by Lisa Lace
I take a sip of warm water from my bottle and glance at my watch. My guide was meant to be here an hour ago, and I’m starting to worry. After all, I’m a twenty-four-year old New Yorker alone in a war zone.
The dust beneath my feet starts vibrating as the trucks pull near. I raise my camera to capture their passage, but soon realize that this is no simple through-drive to base.
I can hear screaming, commands being yelled out, the shouts of men in agony. The trucks reel into the clearing. I keep out of the way, although nobody is paying attention to me. There are much greater things at hand than the presence of a photographer.
One of the trucks is missing half its front and limps into the village. I guess that the troop has hit a roadside bomb. Unharmed soldiers drop down from the truck to run for supplies.
A young soldier crouches on the dusty ground, his head in his hands, his stare long and distant. Behind him, another Private holding the limp body of a young Afghan girl jumps down.
The first soldier doesn’t even look up as the second begins to resuscitate.
Part of me wants to run and help him. The other part of me knows I have a job to do. I raise my camera and shoot.
I remember how it felt to actually be there, feeling overwhelmed by the significance of being right where I was standing, knowing that if I didn’t capture that very moment, it would disappear, and the world would never know.
I have four newspapers framed from the occasions where my pictures made the front page. Obama’s election, the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina, the Orange Revolution in Kiev, and an image of a child being reunited with her missing parents after the earthquake in Haiti.
My memories of my photojournalism career are bittersweet. I’ve been present at some of the most iconic events of the twenty-first century and taken pictures that have memorialized those moments in human memory forever. But it’s over now. There is no more jet-setting and living life by the rush of adrenalin. It’s only weddings and sweet-sixteens. Those pictures on my wall are a reminder of an adventure that ended far too soon.
I place my bag of equipment in its cabinet in the living room and head to my bedroom. It’s sparse inside; stripy blue and white bedsheets, a mirrored wardrobe and a nightstand. Yesterday’s shirt and tie are still strewn over the back of a chair in the corner.
I pull my busted cell from my pocket and take a proper look at it under the light. It’s completely broken, cracked right down the middle of the screen. I try to turn it on; the backlight flickers, then dies.
I chuck it to the end of my bed and dig around in the bottom drawer of my nightstand for the old cell I keep for occasions just like this, then switch on the radio. Ed Sheeran again. I tune into a classic rock station and start to unwind.
My old cell is buried under a bunch of old CDs and several keys for unknown doors. It’s some ten years old. It’s thick and chunky; the sort where each key governs three letters, making your thumbs ache when you try to type out a message. Just looking at the outdated brick of a cell, I’m yearning for the ease of my smartphone.
I find the charger and plug it in. I watch the battery symbol fill up with bars until it’s charged enough to switch on, then slide in the SIM from my new phone. When it’s ready, I select the option to copy over SIM contacts to the cell, merging my current contacts with the ones from my old handset.
“Ta-da,” I mutter to myself.
At last, I can get in touch with Fifi. She’s still saved as “Sophia” in my phone, from before I met her and discovered, “Everyone calls me Fifi!”
I lie back against my pillows, listening to Aerosmith, letting my muscles relax. I scroll through my contacts to Sophia.
Maybe a few steamy messages will help me unwind—and Fifi’s a bombshell. She’s a wild brunette who loves to be the life and soul of the party, and she’s not afraid to get explicit. We’ve been sexting through the app since day one, then we moved onto texts when numbers were exchanged.
Her profile had caught my interest. It was a mix of intrigue about her career as an Events Manager and attraction to her dark hair and eyes. Her pictures showed her having adventures all around the world. A fellow traveler.
I’d shot her a message, something about how Barcelona was such a fun place to be at this time of year. She’d replied, and the rest was history. We’d had our first date at a bar overlooking Staten Island and went home together.
We’d met up twice since then. Sophia was feisty and sensual, but I had yet to know much about her. She isn’t one for deep conversations, so I’ve only skimmed the surface in getting to know her. It’s hard to say whether there’ll be a spark when she finally opens up. For now, it’s mostly a physical relationship.
I shoot her a message now: Hey sexy. I’m thinking about all the things I’d love to do to you right now.
A moment later, I get a reply: Who is this?
— It’s your favorite Tinder match. Who else?
There’s a long pause before the next reply. I start to seriously wonder if it takes her this long to figure out who is messaging her, just how many guys is Fifi stringing along? I wonder if she’s even saved my number in her phone, or if poor saps like me are exclusively Tinder fodder who never make it as far as her contacts.
—Finally, a response: Tell me more about all those things you were thinking about.
I grin, and message back.
Sophie
It’s been a long, hard shift at the bank. Thousands of dollars must have passed through my hands. I’ve washed them three times since getting to Lena’s, and they still smell metallic. I feel like I know the faces of George Washington and Abraham Lincoln better than my own parents’.
It’s a relief to take off my jacket, put up my feet, and relax with a glass of wine at Lena’s. Her husband, James, is out with his buddies, so we can have a genuine girls’ night in.
“How’s James doing?”
“Same old James.”
“Still letting you wear the pants?”
Lena laughs. “What are you talking about? I don’t know what you mean.”
