Page 31 of The Accidental Text

Maggie:It’s not fun

Chase: I need to think about something else. Whatever happened to that guy with the nice butt?

My eyes go wide at my phone and I let out a little yelp. I’d somehow compartmentalized this whole thing. I’d put the stranger that had my mom’s number, who read my texts for two weeks without telling me, in one box. And Chase, who’s just lost his own mom, in another. I’d forgotten they were one and the same.

I send him back the dead emoji—the one with thexon both eyes.

Chase:Did I kill you?

Maggie:With embarrassment

Chase:Sorry. Didn’t mean to embarrass you. So what happened to him?

I cover my eyes with one hand and try not to think about all the things that I told Chase. So many things. It was like he was reading my personal journal. Actually, that’s exactly what it was.

Chase:I’m waiting…

Maggie:You’re very pesky for someone I don’t really know.

Chase:What do you want to know?

Maggie:Do you like Star Wars?

Chase:Of course. But only the original three.

Ha! I was right about that. I wonder if I’m right about what he looks like. Lately I’ve been picturing him as a tall, lanky guy with brown hair. A bit like Benedict Cumberbatch. This could be my own manifestation of what I want him to look like, because I’m totally a Cumberbabe.

Chase:My last name is Beckett. There, you can stalk me on Insta. But I have to warn you, I don’t post a ton.

Chase:I’ll wait while you stalk me.

I smile at my phone again.

I open up Instagram and search for the name Chase Beckett. Ten names come up and I scroll through, wondering which one is him. I also feel a tingle of anxiousness travel down my spine. This whole situation is so unbelievably strange.

I scroll through the different profiles, narrowing down who I think the Chase Beckett I’ve been texting might be. There are a couple of young kids that I rule out, a guy with a man bun that I do a silent prayer is not him. There’s one guy standing with a yellow dog next to him. I can’t really see much of that guy, since the profile pictures on Instagram are so small and this one is zoomed out pretty far.

Maggie:Which one are you? There are like ten.

Chase:There’s a dog in my profile picture. A golden retriever.

I click on the Chase Beckett with the dog, and as it opens up I feel butterflies dance around in my stomach, almost not sure I want to look. I don’t even know why I feel this way. It’s just the reality of it all. I’m about to see what Chase looks like. I’ve had a picture in my head and I’m curious how he will match up.

“You really do suck at posting,” I say out loud to my empty living room.

There are maybe a dozen posts, and only half of them are pictures. The rest are quotes or memes. I scan over them and find another one of him and the dog and click on it, watching as it fills up the screen.

The caption on the photo says: Me and Oscar.

Chase Beckett is a real person. I mean, of course I knew that. But that’s him, on my screen. He has a dark-brown, thick head of hair. I can’t really tell his eye color because of the lighting in the picture, but they look brown. He’s got a good smile—a genuine-looking one. He’s wearing a brown leather jacket over a white T-shirt and jeans. And he’s handsome. Definitely not a Benedict Cumberbatch look-alike with those broad shoulders under that leather jacket. Also not Dawson handsome, because no one else could bethatgood looking, but by all definitions—at least my own definitions—Chase is handsome.

I’m not sure how I feel about this.

My phone beeps in my hand.

Chase:You might be the slowest stalker ever.

Maggie:You have a dog?

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