Virtually Yours: A Virtual Match Anthology

by Kait Nolan

  After making herself a cup of Sleepytime tea, she wrapped herself in a blanket on the couch.

  ~*~

  He came to her as a voice.

  “Hey, kid,” he whispered, his breath hot on her skin, making those tiny little hairs below her ear stand up with an expectation full of excitement.

  She smiled and sleepily said his name. “Henry.” Her voice was still drunk with sleep. She breathed in his scent and didn’t open her eyes, for fear she’d wake up and end this wonderful dream.

  “Henry,” she repeated, rolling over, eyes still closed, expecting to feel his warm face, cheeks full of scruff, but instead finding only cold air.

  Her eyes opened, and she was once again alone in the room.

  Grief was a funny thing. Evie often felt like she was forgetting the big things about Henry, the whole picture of who he was, but she could remember the small things, sometimes in detail so real that it amazed her. The way his two-day stubble rubbed her cheek on a Sunday night, the warm outline his body left when he got out of bed in the morning, the smell of his cologne, of his skin, that lingered on his shirts before she put them in the wash. She had always thought that grief was whole and consuming, a tidal wave, but it was more of a slow drip, a quiet erosion.

  The room was still and dark, the single light source coming from the moon shining through the window.

  She stood up, stiff from the day’s work and sleeping on the couch. Her aching body wanted a hot shower, and she didn’t want to sleep, for fear of her dreams.

  ~*~

  The shower was hot, nearly scalding her, yet she stayed inside until her skin was scrubbed pink and her tiny bathroom was filled with thick, white steam. The physicality of it temporarily stopped her thoughts, but she got out before her water could start to get cold.

  Stepping out of the shower, she groped for a towel, and after wiping her face, stared into the steam-filled mirror. The steam clung to it like white moss, except in one place, where she saw the outline of what looked to be a handprint.

  As a child, she used to write on the mirror with her finger, making shapes and spelling her name or the name of her crush, and would watch as the words and lines would appear as if by magic when the mirror became steamy enough. This was just the same.

  Wordlessly, she brought her hand to the print. It was bigger than hers, the outline of the fingertips reaching far past her own. She gasped and sat down on the toilet, gripping her towel tightly around her chest.

  “Henry,” she said, softly at first, then louder. “Henry.”

  The room was silent.

  Her eyes began to fill, tears spilling down her cheeks.

  She shut her eyes tight, feeling the burn of the tears as they pooled behind her lids. Finally, she opened them and let the tears flow, her throat raw and pulsing. Looking up, she caught her breath.

  “Kid,” she whispered, still looking at the cracked ceiling above her. “Kid? It’s me. It’s your kid.”

  She licked her lips and looked around. The steam was beginning to dissipate as the room cooled.

  “Just you and me, remember?” She sat up straighter, tasting the salt on her lips. The room was dead quiet, which somehow gave her more courage. “You and me.” She laughed at the sound of her own voice, getting louder, bolder. “And this damn house.”

  She waited, afraid to even breathe in case she missed a sound. “Can you hear me? Give me a knock maybe?” She waited. “‘Knock three times on the ceiling if you love me’,” she half sang, half spoke. “Remember that song? It’s from that movie soundtrack that I always liked.”

  She waited.

  Nothing.

  Still, she gave him a moment, expecting to hear three sharp raps on the wall. When she didn’t, she stood up and walked to the sink, picking up her toothbrush.

  Dropping the toothbrush to the sink basin, she walked back downstairs. She had an idea.

  ~*~

  Evie remembered—or maybe she’d seen in one of the old Gothic ghost stories she had watched—that before Ouija boards, or spirit boards, people had used something called automatic writing to communicate with the dead. Pulling a notepad and pen from the kitchen junk drawer, she thought it was at least worth a try. Pen in hand, she stood right there at the counter, her hand hovering over the paper.

  “I’m here,” she said. “I’m ready.”

  Her hand never moved, never even quivered.

  She went back upstairs and pulled the covers over her head. She sobbed until she fell into a dreamless sleep.

