Page 184 of Never Let You Go

Sarah’s thumbs fly over her phone’s screen as she opens the bakery’s social media. There are a number of notifications of the bakery having been live in the past couple of weeks. All the videos are posted.

Sarah scrolls to the oldest. “Let’s do this in order,” she says, plunging her hand in the bag of candy.

I almost snap at her that this is not some prime-time show. This is my life we’re talking about. But I bite my tongue. She’s been putting up with me for over two weeks. Her plan was not to be my emotional crutch.

She wanted some quiet connection with nature before she goes back to her crazy New York life, and instead, she had to put up with my sobbing for a few days, then my brooding. We never really talked about her, and I realize I’ve been a shitty friend. She’s been here for me the whole time, and I don’t know how I would have gotten through this without her.

Except judging by my heartbeat, I don’t think I’m actually through anything yet. I have a physical need to see Christopher on the screen. To hear his voice.

And to hear what he has to say.

In the first video, the camera pans haphazardly, like someone hit the Start Live Video button and then decided to set the phone somewhere. Finally, the image settles on the inside of the bakehouse. The room is slanted, and I figure the phone must be slightly crooked in the tripod.

I’d told Sarah to leave the tripod, the ring light, and the lens Christopher gave me on my bed. It does something funny in my stomach when I understand he’s using the tripod. The first time I showed him how to make a live video was in the bakehouse, pretty much right where he is now.

A chair comes into focus.

The chair where I was sitting when Christopher organized a blind tasting—and ended up tasting me.

Sweet bitterness grips me at the memory. But, before I can dwell on that feeling, Christopher comes into the frame and sits on the chair. He’s off center, and slanted like the rest of the room, and the light isn’t good. But all that matters to me are the dark circles beneath his eyes and his disheveled hair.

“Alexandra,” he says. He’s looking straight into the camera, and he’s a little stiff. “You left your phone at Grace’s, and I don’t know how to get in touch with you. I thought maybe I could do a video like you showed me, and you’d see this somehow.” He shuts his eyes for a beat and takes a deep breath. When he reopens his eyes, he’s looking at his hands, and his voice is a little muffled. “I don’t know where to find you. I need to talk to you.” He looks into the camera then down at his hands, again. “Shit.” He stands, kicking the chair away. His footsteps sound while he’s off frame, then the video ends. I look at the date. It was the day after I left Emerald Creek.

Sarah clicks on the next video. It’s dated from the next day.

He’s sitting in the same chair, and the room is still crooked, but he used the ring light, and he seems to have tamed his hair somewhat. “I need you, Alexandra. I need us again. I never should have reacted the way I did. I’m sorry. I’m sorry for hurting you.”

He stands, the pattern of his plaid shirt blurry, then the frame moves until his face fills the whole screen. “I was stupid to be upset at you for what you didn’t tell me… Fuck, I hate this video thing. Can you please make it so we can have a private conversation?” The image swerves, showing the ceiling. It looks like he’s back on the chair now, as if he’s waiting for an answer. “All right,” he says, and the video stops.

The next video is several days later, and this time, he’s in the kitchen, and he’s holding the phone in his hand. “I don’t know if you don’t want to talk or if you’re not getting these messages. I know you left your phone here, but I can’t imagine you’re not online from another device. So maybe I did something wrong in the settings. I hope that’s what it is, because fuck it, I miss you. I miss you so much. I want you here. I never should have pushed you away.”

He scrunches his face and gets closer. “What the hell,” he says. “Who the fuck are these people,” he mumbles. “Why are you writing messages if you’re not Alexandra.” His face appears distorted, and something—probably his finger—obscures part of the screen for a bit. “Why did I push her away? I was an idiot… What the fuck are these people writing? Get the fuck out of my video! How do I stop this? Don’t you guys have a life? Yeah, I do have a life, and I’m trying to fix it, you moron.”

The screen shifts, and there’s background noise, then Justin’s voice comes across, echoing in the background. Then it’s Christopher again, the image swerving so much it makes me seasick. “I’m not on the phone. I’m sending fucking video messages to Alexandra, and all I get are a bunch of losers giving me dating advice.”

He squares the phone and frames it on his face, again. “Send her flowers,” he mumbles, clearly reading the messages floating on his screen. “I DON’T KNOW WHERE SHE IS! She checked out. Left her phone and just vanished… I don’t know how she’s going to see the videos! On her computer. Or on her friend’s phone. Her name? Sarah… No, I don’t know Sarah’s last name.” The video shifts off screen, his voice muffles. “I’m banking on a bunch of losers to help me find Alexandra, that’s what I’m doing.” He must be talking to Justin.

“What losers?” Justin’s voice comes through clearer, now.

“Those people on the video.”

“You mean the die-hard followers of your social media accounts that get instant notifications when you go live?”

“What do you mean?” Christopher is so clearly confused my heart pinches for him.

“The people messaging you while you’re live are people who love your bakery. And morons like me, who follow you because they’re your close friends.”

“Shit,” Christopher says. He focuses back on the video, and Justin’s head appears behind him, grinning. “Sorry, guys,” Christopher says, running his free hand through his hair. “I… I have no idea what I’m doing.”

“Clearly,” Justin says. “Someone says ‘clearly’ in the chat.” Christopher clenches his jaw, then Justin adds, “I’m Justin.”

“Nobody cares who you are,” Christopher grunts.

“T-tt-tt,” Justin says. “Someone’s asking who the cutie is.”

The video stops.

Sarah giggles then stops herself. “Are you okay?” she says as she gives me a side hug. “Do you want to just jump to the last video?”

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