Mary Robb - Down the Rabbit Hole

“Like a coma patient.”

The sound of his chuckle, and the feel of it against her body, made her toes curl. She squeezed him tighter.

“Let me get you some coffee.”

“Coffee,” she breathed, starting to let go of him.

But he held her tighter and said, “Nope, we can do this. Trust me. Follow my lead.” And he shuffled her over to the coffeemaker, where he poured her a cup one-handed and then prepared it exactly the way she liked it: dollop of cream, spoonful of sugar.

Laughing, she took it from him with one hand and sipped. “Perfect. But this could get awkward when you make me breakfast. How are you going to peel the potatoes for the hash browns?”

He laughed. “Madam, you underestimate me.” He shuffled them over to the freezer, pulled it open, extracted a box of Bob Evans breakfast sandwiches and tossed it toward the microwave. “Voilà. Breakfast.”

She laughed, her smile feeling unquenchable, and said, “Mr. Abbott, you’re an amazing man.”

Those ridiculously lashed eyes gazed down at her for a long moment, making her feel every kind of beautiful. “You’ve got it backward,” he said softly. “I’m an amazed man, Ms. Serafini. Every day more amazed, by you.” And he’d kissed her. Kissed her with the gentle finesse of a man falling in love.

She had swan-dived off the edge then, and felt herself willing to give everything for the man who made her feel like this. He was present for this magic, she’d thought, and that was enough.

She’d been so happy she hadn’t even minded when, three minutes later as she was opening the box of Bob Evans breakfast sandwiches, he’d been back at the table, absorbed in his iPad.

Now, remembering how she’d duped herself made her feel even sadder. She was just like all the girls in those anti-smartphone videos, the girls looking lost as their boyfriends ignored them for their phones. The girls she’d chalked up as having chosen to love rather than be loved, like wallflowers satisfied with a wink from the cute guy, or spinsters secretly in love with their married bosses.

She wasn’t like that. She refused to be. And so she’d made the only decision she could: to leave the man she cared about because she’d rather be alone than love a man who was not in love with her. Because since that lovely morning it had become increasingly clear that what she felt was a thousand percent more intense than what he did. How else to explain his ever-decreasing attention, the diminishing eye contact, the dwindling ability to pay attention to the moment for more than five minutes at a time? How else to reconcile that instead of her presence in his life lessening his phone/tablet/screen obsession, he had instead gotten more comfortable indulging it around her?

So she steeled herself, willed the tears away, and reminded herself she’d done the right thing. As she turned up her street, eyes on her apartment building, she remembered countless other times she’d tried to talk to him, only to end up addressing the top of his head as he scrolled through his phone’s many offerings. And she knew that more and more lately she’d found herself talking more quickly, so as to hold his interest long enough to finish her story before he reached for the holster at his belt. And then there was the fact that she’d started making it a point not to ask any question that could be looked up online, so as not to lose him to the Internet for the next five minutes. And how many zillions of minutes had she wasted waiting while he searched for some answer, some inconsequential detail, before the conversation could resume?

The evidence was overwhelming.

He didn’t even look at her anymore. The soulful eye contact from their early relationship was now a thing of the past. She would estimate fifty percent of the time they were together he was looking down at the phone in his hands. It was like competing with another woman who was always with them, inertly smug with her ability to know all, provide all and triumph over anything Macy had to offer.

Almost anything. Sex could still win.

But that was not enough. Not for her. She’d held on as long as she could. She’d made the point to him as many times as she was able without humiliating herself. And she’d come to the unhappy conclusion that she just wasn’t enough for Jeremy Abbott.

The apps appeared to be his, so Jeremy checked his email, text messages, Twitter and Facebook. He hadn’t missed much in the cyber world. A normal amount of time had passed, which he knew because the clock on the screens seemed to be accurate, so he found himself finally able to take a few normal, deep breaths. If he were really in hell, would he be able to check his email?

Despite himself, and knowing he had far more important considerations that should be occupying the front burner, he scanned his inbox again for anything from Macy. Also despite himself, considering he could be dead and in hell, he was disappointed to find nothing. No apology for dumping him out of the blue, no follow-up explanation, nothing to offer hope that they might be able to talk this thing out. It seemed to be . . . over.

A twisting began in his chest. Could he be having a heart attack—in hell?

He had to stop thinking about Macy. He had enough problems right now without dwelling on heartbreak, and just thinking about Macy made his insides turn into something cramped and painful, so he turned his mind to the safe haven of work. He managed to answer several client emails, making sure he’d still have a job if and when he ever returned, and included one to his administrative assistant asking for a reply on some inconsequential issue. If she wrote back he’d know something more bizarre than dying had taken place.

Then he sent one to his boss—just in case—telling him he had to be out for a few days. A family emergency.

He closed out his email and looked around the cubicle. There seemed to be screens for every app—or rather each app was an illuminated area in his cubicle—all in the same order as on his phone. Except . . . he leaned closer to a small one on the lower right. It was a bright yellow sun, with a red heart inside. As he looked close, the app opened into a larger screen in front of him. Find a Girl, Contact a Girl, See the Girls Looking at You.

Great, he thought, closing the app immediately. Just what he needed right now, a dating site. He hoped it wasn’t a sign that things with Macy were well and truly finished.

He turned the chair away from the screens and looked out at the empty hall. “His” cubicle was on the edge of the farm, so his view out was a white wall. It might have been the cubicle where he’d started his career, except that the wall was not dinged up by people racing office chairs down the hallway for late-night stress relief.

In fact, the whole place seemed recently built and sterile as an operating room. He listened again, straining his ears against the silence. Not even the tapping of keyboards could be heard. It was a weird sort of solitary confinement, being among hundreds but completely alone and seemingly invisible. Rising from his chair, he lifted his chin, then stood on tiptoe, to try to see across the sea of cubicles. He was about to dip back down onto his feet when another head popped up ten or fifteen yards to his right.

His toes went numb and he dropped to his soles, heart pounding rapidly. He immediately went up on tiptoe again and didn’t see the first guy, but a few yards to the left, another head appeared. It was like a life-sized game of Whack-A-Mole.

“Yo!” the second guy said, waving a hand. “Can you see me?”

Jeremy’s heart leapt. He raised a hand in return. “Hey. Can you see me ?”