  Chapter Five

  Evie woke the next morning feeling hungover. She was dehydrated, her brain softly pounding against the inside of her skull. She drank a glass of water and then decided she could no longer wallow in her sorrow. A nail gun and some pieces of wood might be just the distraction she needed. The ladder was upstairs still, and whoever this mystery houseguest was, Evie guessed that he (or she) must be tall and strong because trying to carry the bulky ladder down the stairs almost proved disastrous. After a near tumble, she finally just decided to push the entire ladder down the incline, thinking she was refinishing the stair risers later anyway. She didn’t bank on the divots that the ladder’s feet would make on the hardwood at the bottom of the stairs.

  Angry with herself now, she hauled the damned ladder into the kitchen and began to set up her work, laying out the pieces of pre-cut wood with their corresponding position along the wall and plugging her nail gun into the wall socket. Her phone chirped in the corner. She kept to her work and didn’t look to see the messages that were lighting up her home screen.

  Out one of the kitchen windows, the tiny figure of a woman, brown hair dyed just a little too dark, was bobbing like an angry wasp as she tried to look inside. The woman caught sight of Evie and began waving her arms like mad.

  “I’m coming,” Evie shouted and put on her best smile. She ran into the foyer, wiping her hands over her work clothes. “Mrs. Hastings,” she said as she opened the front door.

  Mrs. Hastings flapped her arms. “Birdie, please. That’s what everyone calls me.”

  “Birdie, then, please come in.”

  “Well, Mrs. Birdie, really.” She shook her shoulders back as she spoke and pushed past Evie, looking around the room.

  “Mrs. Birdie,” Evie repeated, clenching her jaw. Mrs. Birdie was dressed in a pantsuit, the brocade fabric looking a bit too hot for a summer day. But it also suited the president of the Lost Beach Historical Society to a tee. As if hearing Evie’s thoughts, Mrs. Birdie fanned herself with a little paper flag she had pulled out of her enormous purse.

  “I have to say that I’m glad you didn’t move to include central air.” Mrs. Birdie walked around the foyer, her heels clacking on the wood. “It’s important to keep these houses in their original state.”

  Evie forced another smile. “Well, these houses were built to withstand the summer months. They allow for the breeze to flow through quite nicely, especially with the windows open.”

  Mrs. Birdie narrowed her eyes as if Evie had said something wrong. Then she nodded and made a grunt of agreement.

  “Well, aren’t you going to invite me in?”

  Evie’s eyes widened. She thought they were inside, and nearly said as much, but instead asked Mrs. Birdie to come into the kitchen for some iced tea.

  ~*~

  “Well, I must say, I do love what your men have done to restore those columns out front.”

  “They have done well,” Evie said, taking a sip of her tea. Mrs. Birdie’s glass stood untouched on the table, beads of water coating the outside.

  “Oh, they have gone above and beyond. That egg-and-dart molding is just exquisite. And you can really see the detail now that everything has been cleaned and repaired. It is really in the details, isn’t it? It’s what makes Greek Revival one of my favorite architectural styles.”

  Evie nodded, and though she couldn’t muster another smile, she tried her best to put a pleasant look on her face. She didn’t know why Mrs. Birdie was h
ere, but she knew it wasn’t just a social call. And her meeting with the Society wasn’t for another few weeks. Whatever this was, Evie was sure it wasn’t good.

  Mrs. Birdie cleared her throat. “I was talking to Jerry,” she said, referring to her husband, Jerry Hastings, one of the most powerful lawyers on the coast, “and he said he was down at the hardware store.”

  Evie was starting to think she knew where this was going. “Mrs. Birdie,” she began, choosing her words carefully, “I fully intend to show you my plans at the meeting. I know I need your approval.”

  The older woman narrowed her eyes again, looking fierce as ever. “Yes, you do need our approval. And you should know that we will not allow you to paint the exterior of this place gray.”

  “I believe that gray is on the approved colors list.”

  “For a Katrina cottage, yes,” Mrs. Birdie said, her voice raising just slightly. “But for those more,” she paused as she searched for the right word, “quirky homes, we also allow pale pink, several shades of blue, and a buttery yellow. We are a beach town after all, but for something like this place, we call for something more regal, something more befitting the historical time period.”

  “You mean white.”

