Samara Amaya. Lars and I scouted out some pretty cool locations.
Lars is one of four Lindstrom siblings and I guess he’s just about my best friend in the world, followed closely by his brothers, Erik and Nils. The Lindstroms have been really great to me ever since I moved out here. They welcomed me into their family for holidays and Sunday dinners. I’m lucky to have their friendship.
I try to get home to see my family at least twice a year, especially at Christmas, but it’s an awfully long trip.
You know what I like about Wednesdays? You get to start thinking about the weekend. What will you be up to?
—Paul
PS – My Principal picture is predictably dorky. I’ll see if I can find another one. And hey…what did you mean by “I’m guessing that’s how it feels”?
***
Dear Paul,
SAMARA AMAYA!! Wow! She’s possibly the most beautiful woman in the world. Are you going to meet her?
It must be hard to live so far away from your family. I am very close to my aunt Sandy. My father was never really in the picture and my mom passed away when I was in high school. Sandy stepped in to take care of me since my older sister Thea was already in college. Sandy’s amazing, and way more than just an aunt to me. I’ll always be grateful to her.
I noticed you didn’t mention the fourth Lindstrom sibling. Any reason for that? Just wondering. It sounds like they’ve been very good to you, but more importantly, it sounds like you appreciate them.
I don’t know what I’ll do this weekend. I live in an apartment over my aunt’s garage and it could use a fresh coat of paint, so maybe I’ll do some painting. And there’s a cute movie with Emma Stone and Ryan Gosling coming out. Maybe I’ll try to catch that.
You’ll be back east for Christmas, huh?
—Holly
PS – “I’m guessing that’s how it feels”…to get a second chance at love when you thought all hope was gone. Like flying.
***
Dear Holly,
You’ve redefined “flying” for me and I don’t think any other definition will ever matter again. ;)
Let’s see…Oh, you asked about whether or not I’ll meet Samara Amaya. Well, I guess I could if I wanted to, but I’m pretty distracted by another beautiful woman lately, so meeting her isn’t really a priority. ;)
I’m so sorry about your mom. It must have been very hard to lose her. I was a guidance counselor for two years before taking my present position and it broke my heart to watch a teenager lose a parent. Teenage years are tough enough without that added challenge. I am sure you’re grateful to Sandy. I think I am too. Is that okay?
You’re astute. The fourth Lindstrom sibling is Jenny, the youngest. She used to be a science teacher at my high school, and – full confession – I had some pretty strong feelings for her at one point. She’s a great girl. But she got married a couple of years ago and moved north to Great Falls. Maybe it still stings a little, but honestly, Holly? For the first time in a long time I’m not thinking much about Jenny Lindstrom Kelley, and that feels really nice.
So, I had an idea: I was thinking we could go on a date this weekend. The closest theater to me is in Livingston, MT, which is about an hour north, and Closer to You (that’s the Emma Stone movie you’re talking about, right?) is playing at 4:30 p.m. on Saturday. I was thinking if you could find a theater playing it at 6:30 p.m. where you are, we could go at the same time. And if you’re up for it, we could even exchange cell phone numbers and text during the movie.
Man, I hope that doesn’t sound creepy. I’m not trying to be pushy. I just thought it might be fun.
Let me know.
—Unpushy Paul
PS – DEFINITELY coming back for Christmas this year. Were you born at Christmastime, Holly?
***
Dear Paul,
LOL! Well, you’re a creative one, aren’t you?
Sure, I’m game. I found a 6:15 p.m. show in Stonington, so let’s just hope the previews go a little longer at my theater. Saturday, right? Tomorrow?
I sort of suspected that the fourth Lindstrom had a story. I’m sorry she hurt you, Paul. I hope you two can eventually be friends, especially since you’re so close to her brothers. Maybe it’s a little selfish of me, but I’m sort of glad things worked out (or didn’t!) the way they did, or I wouldn’t have gotten the chance to meet you.
Thank you for your kind words about my mom. I’ve learned that there are lots of ways to lose someone you love and none of them are good. Life can change in the blink of an eye.
You’re a really nice person. I’m glad you—or Maggie, I guess—found me. I like getting to know you.
—Holly
PS – Yes, I’m a Christmas baby.
