Page 9 of People We Meet on Vacation

I accidentally hit send.

The messagewhooshesout.

“Shit, shit, shit!” I hiss, shaking my phone like maybe I can make it spit the text back up before that measly word starts to digest. “No, no, n—”

Chime.

I freeze. Mouth open. Heart racing. Stomach twisting until my intestines feel like rotini noodles.

A new message, the name bolded at the top:ALEXANDER THE GREATEST.

One word.

Hey.

I’m so stunned that I almost just textHeyback, like my whole first message never happened, like he justhey’d me out of the blue. But of course he didn’t—he’s not that guy. I’m that guy.

And because I’m that guy, who sends the worst text message in the world, I’ve now gotten a reply that gives me no natural inroad to a conversation.

What do I say?

DoesHow are you?sound too serious? Does that make it seem like I’m expecting him to say,Well, Poppy, I’ve missed you. I’ve missed you BAD.

Maybe something more innocuous, likeWhat’s up?

But again I feel like the weirdest thing I could do right now is willfully ignore that itisweird to be texting him after all this time.

I’m sorry I sent you a text message that said hey, I write out. I erase it, try for funny:You’re probably wondering why I’ve brought you here.

Not funny, but I’m standing at the edge of my tiny balcony, actually shivering with nervous anticipation and terrified to wait too long to respond. I send the message and start to pace. Only, because the balcony’s so tiny and the chair takes up half of it, I’m basically just spinning like a top, a tail of moths chasing the blurry light of my phone.

It chimes again, and I snap down into the chair and open the message.

Is this about the disappearing sandwiches in the break room?

A moment later, a second message comes in.

Because I didn’t take those. Unless there’s a security camera in there. In which case, I’m sorry.

A smile blooms across my face, a flood of warmth melting the anxious knot in my chest. There was a brief period of time when Alex was convinced he was going to get fired from his teaching job. After waking up late and missing breakfast, he’d had a doctor’sappointment over lunch. He hadn’t had time to grab food after, so he’d gone to the teachers’ lounge, hoping it was someone’s birthday, that there might be donuts or stale muffins he could pick over.

But it was the first Monday of the month, and an American History teacher named Ms. Delallo, a woman Alex secretly considered his workplace nemesis, insisted on cleaning out the fridge and counter space on the last Friday of every month—and then making a big deal about it like she expected to be thanked, though oftentimes her coworkers lost a couple of perfectly good frozen lunches in the process.

Anyway, the only thing left in the fridge was a tuna salad sandwich. “Delallo’s calling card,” Alex had joked when he recounted the story to me later.

He’d eaten the sandwich as an act of defiance (and hunger). Then spent three weeks convinced someone was going to find out and he’d lose his job. It’s not like it was his dream to teach high school literature, but the job paid okay, had good benefits, and was in our hometown back in Ohio, which—though to me, a definite negative—meant he got to be close to two of his three younger brothers and the children they’d started churning out.

Besides, the kind of university job Alexreallywanted just didn’t come up very often these days. He couldn’t afford to lose his teaching job, and luckily he hadn’t.

SandwichES? PLURAL?I type back now.Please, please, please tell me you have become a full-fledged hoagie thief.

Delallo’s not a hoagie fan, Alex says.Lately she’s been hot for Reubens.

And how many of these Reubens have you stolen?I ask.

Assuming the NSA is reading this, none, he says.

You’re a high school English teacher in Ohio; of course they’re reading.

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