  “We have several shades to choose from.” Mrs. Birdie smiled now as she spoke. “Eggshell, beige. There’s a lovely one that uses a Charleston Green trim.”

  “White,” Evie repeated.

  “Pre-Katrina homes of this caliber are rare in the area,” she spat her words at Evie. “Pre-Civil-War ones are practically nonexistent. And if you think that I’m going to let you ruin a gem like this house, well, then, you have got another thing coming. I’ve lived much longer than you. I know what a house like this needs.” She stopped and stared at Evie, gathering her composure. “Henry wouldn’t have done this. He wanted to preserve the home’s history.”

  “Henry’s not here,” Evie screamed. “I chose the paint color. Me. Not Henry.”

  “Well, I,” Mrs. Birdie gasped out her words, clearly unsure of what to say.

  Evie’s head began to throb. Blood rushed to her temples, and she knew she couldn’t reign in her tongue. “Thank you so much for your visit. But I think that I know what’s best for this home. My home.” It was the first time she had called the home hers and hers alone. Suddenly, she felt fiercely protective of it. She stood up from the table and yanked both glasses up, sloshing tea on her hand as she did. “I’ll see you at the meeting. But be prepared for a fight because I will be.”

  Mrs. Birdie’s mouth dropped open, as if Evie had just thrown the tea directly in the old woman’s face. “Why, I have never,” she said. Clutching the purse to her chest, she started towards the door, but then turned back to Evie. “This house deserves so much better than the likes of you. This family deserved so much better. I weep to think of where it will be in twenty years.”

  Something popped within Evie’s head, a small explosion of emotion—rage and grief, mingled in one. “Get out of my house.” The words emerged loud, but slow and steady. Evie stayed calm but the rage inside her was dangerous.

  Mrs. Birdie’s eyes widened. Evie clenched her fists and watched the old woman scurry out of the house, her shoes scuffling along the floor like a rat.

  Back in the kitchen, she went back to her work.

  Picking up the first piece of wood, Evie climbed to the top of the ladder, noting the little sign that warned not to step on the topmost step. In answer, Evie put her foot firmly over the warning sticker. Chalk it up to being short. She reached with both hands to make sure the wood fit properly, and when it did, she balanced it on top of the ladder and climbed down to retrieve the nail gun.

  The gun itself was bulky, heavier than it looked from its sleek design. Holding it in her right hand, she was cautious as she climbed each step, carefully using her left hand to steady herself. Her plan worked well until she reached the middle step, paying more attention to the gun in her hand and less to the thick cord attached to it. Her foot caught the electrical cord as it looked for footing, and that was all she needed to go tumbling backwards, nail gun and all.

  An eternity passed in the few seconds of her accident. Evie felt herself first on the edge, flailing her arms trying to keep her balance, and then she was falling through space.

  ~*~

  When she opened her eyes, her world was at first black, and then everything was too bright. The light was painful. She tried to take a sharp breath but found it impossible. Her breaths came shallow, ragged. Instinct took over and she rolled—or tried to roll—to one side so that she could open her airways. She took in big heaving breaths, but her lungs wouldn’t inflate to let air in. Her first thought was that she had broken a rib and punctured her lung, but then she realized that she was breathing, albeit slowly and painfully.

  She rolled back so that she was against the ground again. She inventoried her body, moving her arms and legs, flexing her hands and feet, feeling for broken bones, and found none. It was only when she began to sit up, moving slowly and resting her body against her elbows for support, that she realized her forehead was split open. Blood trickled down her face, blurring the vision in her right eye and gathering in the corner of her mouth. Her tongue moved to taste the bitter, metallic liquid, and she brought her hand up to survey the damage. She could feel a gash, just above her right eyebrow. As best as she could guess, she must have hit the little platform made to hold the paint can that jutted out from the backside of the ladder. She stood up, carefully, and that was when she noticed the black divots marring the freshly painted wall in front of her.

  “Damn it to hell,” she yelled. The nail gun must have grazed the wall as it fell with her. Grabbing a kitchen towel from the counter, she pressed it to the wound, hoping to stop the bleeding, and saw her phone sitting on the countertop. As almost a reflex, she hit the little round button at the bottom of the screen and saw her home screen, with a list of messages.

