Hello Stranger(76)

“I’ll try,” I said.

Then he and his tie and his white lab coat were gone.

I looked down at Peanut, who was scooting around now, scratching his bum enthusiastically on the grass.

Peanut paused to look up at my face, and I paused to look down at his, and the two of us silently agreed: I would definitely need to find a new vet.





Twenty-Four


I WENT HOME that afternoon and painted like crazy.

I had two days before the portrait had to be delivered to the gallery before the show.

I had never tried to complete a painting in such a short time frame before. My old method could take weeks. But I didn’t have weeks. I had two days.

I’d do what I could do and let the rest go.

I’ll be honest and say: I liked this painting. I couldn’t entirely vouch for the face, but everything else was strong, compelling work. The curve of his shoulder. The slant of his collarbone. The shadow around his Adam’s apple. Plus, the colors, which were just the right combination of bright and muted—happy and sad. The whole thing had an energy about it—a frisson of emotions—that was just … appealing.

It wouldn’t win, of course. A faceless portrait was the last thing these judges were looking for.

But it would be something true. Something I could be proud of.

When I texted a snapshot of it to Sue—now a married woman in Edmonton, Alberta—she texted back. Wow!

Do you like it? I asked.

It’s phenomenal!!! she texted back. That torso!! Then after a pause, This might be the best thing you’ve ever done.

That made me kiss the phone. Think it’ll win? I texted back.

Not a chance, Sue replied. Then she added, But if anybody can win while losing, it’s you.



* * *



I FINISHED THE painting a day early, emerging from a blissful state of flow and texting Joe: Your portrait’s done.

When I didn’t hear back, I decided to get more explicit. Want to come see it?

Still no response.

Maybe he was busy? Was this the busy season for pet sitters? Could some of Dr. Michaux’s snakes have escaped the den? Was everything okay with Joe’s hundred-year-old grandmother?

I told myself not to text Joe all these questions, but then I texted them all, anyway.

Plus a few more.

Where the heck was he?

I demanded that Sue call me from Canada, and then I said, “I think I just dumped my fantasy fiancé for a guy in my building who’s now ghosting me.”

“I’m sure he’s not ghosting you,” Sue said.

“I’ve sent him seven texts in the past twenty-four hours and he hasn’t replied to one of them.”

“For god’s sake, stop texting him! Have some self-respect!”

“I just want him to text me back.”

“He’s clearly unavailable.”

“I want to show him the portrait before I take it to the gallery.”

“Can’t always get what you want.”

“But why isn’t he replying?”

“Just give the poor man the benefit of the doubt. Maybe his grandmother’s sick.”

“You think they don’t have cell service where his grandmother lives?”

“Maybe! You don’t know! Maybe she’s an ancient Sicilian lady on a remote island where there are no phones. He could be stomping grapes right now, trying to keep the family vineyard going while she fights for her life in a charming Italian ICU.”

“Why does that not feel likely?”

“If you’re so worried, go knock on his door.”

Knock on his door?

I hadn’t thought of that.

Cut to me: Sixty seconds later—knocking on his door.

No answer.

Could he be stomping grapes in Sicily?

I mean, it wasn’t impossible.

But as the silence wore on, even optimistic Sue had to admit it wasn’t looking good. “I’m losing hope on the Italian grandmother,” she said, during yet another processing session.

“Right?” I said. “This is not a friendly miscommunication. Plus, I know he’s in town because I saw him in the elevator, and he saw me heading for it—and he did not hold the doors.”

“Maybe he didn’t see you?”

“He definitely saw me.”

“Looks like it’s time for interpretation B,” Sue said.

“Which is?”

“He hates you.”

“But why would he?”

“Maybe he overheard you saying something mean about him?”

“I haven’t said anything mean about him in weeks.”

“Not holding the elevator door is definitely a maximum-hostility move.”

“Maybe he just got his eyes dilated at the doctor, and he couldn’t tell it was me.”

“That only works for close objects.”

“Oh.”

“There’s no way of knowing if he won’t talk to you,” Sue said.

“My point exactly.”

“But if I had to guess? He’s an asshole. And he went after you for the thrill of the chase. But then he caught you and lost interest.”

I didn’t want that to be it.