Chapter 2: : Chapter 2

You really made this?”

I settle next to Thomas on the edge of my bed. After our tangle outside, he demanded to know what was up. We brought the party upstairs so I could walk him through everything privately. Now, I’ve got the stack of pictures in my hand, and Paul’s letter is unfolded on my duvet.

“Yes, for the fifth time, I did.”

Thomas looks up from my phone, his eyebrows raised high. “First of all, the production value is incredible.”

I sigh.

He reaches over to adjust the frozen peas I’m holding against my head. “Seriously, this is great, Beans. That company did you a favor laying you off.” He tilts his head, tapping the phone screen. “But we already know you’re not utilizing your true talents.”

I smack his hand away, ignoring his well-meaning jab. Photography is on the back burner indefinitely. “Few people’s true talents lie in basic data entry. And if my talents lie there, I’d ask you to go back in time to when you nearly drowned me in Gram’s pool and finish the job.”

“I was seven,” he responds defensively. “It was an accident.”

“Anything can be on purpose if you try hard enough.”

“Okay, let’s focus here.” He absently fiddles with the thin gold hoop in his nose. “Gram really had a side dude?”

“He wasn’t a side dude. She must have dated him before Grandpa, and he was clearly very important to her. They were going to elope, for god’s sake. That letter makes it seem like she was the love of his life!”

Thomas grabs the letter from me, scanning it, then thumbs through the pictures. I watch how his expression changes carefully, from curiosity to surprise to something heavier. His thumb moves over Gram’s smiling face, and he swallows as he sets it down, then picks up the letter again. “Where’d you find all this?”

“It was in one of the boxes in Gram’s garage. Dad brought a bunch of them over, remember?”

“Ah, right, the boxes you’ve been raccooning through.”

I elbow him hard. He elbows me harder, sending the peas flying out of my hand.

He’s not far off, though. I’ve spent the past couple months picking through the boxes Dad brought home when he and my three uncles cleared Gram’s house out. He came back from the task red-eyed and quiet, put the boxes in the garage, and hasn’t touched them since.

Besides his assertion that Grandpa Joe was Gram’s one and only, it’s how I know he’s never seen any of this. The letter and photos were stuffed at the bottom of a box in a big manila envelope. A envelope. I mean, hello, suspicious. I get my insatiable curiosity from him.

Or maybe we both get it from Gram. Our Tell Me a Secret game started when I was old enough to have any. We traded secrets like currency, always an even-steven deal. Mine started out small and inconsequential, growing as I grew, too. I talked to her about relationships, anxiety, school woes, and, later, my struggle to adjust to the disorienting letdown of adulthood. She ended up knowing everything—she was my secret-keeper, my living diary.

Given how our game deepened once I was an adult, Paul should’ve come up in conversation. I’m still the only one who knows she and Grandpa Joe went through a rough patch in the eighties, that the “errands” they’d sometimes sneak off for were actually an excuse to get it on in the car. She knew juicy detail about my relationships. Why didn’t I know this man existed? Did she not want to tell me specifically, or was it something about the story itself that kept her silent? Either way, it stings. It’s a small betrayal to the rules of our game.

If there’s a reason she held back, I need to know.

I take my phone from Thomas, scrolling down to the comment that still has my heart racing like a hummingbird’s wings.

Dozens of responses cascade below it, a waterfall of s and s.

The million-dollar question is what, exactly, is happening? This person could be lying. They could be telling the truth, but Paul could refuse to speak to me. He may not remember anything. User34035872 could have difficulty distinguishing between past and present tense, and Paul could actually be dead.

Thomas rests his chin on my shoulder. “What are you going to do?”

His voice is knowing, though, because he knows me. It’s what he’d do, too. We’re nearly identical, save for his irritatingly beautiful eyes and his propensity to be a shithead. We have a mile-wide impulsive streak, a competitive spirit bordering on homicidal, and a dedicated optimism that gets us through when hasty decisions go south.

I touch the username, which brings me to a blank profile. No posts, no followers.

“Kinda sus,” Thomas murmurs.

I pull up the send message function anyway, feeling a sense of purpose for the first time in months.

And I type out a message to Paul’s alleged grandkid.

Sadie slips into the seat across from me, sliding me the salad she ordered while I grabbed a table outside the restaurant. Overhead, the midday sun is pale in the rich springtime sky.

I pull off the top of the container with a happy sigh. “You’re an angel, Sadie Choi. I Venmoed you.”

Lovingly full-naming her doesn’t offer the distraction I hoped for. Her eyebrows drop into a frown. “What did I tell you about your sneaky Venmo tactics? Stop paying me back for things I want to pay for.”

I spear a bite of lettuce and chicken, my cheeks heating. “I can’t have a twenty-dollar pity salad on my conscience, okay?”