***
Dear Holly,
I like you too. This has been the best week
I’ve had in a long time. I’m like Pavlov’s dog every time my phone pings, grabbing it and grinning like an idiot. When you wrote that you’re sort of glad things worked out the way they did with Jen, I swear to God my cheeks started aching from smiling so wide. I know we’ve only been writing for a week, but you’re doing crazy things to my heart with these emails.
I finally had my friend Maggie take a photo of me. It’s not bad. You’ll have to tell me what you think.
Hey, would you consider talking on the phone sometime? I’m ready whenever you are.
I tell you what, here’s my cell number: 406-555-2364. If you want to text back and forth during the movie tomorrow, send me one. I’ll be waiting. (Hoping. Praying.)
—Paul
PS – Christmas is my very favorite time of year, baby. ;)
***
Zoë didn’t hear Sandy’s footsteps, so she jumped a foot when her aunt was suddenly standing at the top of the stairs in Zoë’s little living room on Friday evening.
“Zoë Holly Flannigan! Didn’t you hear me calling you?”
Zoë tapped the small screen of her phone and shoved it in her back pocket, giving Sandy a smile.
“I was just reading something.”
“Something pretty good, I’m guessing,” said Sandy, cocking her head to the side and smiling. “You know what? You look good, Zoë. Whatever you’re reading, keep reading it.”
Zoë shrugged, looking down, feeling her face warm up. “What’s up?”
“Barely seen you this week. We never did our bad TV and ice cream date, but we could do it later? Rob and I are going out for supper first.”
“Okay. Sounds good. Come find me when you get back.”
“Great. Um, we’re, um…we’re going to see Thea and Brandon. Have a little pizza.”
Zoë’s heart dropped and she bit her lower lip, tasting blood almost immediately. “Oh.”
“You should come.”
“No. No, I can’t. They don’t want to see me, Sandy.”
“Thea is your only sister; your only sibling. You should come with us, Zo. Start talking to each other again.”
Tears glistened in Zoë’s eyes. “You don’t think I want to talk to Thea? You don’t think I want that every moment, every single second, every day?”
“Hiding here isn’t going to make it happen.”
“She doesn’t want to see me. She made that clear.”
“It was almost two years ago, Zo. She was terrified out of her mind that her kid was dying. A few days before she was afraid that her little sister was dying too. She was there every day, Zo, while you were in the coma. She didn’t leave the hospital without kissing you on the forehead and telling you she loved you, hoping like hell that you’d make it.”
Useless tears tumbled out of Zoë’s eyes. Sandy had told her this before, but Zoë always suspected she was trying to mend fences by embellishing the truth. Did Zoë believe that Thea stopped in to see her before she left the hospital every day? Probably. But she was probably hoping that Zoë didn’t make it after what she’d done to Brandon.
“Hey, uh—not this t-time, okay?”
Sandy opened her arms and Zoë walked into them, savoring the familiar warmth offered by her aunt. “Think about it, Zoë. You’ve got to work this out with Thea at some point.”
Zoë sniffled against Sandy’s shoulder, wondering for the thousandth time what she would do without her aunt.
Sandy backed up, cocked her head to the side and smiled. “Want me to bring you back a slice?”
Zoë nodded. “Sausage?”
“You got it.” Sandy turned and headed back down the stairs.
“Wait! Sand?”
Sandy turned back.
“Can you make it a tossed salad with grilled chicken instead?”
Sandy raised her eyebrows but had the good sense to nod, not grin, and head back down the stairs.
***
Zoë’s unfamiliar descent into giddiness started around five o’clock on Saturday.
She’d been checking her phone pathologically all day, and by four, she started to wonder if the absence of an email meant that Paul might not be following through with their plan to go to the movies “together.” Shouldn’t he have at least written to her once? Just to reconfirm?
No, her conscience had needled her, he shouldn’t. And furthermore, he shouldn’t be writing to you in the first place, since he’s faithfully writing to someone that doesn’t actually exist.
She kept telling herself that the situation wasn’t too far gone yet; she still had space to pull back from him and no one would get hurt. But part of her knew she was lying to herself. A line had already been crossed. Having Paul in her life simply felt too good to let go right now.
She had scrubbed her kitchen and bathroom twice, checking her Wi-Fi connection obsessively and logging into MeetTheOne twenty-odd times to see if a message from Paul was waiting that just hadn’t sent a notification to her phone. No messages. Nothing. Zip.
