She pulled out her phone, and though she knew he wouldn’t see it until morning, texted:
Then there are the things we lose and can’t get back. I don’t know what to do about that one.
She sent it, re-read it, and added:
Good morning.
She set her phone down and sipped.
In the dimness of the guesthouse, lit only by the faraway lights of a sleeping city beyond the sliding glass door, the face of her phone illuminated.
BROCK:
Took a little midnight run?
SEWANEE:
Nooooo your phone is on?! I’m so sorry!! You’re awake? Why are you awake? Are you awake?
BROCK:
No I’m sleep-texting.
SEWANEE:
I’m so so sorry.
BROCK:
It’s okay, really.
What are you doing up?
SEWANEE:
Couldn’t sleep.
BROCK:
You know what’s good for that?
SEWANEE:
Ugh I don’t have innuendo in me right now.
BROCK:
No wonder you can’t sleep. Tell Innuendo to get busy.
SEWANEE:
Good one. But I can’t. Seriously.
BROCK:
Okay, seriously? I was going to say audiobooks.
I have fans who listen to my voice in bed to fall asleep.
SEWANEE:
That is . . . not what they’re doing.
BROCK:
Still. I could try reading you a story? See if it helps?
SEWANEE:
I don’t think your kind of story will help.
BROCK:
K Goodnight then.
SEWANEE:
Night. Thanks for the chat. Truly.
Sewanee found that she was smiling. The tears were gone. The tea was gone. She slipped off the sofa and went into her bedroom. She set her phone on the nightstand, crawled back into bed, and hoped Blah would be okay, would go to sleep, would let her sleep. She took a restful breath. She wanted to be able to close her eyes and think of Brock, not her grandmother. But before she could, her phone illuminated again, dropping that oh-no feeling back into her stomach. She snatched it up.
A voice memo.
From Brock.
She pressed play.
His voice sounded like early morning. It was soft-edged, as if he were close enough to warrant a whisper. There was no preamble. He just read.
She recognized it instantly. It was Goodnight Moon.
In the great green room
There was a telephone . . .
Now she closed her eyes. She rested her head on her pillow and her phone rested itself on her chest.
She listened.
After he spoke the final refrain, there was a moment of lingering silence. She waited for him to say something else. She wanted him to say something else. To sign off, perhaps. To chuckle, maybe. She wanted more.
But there was nothing else. The recording stopped. In a moment of greediness, she thought about playing it again. But she didn’t move. There was no need. She was satisfied. Beyond satisfied. Beyond Goodnight Moon.
She texted:
You.
He replied:
Again. You.
*
March 6
SEWANEE:
For future reference, what time zone are you in?
BROCK:
EST.
?
SEWANEE:
So next time I have an existential insomnious crisis I can time my texts better.
BROCK:
Insomnious: the Roman god of late night thought.
I’m an acolyte myself.
SEWANEE:
And from whence in the EST doth the acolyte hail?
BROCK:
Newest of York.
And whence . . . yourth . . . hailest?
SEWANEE:
Lol still live in L.A.
BROCK:
So close!
SEWANEE:
Only if Los Angeles is still just above 96th street.
（Jokes aside for the moment: I really appreciated the bedtime story last night.）
BROCK:
（Jokes aside, my pleasure）
L.A., huh? Interesting.
SEWANEE:
The first time in recorded history a New Yorker has ever said that.
BROCK:
Gotta make nice, I’ll be there in a few days.
SEWANEE:
Oh! Wait, for the Audies???
BROCK:
PETE NO.
SEWANEE:
Hmmm
BROCK:
Hmmm?
SEWANEE:
Just hmmm
BROCK:
Well hmmmm back.
From: Brock McNight
To: Westholme, Sarah
Date: March 7, 1:57 AM
Subject: RE: CASANOVA, LLC–and hello!
Hello!
So, my acolytic self has been thinking. I know how you feel about talking on the telewhatever. Understood! New thought: we don’t talk.
We meet.
Our options, as I see them:
1. Meet face to face. We then:
a. Keep walking.
b. Stand there.
c. Speak and screw it all up.
And then we:
2. Decide to never see each other again and:
a. Go back to texting OR
b. Touch each other to make sure we’re real, then never see each other again