Her grin is cheeky. We both know that Lena calls the shots in their relationship. She’s the big boss at work and at home, but James has a fantastic sense of humor and takes it all in stride. They’re a wonderful couple. Maybe I wouldn’t put so much stock in Lena’s wild advice if she wasn’t so blissfully happy in her own relationship.
Lena’s sitting room is large and spacious, a fifty-eight-inch TV screen barely taking up a quarter of one wall, a glitzy chandelier hanging down from the high white ceilings. It’s too easy to forget how well-off Lena is sometimes.
On her long, designer leather sofa, we’re watching The Bachelor and judging the reckless behavior of the contestants.
“What is with her eyebrows?”
“Looks like she’s lost her pencil sharpener.”
“Don’t they have make-up artists for these shows?”
“It would be a crime if someone got paid for that.”
My cell buzzes on the arm of the sofa.
Lena looks up with interest. “Who’s that?”
“I don’t know.” I lean forward and pick it up, then frown when I read the message out loud. “‘Hey sexy, I’m thinking about all the things I’d love to do to you right now.’ Jesus Christ!”
“Who is that from?” Lena’s eyes grow wide with excitement, a wicked grin spreading across her face.
“I have no idea. I’ll ask.”
I send back a simple: Who’s this?
Moments later, I get the reply: It’s your favorite Tinder match. Who else?
I read it aloud to Lena, and her grin grows wider.
“Who have you been talking to on Tinder?”
“Nobody! I mean, I did give out my number to a few guys last night, but I didn’t think anyone was going to reply.”
“Clearly they have.”
“I’m not replying to that. ‘I’m thinking about all the things I’d love to do to you.’ How gross is that?”
“I don’t know which one it is.”
“How many did you give your number to?”
“Three—you dared me!”
“I didn’t think you’d actually do it.”
“Well, I did.”
“Now you’ve got a response. What are you going to do about it?”
“Ignore it. Sexting isn’t me. I don’t even know this guy.”
“That’s what makes it fun.”
Lena grabs the phone from my hand and holds me off with her foot when I try to grab it back. She moves like a ninja when it comes to stealing my stuff—that dates right back to childhood fights over the last cupcake.
Her fingers start flying across the keys, and when she stops fighting and hands the cell back, I know she’s up to no good.
I tear it from her hands and frantically search to find out what she’s done. I soon find the message that she’s sent in reply to the unexpected sext.
—Tell me more about all those things you were thinking about.
“Jesus, Lena—what the hell is wrong with you?”
“Oh, come off it, Sophie! We both know you’re not a virgin. Not unless you and Cole never consummated that micro-marriage.”
“Please stop calling it that.”
Lena shrugs. “Give it a try, Soph. You might like it.”
“I can’t believe you just did that. You invited a strange man to send me explicit messages. If I get a gross dick pic, I’m blaming you.”
“And if you get an awesome dick pic, you can thank me.”
“You need help, Lena. Honest to God, you’re a fiend.”
I’m annoyed that Lena has sent the message, but not in the least surprised. She’s been pushing me out of my comfort zone all my life. In fact, by convincing me that I would never forgive myself if I didn’t take a year off college, she’s the reason I met Cole Tanner in the first place.
“He’s messaged back already.”
“Read it!”
I give her a playful shove. “I’m not doing this with you.”
“I get it. Three’s a crowd.” She winks at me.
I roll my eyes and shake my head. “You’re in a weird mood tonight.”
“I want to see you have a little fun.”
“Hmm.” I look up at the rose-gold clock on Lena’s wall. It’s almost midnight. Reluctantly, I put down my glass and reach for my coat. “I better get back anyway. Work in the morning.”
“Alright. I’ll call you an Uber.”
“Thanks.”
Ten minutes later, the Uber arrives, and I hug Lena goodbye. She gives me a tight squeeze, saying, “I’m sorry for making you uncomfortable. Block that guy if it makes you uneasy.”
“I’ll think about it,” I promise.
She smiles warmly. “Keep me in the loop.”
“If I receive a dick pic, you will be the very first to know.”
“I’m honored.”
I leave her apartment and step into the waiting cab. In the backseat, I dare take another peek at the latest message from the mysterious Tinder suitor. Connor, Dave or Noah—who are you? If I ask, whoever it is will think I give out my number to every man I come across. Besides, if you ever meet them, you’ll recognize them from their profile.
The message reads: I want to rip off your clothes and run my tongue all over your body.
My heart flutters in my chest, and a rush of something hot and dangerous floods through me. I never do this.
An unexpected excitement fills me as I type back.
—What else?
I flick my eyes up to the mirror and briefly catch the driver’s gaze. Knowing what I’ve just read, I blush, wondering if he can tell I feel flushed.
—I want to see you completely naked. I want to kiss your neck and work my way down to your breasts, then run my hand up your legs until I reach your—
Woah. I stop reading, a giggle catching in my throat. I feel like a naughty teenager caught kissing her boyfriend behind the playground at school. I lean my head back against the headrest, stifling a nervous laugh and biting down on my lip.
