Phoebe Berman's Gonna Lose It(26)
I have spent the last few nights completely consumed with the task of finding Finn on social media. I’ve learned techniques from some of the best fictional FBI technical analysts in the business, from both my books and my proclivity for procedural crime shows, and if Finn were out there, he’d have nowhere to hide. All I came up with was one photo of him in a recreational soccer league, which, when cropped, was enough to use for a reverse Google image search that yielded zero results. Even though I couldn’t find him, his lack of online presence alone gave me valuable insight.
I saw this as an opportunity to connect with Finn, and I took it.
“I’m so over my phone, especially social media,” I had lied to him on Wednesday, while we jointly monitored the monkey bars to ensure only one kid went at a time.
He nodded vigorously in agreement. “I’ve been so much happier since I deleted all my socials last year.” I knew it. He’s completely off the grid. Hot. Very hot.
While reaching an arm up to rest on one of the bars, he revealed a sliver of tan skin between the bottom of his T-shirt and the waist of his jeans. I averted my eyes quickly, feeling uneasy about the warm feeling taking place in my lower abdomen while on monkey bar duty.
“Why live in Southern California if you’re just going to spend all day glued to a screen?” he added.
“Exactly,” I agreed with my entire chest, knowing full well that I’d spent hundreds of hours this summer watching Law & Order: SVU, only getting up from the couch to pee and make the same pasta salad for lunch every day.
Still overwhelmed by the lingering feelings brought on by the sliver of Finn’s midriff, I left him to man the station alone while I cooled myself down with a drink of ice water.
On Thursday, not wanting to come on too strong with two consecutive playground interactions, I sent Cheryl over to the swing set, where Finn stood with his hands in his pockets, drawing shapes in the wood chips with his left checkered Van.
“You have one job,” I had told Cheryl. “To find out if he’s seeing anyone. Don’t mention my name. Don’t even look in my direction.”
Cheryl had never let me down before, but this was new territory for us.
“In fact”—I gripped her shoulders and looked directly into her eyes—“you’ve never met me before.”
“Believe it or not, Phoebe, I was quite the wingwoman in my day,” she said with a reassuring smile and a wistful look in her eyes.
“Just don’t make it seem like you’re only over there to find out if he’s single. This isn’t even wingwomaning,” I clarify. “I don’t exist. You’re just a friendly colleague trying to get to know the new guy, and if the subject of his relationship status comes up, it comes up.”
She nodded and began her journey across the playground to the swings. I wondered if I should remove myself entirely while I sent Cheryl to do my dirty work, but I feared that would make things seem even more suspicious. I settled on digging a hole in the sandbox with Morgan, one of my kids from last year, only looking over once with a pit in my stomach when I thought I saw Cheryl pointing directly at me. She was only swatting at a bee.
“Good news,” Cheryl said when we reconnected by the sandbox ten minutes later. “He’s single. And I’m pretty sure he thinks I was hitting on him.”
My exhale of relief was so pronounced I was worried Finn would pick up on it from across the playground.
“Now will you please go ask him to hang out before you drive both of us crazy?”
I gave her hand an inconspicuous squeeze, worried that the hug I wanted to give her would blow my cover, and rejoined Morgan in the sandbox.
“Teacher Phoebe, this is my new pet.” She held up a small pebble.
“Hello, new pet!” I gave him a tiny fake handshake. “What’s his name?”
“Johnny.” Johnny. My mind immediately drifted to Sydney’s comment on Jonathan’s latest Instagram. Looking hot, Johnny. I could have thrown up into the sandbox.
* * *
—
With week one of the new school year successfully completed, it’s time to attend to the one errand I’ve been dreading: getting my dress altered. I’m five minutes away from picking Nora up, trying and failing not to think about Looking hot, Johnny, when a particularly unpleasant thought about Sydney pops into my brain: What if she feels threatened by my relationship with Jonathan and he starts to pull away because of it? Or worse, what if she doesn’t feel threatened at all? I push away the notion and replace it with thoughts about Finn.
The way he says my name. His smile. The sliver of skin.
Every time a thought about Jonathan’s dating life has popped into my head this week, I’ve countered it with at least three mental images of Finn. So far, it’s worked.
I park outside Nora’s apartment, but I need a minute alone in the car before I send her an “I’m here” text. Thoughts of Jonathan’s possible relationship have been an unwelcome distraction from my goals relating to Finn and the list, but I’ve also been dealing with another diversion that’s not entirely unpleasant. I pull my phone out of my tote bag and open my messages with Matthew, finally letting myself read his text that I’ve been waiting to open until now.
Matthew:
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