  She swiped the screen and began reading.

  LUC: Lunch was fun yesterday. When can I see you again?

  LUC: I hope I’m not being too forward. Maybe dinner tomorrow?

  LUC: Okay, okay. You twisted my arm. Dinner tonight.

  LUC: Hm. The strong and silent type. I like that.

  LUC: Hello? No witty retort. I’m disappointed.

  LUC: Signing off for now, I guess. Unless you want to try and win me back?

  LUC: Okay, that last text message was just a pitiful ploy for some company. I’ll leave you to it. Talk later. Bye.

  Evie smiled, despite her bloody cranium and the fact that she was more than a little woozy from her spill. He was funny. And charming, in a kind of nerdy way that made her happy. He reminded her of Henry in that way, just a little too earnest, just a little too excited. Luc was someone she could see herself really starting to like.

  Until she reminded herself that Luc was not a real person. Just like the dinner he was suggesting wasn’t real. Anyone could be on the other side of that phone. It could be a chubby middle-aged woman named Norma, who texted lonely hearts from her couch in Santa Fe. It could be a pimply kid, just out of high school and needing to pick up some extra cash for the summer. “Luc” could be anyone. “Luc” could also be texting any number of women—or men, for that matter—pretending to be whomever and whatever the job called for.

  Evie frowned and stuffed her phone into the back pocket of her jeans and made her way upstairs to find her first aid kit in the master bathroom.

  The wound wasn’t as bad as she had initially thought. It seemed to be a clean cut, as if the skin had simply popped open, revealing its pink underside. The wound was still oozing, though, and she kept the towel on it as she sat down against the bathtub and considered her next step. A trip to the emergency room was probably in order, wasn’t it? A gash like this generally required stitches, which wouldn’t be a problem except that her insurance had lapsed, and she didn’t exactly have the free cash to handle something like that. She thought of calling her mother, but sh
e would only worry and then lecture Evie for playing with a nail gun on a ladder without insurance, which also meant that she couldn’t call her sister, either, because her sister could never keep anything from their mother ever.

  Evie pulled her phone from her back pocket and stared at the black screen for a moment before going to her messages.

  EVIE: Ever have to tend to a small head wound?

  LUC: She lives! At least she does right now...do you have a head wound?

  EVIE: A small one. Tiny. Just above the right eye.

  LUC: Ouch. Is it bad?

  EVIE: You should see the other guy.

  LUC: Fighting dirty, huh?

  EVIE: Either that or I fell off a ladder. Just wondering if I need to go get stitches or not.

  LUC: Text me a picture.

  EVIE: I’m not showing you my naked boobs or anything.

  LUC: Of your eye.

  Evie did as she was told, making sure to only get half her face in the process.

  LUC: First of all, don’t hold that towel to it. It’s a sponge. You’ll make the bleeding worse.

  EVIE: Stitches?

  LUC: Got superglue?

  EVIE: Not funny.

  LUC: Not joking. Clean the area and then carefully glue it together. The stuff is the same as what the doctors use.

  EVIE: K

  Evie put down the phone and peered into the mirror. In the harsh fluorescent light, her skin looked sallow, the hollows of her cheeks and the circles under her eyes made darker by comparison. Without makeup, she could see the feathery lines around her eyes and her summer freckles, which had spread past her nose and were now trailing down her cheeks. As a child, she had loved them, the “fairy kisses” as her father had called them, but as she grew older, she only wanted to hide them, seeming to forever be trying new foundations and concealers and BB creams, all in an effort to get smooth, mark-free skin.

  She wet the rag in her hand, running it under the water from the sink. The cool was soothing to her face as she slowly wiped away the already drying blood from her forehead. The work was painful, the terry cloth towel pulled at the raw skin and made her wince, but the wound was not nearly as bad as she had expected. When the cleaning was done, Evie saw a tiny and clean cut, not even an inch long. Once she had found her tiny tube of superglue (in her closet where she had tried—and failed—to hem a pair of jeans), she held her breath and carefully squeezed a few pearls of the clear liquid along the opening of the wound. Trying to move as quickly as she could, she placed the tube of glue on the edge of the sink and put both hands on her forehead, gently pressing together.