She did a face masque and put softener on her scar, then grimaced at her omnipresent black finger- and toenail polish, deciding it was time for a change. She spent a good half hour rooting around under her bathroom cabinet for the cotton-candy pink color she hadn’t worn in almost two years. She turned on an MTV marathon of The Real World and was halfway through her manicure when she heard it.
Ding!
Her heart thumped like mad as she eyed the bright, buzzing screen across the room on the kitchen counter. She took a deep breath and turned her attention back to her fingers, relief seeping through her body. Sure, it could be Sandy checking on her from work or Stan asking for her to email a file. But it wasn’t. She knew it was Paul.
Waving her tacky nails to dry them, she screwed the top back onto her nail polish and awkwardly made her way to the counter, shuffling along on the backs of her heels, trying to keep her bubblegum-colored toes off the plush carpet.
She swiped her finger across the screen and her lips tilted up in a smile as she saw the heavenly words:
PrincipalPaul has sent you a message.
Dear Holly,
I’m leaving for Livingston now. I hope you’re still planning to “meet” me. Looking forward to our first “date.”
—Paul
Catching her reflection in the glass of her phone, she almost didn’t recognize herself for a second.
The sun was shining through the window on her left cheek and her black hair wasn’t visible in the small frame. But for the dark-colored contacts, she could have been old Zoë looking back. For just a moment she looked young and hopeful. She smiled a touch more broadly and had an idea. If she was going out on a date with Paul as Holly? Well, she should dress the part. Why not? Placing her phone gingerly on the countertop, she headed to her room to get ready.
***
Paul must have checked his phone thirty times on the ride from Gardiner to Livingston, glancing at it surreptitiously as he drove along, wondering if Holly would text him or not, unable to control the leaping of his heart at the prospect.
He couldn’t figure out how and why she’d gotten so far under his skin so quickly. It wasn’t like he could see her at school, watching her out of the corner of his eye as she walked down the hall to the craft closet or dressed up for Greet the Parents night. If she was a teacher at his school—as Jenny had been—he’d be able to observe her around others: what made her smile, what made her frustrated. He’d know so much about her based on his extrapolations, without ever needing to say more than a word to her. In fact, if he made a project of observing her carefully, he would have eventually made educated assumptions about who she was, whether that was fair and accurate or not.
Instead, she existed in a totally different plane of reality, allowing him direct access to her head and her heart. It was almost impossible to make assumptions about her, and more and more, Paul was enchanted by the concept of getting to know someone—really know them—without the confusion of body language, tone, physical attraction, and a
ssumptions.
One thing was for certain: the more he got to know Holly, the more he liked her.
He found street parking about a block away from the Empire Twin theater and made his way up the block, one hand in his pocket, palming his phone just in case it vibrated. He opened the theater door and stepped into the stale-smelling, air-conditioned half-light. There was a ticket window to his right.
“One, please. For the, uh, four-thirty show.”
The girl behind the glass looked about the same age as his high school seniors and wore electric-blue eye shadow with silvery pink lip gloss. She snapped her gum loudly, looked meaningfully over his shoulder, then, convinced Paul had arrived alone, asked, “You mean the four forty-five show?”
Paul flicked his glance up to the marquis behind her. Closer to You, which featured a glossy poster with Emma Stone kissing Ryan Gosling in a meadow by sunset, was playing at four-thirty while The Last Firestorm which featured fighter jets doing midair acrobatics over a burning city, was playing at four forty-five.
He tilted his head to the side. “I said four-thirty.”
“It’s a romance.”
“Yep. I know.”
“Just, uh, one?” she asked, raising her eyebrows and trying to look over his shoulder.
Paul put a ten-dollar bill on the countertop under the glass. “Yep. Just me.”
With that slightly mocking smile still on her face, she let her eyes trail lazily down his body, resting briefly on his hips before slowly sweeping back up.
“I get off at five,” she said.
“Good for you,” Paul muttered without smiling.
The girl smirked, straightening her back so her small breasts jutted out toward him. “Want company? I’ll come find you in the dark once it starts. You say yes, I’ll let you watch for free.”
“I tell you what,” said Paul, placing a finger on his ten-dollar bill and sliding it closer to her. “You go ahead and give me my change for one ticket at four-thirty and I won’t tell the theater manager that you’re making passes at the patrons. Deal?”