Mary Robb - Down the Rabbit Hole

April’s expression got sadder, and it was so unfamiliar a look that it, more than anything else, convinced Macy she must be right. Then April shrugged and her face retrieved some wryness. “Eh, love. Maybe it was his version of love. I’m not calling him a liar. But I know you, and it wasn’t your version.”

Macy slumped and put her hands over her face. “I know,” she said in a small voice. Emotion threatened to swallow her, but she pushed it back. It was the wine making her weak. She’d broken up with the guy because she’d known that what April said was true.

After a moment she straightened her spine, pushed her hair back off her face, and said, far more confidently than she felt, “All right, let’s do it. Let’s finish this stupid thing and post it. I’m moving on.”

April’s expression was instantly delighted. “Yesss!” She lifted a fist in the air, then lowered it to Macy. “Fist bump, sister. You are on your way!”

“On my way to what?” Macy fist-bumped April’s ring with a wince.

“To happiness, my friend.” April turned back to the computer. “Now, choose a picture . . .”

Jeremy looked back up at the ceiling. Stuff was going on here, emails being written, that iLove profile page being worked on. As hard as it was to believe—though really, no harder than all the rest of it—he was starting to think the seventh floor was somebody else’s cell phone. Each cube was an app, some of the apps were being used, and he could do nothing but watch.

But it wasn’t his phone. Certainly he hadn’t filled out a profile looking for a man. Nor had he written an email to anybody named Bud.

Was being here a message that he should be paying attention to that heart-throbbing app? He watched as the typist finished the essay with some blahblah about having a sense of humor and a sensitive side and whatever.

He stood up and left the cubicle, the forces that had sucked him in apparently having had enough of him. He looked up at the ceiling again, saw the face of the giant phone, and decided to check out the photos. If this place made any sense at all—and that was in some doubt—he’d be in this person’s cell phone for a reason. Pictures might be the quickest way to figure out whose it was.

He went straight down the aisle from iLove to Photos, where he was once again immediately zapped inside. On the large screen in front of him was Macy’s gorgeous face.

His breath left him in a whoosh. He should have suspected, but he’d felt so hopeless it hadn’t even occurred to him—he was in Macy’s phone. That email was to one of her PR clients. She was filling out a dating profile.

His heart twisted.

Most of the recent photos were of the two of them, or just him, and he had a moment of feeling glad she hadn’t deleted them. Then again, it hadn’t been very long. As he scrolled through the photos, he began to notice how many of the ones of him showed him bent over his cell phone—at restaurant tables, on city streets, in her living room, his kitchen, in bed . . .

He scanned the folders, opening a video. Immediately he heard her laughter, then the shaking screen revealed her face. God, she was beautiful—her eyes wet with laughter and sparkling as they looked at him holding the camera.

He remembered the day. They’d gone hiking, her hair was windblown, her cheeks pink, and they’d gotten to laughing over something. Her laugh was so infectious, her face so brilliant with joy, that he’d wanted to capture it. Of course he hadn’t told her that, or she’d have gotten embarrassed and cynical. She never believed compliments.

They’d hiked one of the steeper trails that day, tramping through old fallen leaves, though the colors hadn’t quite changed yet. Macy had said she loved fall the best because its breezes were summer heat wrapped in cold, as opposed to spring, which was winter cold veneered with warmth.

“Two old ladies,” she said, marching up the path ahead of him, her booted feet picking their way over roots and rocks with confidence, “one with a feather duster, the other a knife.”

“That’s—visual,” he said, thinking he could use something like that in an ad. “But why two old ladies? I’d think spring would be a young woman.”

“Because every season is wise. But they’re not all kind.” She tossed a smile over her shoulder at him. “Do you think I’m crazy now?”

“Did you make that up?” he asked.

She dropped back as the trail widened so they could walk side by side. “Years ago, when I was a kid.”

“Then yes.” He grinned down at her and put an arm around her shoulders.

She stopped, her hands going to his waist, fingers through two side belt loops, and looked up at him. Her eyes shone as she pulled him close. “And you still like me?”

His heart had caught in his throat. He couldn’t speak, so he only nodded, bringing one hand up to smooth strands of hair from her face.

She sighed. “Good. Because I really like you.”

They kissed, and the fire that always burned between them flared to life. They’d said they loved each other that night, as they curled up under the warmth of her down comforter, sated from food and fresh air and vigorous exercise. Jeremy couldn’t remember ever being happier.

Sitting in the cubicle of Macy’s photos, he watched the video of her laughing over and over and over, until finally he rose, knowing he had to do something. He had to get out, he had to talk to her. He had to tell her how much she meant to him, even if she still wanted to let him go. What a fool he’d been, taking her for granted. Not that he’d realized it at the time, but now he did. Noticing how many times he reached for his phone, how often he wanted to turn from the “now” of this place to the “maybe” of a message from her—even if the “now” was whacked and the “maybe” not happening—he realized that the retreat into his apps was habitual. Even here, inside a smartphone , he reached for his phone.

But even if that weren’t enough, the countless pictures of him looking at his phone, reaching for his phone, holding his phone, would have convinced him. He was appalled with himself. If he never saw another smartphone screen again he’d be happy, if only he could get out of here and back to her. But right now all he had were smartphone screens, and he had to use them the best way he knew how.

As he moved back down the hallway toward the elevators he was suddenly arrested by the sound of her voice. He stopped and listened. “Don’t forget eggs again!” “Call Mom.” “Tell Lute he was right.”

Had to be her Reminders app. He moved on to Messages, heard what had to be audio texts. “I don’t know how to get his attention! I must be the most boring person on the planet. Do you think it’s me?” Then the sound of her laughter again—clearly in a different conversation—and finally, “I don’t think I can do this anymore . . .”

The elevators, thank god, were right where he’d left them. He pushed the down arrow and waited, one shoulder leaning against the wall. He was exhausted and upset. He wished he could go to sleep and wake up back at home. He would run to Macy’s apartment and beg her to give him another chance. He’d reform. He’d get a dumb phone. He’d learn to pay attention .

He felt the penny drop—the truth of the matter suddenly glaringly obvious. He got it now. It was about him, his lack of presence. And he could fix that! Shouldn’t that get him out of here? Because once he was free he was going straight to Macy to tell her he understood at last.

She had left behind an enormous void within him. He wasn’t the sentimental sort, so he wasn’t getting mawkish on himself, but as things had progressed he had felt somehow less alone in the world. Safer. Like everything had a point. It wasn’t that the rest of his life was bad. His job was great, his friends were top notch, and numerous, but there was something about Macy that had completed the puzzle. She fit, and with her he’d felt whole.