Though she’s wearing white heart-shaped sunglasses, I know her brown eyes are soft behind the lenses. “There’s no such thing as pity between best friends. I love treating you, and I’m the one who invited you today in anticipation of good news from your interview. So, just so you know, I’m going to decline your payment.”

“Just so know, the interview was a bust.” I give her a breezy grin that belies my panic. Sitting in that stuffy conference room while the hiring manager listed tasks boring enough to make my soul shrivel up, I wondered for the four hundredth time why the hell I can’t figure out how to adult successfully.

Sadie pushes a strand of straight black, chin-length hair behind her heavily adorned ear. “All the more reason to treat you.”

“If you want to treat me, give me copious amounts of free alcohol.”

Her response is interrupted by my phone chiming. I look down, inhaling sharply, and anticipation dumps into my veins. It’s a TikTok message notification.

“Saved by the bell?”

“Literally.”

After several days of back-and-forth with who I’ve confirmed is Paul’s grandson, every notification comes with a fight-or-flight chaser. In addition to exchanging messages, he’s sent through several pictures of a man who matches up to the Paul in Gram’s photos.

Yesterday I asked if Paul would be willing to speak with me. I nearly chickened out, and the silence I got in return made me question my brazenness. Though I wouldn’t call Paul’s grandson a prolific pen pal—his responses are short, leached of personality, very bot-like—his turnaround time has been quick.

Until now. Twenty-six hours he’s let my request hang. I’m almost afraid to open his reply.

“Get it together, Noelle,” I mutter as Thomas joins us, a plastic bag swinging from his fingertips. He and Sadie both work in downtown San Francisco, though Thomas works from home two days a week. When I lived—and worked—in the city, we met up often for lunch and happy hours.

Thomas slides into a seat, pushing his hair from his forehead. It’s a lost cause; it’s thick and getting surfer-boy long, so gravity always pulls it back. “Hey, kids. This lunch is officially the best part of my day thanks to you.” He flashes a brilliant smile at Sadie, then turns to me. “And you’re here, too.”

I roll my eyes. Sadie technically belonged to Thomas first; they met during college and immediately fell head over ass for each other. But as soon as she and I met, it was clear we were the ones who were meant to be. Thomas and I have spent the past five years vying for Sadie’s ultimate affection. I’m confident I’m losing, but it doesn’t stop me from trying, if only to annoy my brother.

After leaning over to accept Thomas’s kiss, her attention returns to me. She brandishes her fork at my phone. “Open the message!”

Thomas rustles around in his plastic bag, pulling out a sandwich and a bag of chips. “What message?”

“Paul’s grandson wrote her back.”

“Teddy?” Somehow his mouth is already full of chips, and they spray out in a disgusting arc.

Sadie’s eyebrow raises. “Teddy?”

I’ve given Sadie the whole story, with updates texted as they happen, but I only found out his name yesterday. Something about learning it, knowing I was that much closer to uncovering a new secret about Gram, sent me on an emotional bender.

So I took a hike, literally. It’s what I do whenever the grief threatens to wrap its hand around my neck and choke me. I hit whatever trail makes me think of her most—ones we hiked together religiously—and walk myself into exhaustion. Then I cry it out at the peak so there’s no chance Dad will see. Watching his eyes fill with his own sadness empathy for mine became unbearable quickly. Hours-long hikes are my escape and sanity.

After I returned from my six-miler at Mt. Tam, I fell into bed, exhausted in too many ways to count, and forgot to update Sadie.

Still, getting every detail matters to her. She’s been obsessed with this story since I told her about it.

Thomas pipes up before I can appropriately grovel. “That’s his name, allegedly. Could be a fake. Noelle gave a fake name.”

“I did not!” I regret ever telling my brother any of this. “I said my name was Elle. It’s a half-true name.”

“Teddy is for chubby babies and little old dudes,” Thomas says. “If this guy is supposed to be Paul’s grandson, he’s probably our age. He gave you a whole fake name.”

Sadie puts her hand on Thomas’s arm to quiet him down. “Open the message.”

I narrow my eyes at Thomas when he lets out a scoffing noise, then open the app.

My message from yesterday is there:

And underneath, Teddy’s response:

“Oh my god.”

I don’t realize I’ve shouted it until everyone at neighboring tables looks over at us.

“What?” Sadie shouts back.

“They live here. I mean, Paul does, who cares about his grandson.” I set my phone facedown on the table, overwhelmed. “He wants to meet with me.”

“You have to do it.” Sadie leans forward. Next to Thomas’s swimmer’s shoulders, she looks bite-size, but her excitement adds a good three inches to her five feet.

“This is a murder plot,” Thomas says with equal parts assertion and disinterest.

“Counterpoint.” Sadie holds a finger up in his face. “She could meet the love of her life.”