When the driver pulls up outside my apartment a few blocks away, I quickly thank him, give him a dollar tip and rush into my apartment on the third floor of the downtown apartment block.
I close the door behind me and head for my bedroom. I get into my pajamas, plug my cell in to charge on my nightstand, and switch out the lights. The flashing blue light of a new message keeps me awake.
I reach out and read the rest of the last message, as well as the follow-up. I gasp, and laugh, squeezing my legs together as a warm feeling spreads. You’re turned on, Sophie. Admit it.
I trace my thumb across the screen for a moment, wondering whether I’m really going to do this.
Fuck it. Let’s live a little.
Cole
It’s eleven a.m. when my cell starts ringing. I bolt awake and rub my eyes. I had a late night, shooting photos at a corporate awards event until the early hours of the morning. I groan, but pick it up and check the caller ID—Sophia.
I answer. “Hey, Fifi. You’re calling early. What’s up?”
“Don’t give me ‘What’s up,’ Cole.”
I sit up and stretch, trying to figure out what’s got Fifi so worked up. “Help me out here.”
“Are you serious? We have three dates—which I thought went well—then you disappear off the face of the earth, and you don’t see the issue? I get playing it cool, but I’m starting to think you’re trying to tell me something. If you don’t want to see me again, that’s fine, but at least have the decency to tell me straight up rather than stringing me along.”
“What are you talking about? I messaged you last night.”
She scoffs. “Must have been one of your other girls. I didn’t get anything.”
“You answered me. We were swapping messages until two am.”
“Not me.”
“Wait a second.” I scroll through my previous messages, wondering if I’m going mad when I realize what’s happened. I swallow, feeling my throat grow tight. “I’ve got to go, Fifi. I’ll call you back later. Bye.”
I hang up before she can argue and check the recipient of last night’s messages once more. Sophie. Not Sophia.
Sophie. My ex-wife.
I don’t have Sophie’s number on my new cell, but it would have been on my old one. The old contacts and my new ones were merged when I swapped in my SIM.
Calm down, Cole. There’s no way that Sophie still has the same number. This is just a coincidence.
Wow, Sophie. I haven’t thought about her in a while. After we divorced on not the best terms, I tried my hardest to put her to the back of my mind and focus on my career. In the end, both my marriage and my work failed spectacularly. What are the chances that fate has brought her back into my life again?
I think back to the messages from the night before. They went from flirtatious to explicit very quickly. If that was Sophie, she’s learned some new vocabulary.
I don’t have time to think about it now. Another day, another wedding. I’m due uptown in thirty minutes, and I still have to pick up Dennis.
I throw on my gray pants and long-sleeved white shirt, then bolt out of the apartment, picking up my equipment on the way down and heading to my car, parked on the street. I head to get Dennis.
As soon as he steps into my car after I pick him up, he can tell that’s something is on my mind. He balances his camcorder on his lap, and looks over at me, glancing at my hands tightly clutching the steering wheel.
“Something wrong?”
I let out a long breath. “I fucked up last night.”
Dennis raises his eyebrows and leans forward eagerly. He loves gossip as much as a teenage girl. “What did you do?”
“You know I was going to message Fifi last night. You know, the old-school way?”
“Uh-huh.”
“I messaged my ex-wife instead.”
“You were married?
” His voice rises a pitch in surprise. He’s so interested in my story that he hasn’t even buckled his seatbelt. It’s making my car emit an annoying warning beep.
“Hardly. It only lasted six weeks.”
“When?”
“Ten years ago.”
“To who?”
“Her name was Sophie. Hence, the mix-up. Sophia, Sophie.”
“Shit. It’s not the end of the world. Just explain the screw-up. Job done.”
“Maybe, if she hadn’t replied. We were sending messages for hours. There’s no way she’s going to believe it was an honest mistake. Jesus. I haven’t spoken to Sophie in years. What a way to open old wounds.”
“I know nothing about it. Who was she?”
“She was a girl I met when I was traveling. We stumbled across each other in Italy, two American tourists fumbling around abroad. We spent a few days seeing the sights together, hooked up, and then just kept going. We traveled for a year, eloped to Fiji at the end of the trip where we got married, then we returned to the US, and it lasted all of six weeks. Things were different once real life hit. Turned out we weren’t so compatible on US soil. I married at twenty-three and divorced the same year.”
“That’s some story. It must have been serious to marry so quickly.”
“We were young and on an adventure. We were traveling the world. I was taking pictures for a travel magazine. She was making up her mind about what to study in college. We saw the world together. It was exciting. Kind of magic. Then, once our feet were back on solid ground, we wanted different things.”
“What do you mean?”
“When we got back to America, Sophie’s adventure was over, but I wanted to keep on going. My career started taking off once I got a post at the paper. I started traveling more and more. Sophie was left behind. It got between us. It all came to a head when I accepted a three-month trip to Sudan.”
“She didn’t want you to go?”
“She thought it was too dangerous. Plus, she wanted to go to college, but at the time, I was working on commission per project. She was working in a bank to support the pair of us.” I let out a long breath. “In hindsight, I expected too much from her. I’ve wondered how she’s doing from time to time. I hope she got her degree and is doing well.”
