Actually, he kind of looks like Charlie Lastra.
Like, a lot like him.
The man glances sidelong at the display case, and the thought pops across my brain like a series of bottle rockets: It’s him. It’s him. It’s him.
My stomach feels like someone tied it to a brick and threw it over a bridge.
There’s no way. It’s weird enough that I’m here—there’s no way he is too.
And yet.
The longer I study him, the more unsure I am. Like when you think you spot a celebrity in person but the longer you gawk, the more sure you become that you’ve never actually looked at Matthew Broderick’s nose before, and for all you can remember, he might not have one at all.
Or when you try to draw a car during a game of Pictionary and find out you have no idea what cars look like.
The person at the front of the line pays, and the queue shifts forward, but I duck out, tucking myself on the far side of a bookshelf filled with board games.
If it really is Charlie, it would be mortifying for him to see me hiding here—like seeing your stodgiest teacher outside a teens-only club while wearing a crop top and fake belly button ring (not that I had that experience [I did])—but if it’s not, I can put this to rest easily. Maybe.
I get out my phone and open my email app, searching his name. Aside from our first heated email exchange, there’s only one more recent message from him, the mass email he sent with his new contact information when he moved from Wharton House to become an editor-at-large at Loggia six months back. I tap out a quick email to the new address.
Charlie,
New MS in the works. Trying to recall: how do you feel about talking animals?
Nora
It’s not like I expect an out-of-office reply to detail where he’s traveling, or what precise coffee shop he’s likely to be in, but at least I’ll know if he’s away from work.
But my phone doesn’t beep with an auto-reply.
I peer around the shelf. The man who may or may not be my professional nemesis slides his phone from his pocket, head bowing and lips thinning into an unimpressed line. Only they’re still too full, so basically he’s pouting. He types for a minute, then puts his phone away.
An honest-to-god chill slithers down my spine when my phone buzzes in my hand.
It’s a coincidence. It has to be.
I open the reply.
Nora,
Terrified.
Charlie
The queue moves forward again. He’s next up to order. I don’t have long to make my escape without being seen, with even less time to confirm or dispel my fears.
Charlie,
What about Bigfoot erotica? Have some queries in my slush pile. Good fit for you?
Nora
As soon as I hit send, I snap to my senses. Why, of all the words available to me, is this what I said? Maybe my brain is organized by the Dewey decimal system, but right now all the shelves seem to be on fire. Embarrassment courses through my veins at the sudden image of Charlie opening that email and instantly gaining the professional high ground.
The man pulls his phone out. The teenage boy in front of him has just finished paying. The barista summons Maybe Charlie forward with a cheery smile, but he mumbles something and steps out of line.
He’s halfway facing me now. He gives his head a firm shake, the corner of his mouth twisting into a grimace. It’s got to be him. I’m sure of it now, but if I run for the door, I’ll only draw his eye.
What could he possibly be doing here? My middle-class party trick tallies him up from head to toe: five hundred dollars of neutral tones, but if he was going for camouflage, it’s not working. He might as well be standing under a movie-theater marquee advertising THE OUT-OF-TOWNER with an arrow pointed straight at his peppery hair.
I face the bookshelf, putting my back to him and pretending to peruse the games.
Considering how short, not to mention asinine, my message was, he takes a surprisingly long time to reply.
Of course, he could be reading any number of emails other than mine.
I nearly drop my phone in my frenzy to open the next message.
No firm opinions as of yet, but extreme curiosity. Feel free to forward to me.
I check over my shoulder. Charlie has rejoined the queue.
How many times can I keep making him get out of line? I wonder with a thrill. I understand being glued to your phone when it comes to important work-related things, but I’m surprised the instinct runs so deep that he thinks a message about Bigfoot erotica requires an immediate response.
I do actually have a Bigfoot erotica submission in my inbox. Sometimes when my boss is having a rocky day, I’ll do a dramatic reading from Bigfoot’s Big Feet to cheer her up.
It would be unethical to share the manuscript outside the agency.
But the author actually included a link to his website, where a handful of self-published novellas are available for purchase. I copy the link to one and send it to Charlie without context.
I glance back to see him scowling down at his phone. A reply buzzes in.
This costs 99 cents. . . . . . . . . . . .
I reply, I know—such a bargain! If my professionalism is a gel manicure, then Charlie Lastra is apparently the industrial-grade acetone capable of burning right through it.
I search his name on Venmo and send him ninety-nine cents. Another email comes in a second later. He’s sent the dollar back to me, with the note, I’m a grown man, Nora. I can buy my own Bigfoot erotica, thank you very much.
The cashier greets him again, and this time he shoves his phone into his pocket and steps up to order. While he’s distracted, I take my chance.
I am famished.
I am desperate to know what he’s doing here.
And I am half running toward the door.
* * *
“No freaking way!” Libby cries. We’re sitting at the rough-hewn wooden table in the cottage, devouring the breadsticks and salads we ordered from Antonio’s Pizza. I had to trek back down to the mailbox to collect the order when the delivery guy said he wasn’t allowed to climb the stairs “for insurance reasons.”
Sounds made-up, but okay.
“The guy who was so rude about Dusty’s book?” Libby clarifies.
I nod and stab a surprisingly juicy tomato in the salad, popping it into my mouth.
“What’s he doing here?” she asks.
“I don’t know.”
“Ohmygosh,” she says, “what if he’s a Once in a Lifetime superfan?”