“His grandson.” Exasperated, she leans back. “Dude, come on. Have you not paid attention to any of the rom-coms we’ve ever watched?”

Thomas gives her a meaningful look, flicking his eyes to me and back again. “Are you seriously asking me that?”

Sadie flushes, and I throw a balled-up napkin at my brother’s head. “Gross. Come on.”

They start bickering lovingly, so I pivot my attention.

My stomach pulls tight as I reread the exchange. Paul wants to meet me. This is exactly the outcome I wanted, though I never anticipated it would happen. It’s like playing the lottery once and hitting the jackpot; it feels impossible, and yet you play because you know there’s a chance, right?

“I’m going to say yes. I’m going to meet up with Paul.”

When no one responds, I look up from my phone. Sadie has a ring-laden hand over her mouth, her ecstatic smile peeking out from behind it. Thomas is watching me dubiously.

My thumbs fly over my phone screen as I reply:

I pause, chewing on my lip. I’m available all the time, but that sounds pathetic, so I pull three times out of thin air.

I keep one eye on my phone for the next twenty minutes. Sadie and Thomas carry the conversation but go silent when I get another alert.

“Friday’s the day.” I let out a deep breath, my heart racing. “And looks like Teddy will be there, too.”

Sadie collapses against her seat. “God, I wish I could come with you.”

“I’d go if I didn’t have to work.” Thomas, clearly disappointed, rubs a hand along his scruffy jaw. “Make sure you stay around people the whole time, okay?”

I give him a crisp salute before my eyes wander back to Teddy’s message.

, I hear Gram whisper to me, and my heart stretches in memory.

I blink up at the sky, wondering where she is.

The week moves at a glacial pace. Mom talks me into trying the Peloton, and I last an entire thirty-minute class, then spend the next three hours determining whether I need to go to the hospital.

I also make a halfhearted attempt to look for jobs. The work I’m qualified for doesn’t exactly light a fire under my ass, and I won’t touch any photography-related jobs with a ten-foot pole. I’m not paying rent but am contributing to household expenses, and without an income, my paltry savings is drying up fast. I have an inheritance from Gram sitting in my savings account, but she stipulated in her will I was only to use the money for something that inspired me. Needless to say, it’s untouched.

Also untouched: my camera. It stares balefully at me from my dresser. I haven’t picked it up in six months.

I need to something, but I’m frozen by my indecision and fear, and it’s starting to eat at me.

Thursday night, Thomas shows up for dinner, and we linger at the table in the backyard long after our parents go inside, talking through scenarios for the next day. I stand with a groan as the conversation wanes, my scratchy eyes alerting me it’s bedtime.

“Hey, listen,” Thomas says. “Don’t get your hopes up, okay?”

I pause mid-stretch. “What do you mean?”

“I know you miss Gram.” His tone is careful. He was heartbroken when she died, too, but our grief isn’t the same, and he knows it. “Just don’t go in expecting this to take that away.”

“I don’t.” My defensive tone gives me away, but he doesn’t call me on it.

He runs a hand through his hair with a sigh. “Tell me how it goes tomorrow, okay? Call us.”

“Fine,” I say, still annoyed by his hawk-eyed observation. “ ‘Night.”

The earnestness of our conversation must have grossed him out—I wake Friday morning to Theo’s picture staring at me, wedged next to my pillow.

.

, my rational brain says.

, my lizard brain counters.

It’s with that irritating thought that I get dressed. I lock up the silent house and drive into the city, my inner monologue moving so quick and loud it sounds like static played at full blast.

It’s not until I’m parked and walking down Columbus Avenue in the heart of North Beach that my mind goes quiet. It’s a power switch flipped off as Reveille comes into view, the black brick building looming ever closer.

I should probably order coffee first, give myself a minute to get my shit together, but my hands are shaking inside the pockets of my jean jacket. Caffeine will shoot me off into the stratosphere. Maybe once I see Paul, the anticipatory anxiety will ebb.

As I get to the café, I wonder if Gram’s hands shook when she met Paul, or when she realized she was in love with him. When she said goodbye. If she ever felt anticipation so thick she thought she’d choke on it.

My mind is darting so quickly from thought to thought as I round the corner toward the outdoor seating that I almost miss them. But it’s Paul seated at the furthest table, no doubt, his hair white, his age-spotted hands wrapped around a coffee mug. His eyes slide past the person he’s talking to across the table—the broad back and dark-haired head facing away from me—and move past mine, then bounce back. Widen.

My heart stutters to a stop along with my legs. I lift my hand, tentative, shocked by his shock, but get distracted by the man sitting across from him.

The shoulders stretching across that broad back straighten, and Paul’s grandson turns in his seat, his hand gripping the back of the turquoise metal chair.

And then my heart stops for real. Theo Spencer, the beautiful, infuriating centerfold of magazine, is staring right at me.