Page 2 of Severed Rivalry
New beginnings and old loves.
Again.
Cian
Sariah.
It’s a beautiful name for a stunning woman. A woman I know. Or I knew anyway. Only she was Renée then.
The table is loud and boisterous, chatting about the new venture capital they received for their start up, Connect2Coach. It’s an app that allows teenagers to connect with therapists who do online coaching.
The developers skipped out on the celebration tonight. Coders don’t tend to be the most social, and their coders sound like they lean beyond introverted toward reclusive. The people at the table are neither the founders nor the coders, but the project manager, the product folks, the user experience gurus, and the recruiters who are contracting the therapists and making sure nothing crosses from coaching to therapy due to liability and licensure.
I have questions. Like how “Sariah” got involved with any of this. And why? I don’t ask why the kids have to go through an app. The world today is an online algorithm that moves faster than the speed of sound.
Kids are lonely. Hell, adults are lonely. And though real human connection would fix that, the reality of “phoning a friend” who can meet you where you are is better than the possibility for connection later. At least that’s what they’d have us believe.
I think it’s horse shit, but I’m a man who still picks up the phone to call friends and meets business colleagues for dinner and drinks.
Human relationships make a difference.
People don’t buy what we sell, they buy how we make them feel. And live people are so much better than our digitized friends. Just ask every single human since the pandemic.
Do I say any of this? Nope. Not a word. Instead, I listen. Mostly because the people at this table, aside from Sariah, that is, are saying an awful lot, even while the rest aren’t listening. The name of the app, the start-up company, the VC firm, where their office is. All of it flies out at some point giving me exactly what I need—data.
Without meaning to—of that I’m sure—the woman at myside leans into me a little deeper. “Sorry, Ci,” she says just as panic hits her eyes.
I open my mouth to bust her in her lie, but the phone in my trousers pocket—the one stuck between us—goes off like a five-alarm fire.
Sariah withdraws.
I lean away to reach my phone.
And shit hits the fan.
Liam: Ma’s in the hospital. CU-Anschutz.
How is the timing on everything in my life so fucked?
I slide out of the booth, look around its occupants but hold Sariah’s eyes, the ones that reveal her identity if my heart hadn’t known it when I saw her across the room. “My brother just texted. My mom has been admitted to the hospital.”
Her eyes drop shut.
“I have to go. I’m sorry. Let’s catch up soon.” I smooth my thumb over her cheek and head for the door.
My phone vibrates nonstop, but the real buzz is in my mind. Renée—or Sariah—is in Denver.
I’m pissed.
I’m hurt.
I’m jealous.
I want answers. I want to walk back into that bar, throw her over my shoulder, and haul her out like a caveman.
I want to hover over her writhing naked form, poised on the brink of entering her, and know that the moment I return to her body, it won’t be a lie.
What I need is the truth… Why did she run away? Why couldn’t she trust me to be with her?
