How could he knowthatword?
Unease blisters my next reply:You expect me to believe you feel invisible? I don’t think so. And how do I even know your photo is your photo?
His response is rapid-fire and unexpected:Send me your phone number and we’ll video chat.
I blink and blink again. He wants my phone number? I swallow hard, that uneasy sensation flooded with a sense of excitement I have no business feeling. I don’t know what this is, who he is, or what is happening right now. My fingers find the keyboard again:Post a video of yourself in our chat. Then I’ll know who I’m giving my phone number to.
There’s no vid option, he replies.I looked for it. I just found you on Instagram. I’ll send you a follow request and send the video there. Then you don’t have to give me your phone number until you’re ready.
I draw in a breath in surprise. He found me onInstagram? How is that even possible? I don’t use my real name on Instagram.
Chapter Thirty-Two
I reach for my phone and quickly pull up the Instagram app, which I literally use as a reading journal. “Nashville Librarian” is my handle, which admittedly isn’t fun and exciting, but it says what it needs to say. I have a decent following of thirty thousand readers, bloggers, and book people that just somehow happened. But the truth is they’re following my wide, sometimes eccentric reading picks, not me. People don’t really know me at all. My name is nowhere to be found. My photo has never been included anywhere on the page, sohowdoes he know this is me?
Because he does.
Right there in my inbox is a request from Adam Roth.
This is impossible unless ... a thought hits me.
I glance at the dating app and pull up my profile, which clearly states that I’m a librarian at Nashville’s main library. And, good Lord, Jess linked my Instagram account. Could she not keep anything private? And how did I let myself obsess over my photo and not bother to look at my bio a little more closely? I breathe out a sigh of relief. I can stop suspecting Adam of wrongdoing, at least to this end.
Returning to Instagram, I accept his follow request, reading his new message:Hi Mia. I’m making a video now. I’ll send it in just a few minutes.
Trying not to read too much into Adam’s attention, and still a bit skeptical about his looks and his interest, I remain on the fence about this entire exchange.
For now I click on his profile and scan his photos, which seem to date back a couple of years. The lake and boats seem to be his social media theme. He also appears to enjoy trying new beers, often posing with a cold one and labeling the flavor, or whatever terminology is appropriate. I can’t seem to dig deep enough to find any photos of a man anyone would label as inconsequential as I feel most days of my life. Trying not to overthink things, I click off his profile, pick up my cup, and sip in an effort to focus on anything but the wait for the video. Turns out my brew is cold and in need of replacement. I walk to the sink, pour out my coffee, and refill my cup. Once I’ve added cream and artificial sweetener, I walk back to the island, sit down, and then pull up Instagram on my computer. The idea is to watch the video, if Adam really produces one, on a larger screen.
To my surprise, there it is. A video is actually waiting for me.
I click on it and enlarge it. Adam fills my screen, and he does not disappoint. Adam only gets better, the live-action version of the man outshining the photo. His sandy-brown hair is finger tousled. His Tennessee Titans T-shirt stretches over a chest worthy of any book in floor three’s romance section. His green eyes are intelligent and fixed on the camera as he speaks.
“Hi, Mia. Let’s see, where should I start?”He scrubs Saturday-morning “I haven’t shaved” stubble on his square jaw.“I’m Adam Roth,”he continues. “Thirty-eight, and a civil engineer. All that boring stuff you saw on my profile.”He holds up a finger.“Fun fact. Confession, maybe? My photo was Scooby-Doo, and I actually love Scooby-Doo. I love all cartoons. Kind of a guilty pleasure of mine.”He grins.“What can I say? My mom says there’s a kid inside me, but don’t let that fool you. I’m serious about my work. I actually moved here from Texas three months ago to work on anew highway expansion through Nashville. I do like to read. I suspect that’s important to you, being a librarian and all. I favor action and adventure. The Gray Man is a favorite series of mine. Jack Reacher is another. The books are better than the movie or TV show. But, honestly, none of this is what you want to know, is it? You want to know why I say I’m like you. Or I was and not that long ago. I, too, was overlooked. I was insecure. I wasn’t the man I am today. What changed? you might ask. I think this is getting too long. I’ll load another video.”
The video ends.
I breathe out. Oh my God. He’s real.
Another video appears in my messages, and I click on it.
Adam reappears on the screen.
“Here we go again,”he says.
“What changed for me? How was I like you and now I’m not? Ironically, I was in a car accident on a highway that I helped design. The truth is that had I not made certain safety adjustments to the layout, I would have died that day. My changes, the ones I’d insisted on, but barely because, you know, I was still the old me at the time—still the guy no one heard when I spoke—those changes were critical safety changes. I realized in the aftermath of my accident that (a) life is short, (b) my life has a purpose, and (c) it was time to take control of my life. And so I did. I purged everything and anything in my life that held me back. That’s making it sound simplistic and far easier than it was. I’m running out of time again.”
The video ends.
He’s typed a message for me while I was watching the second video:Send me your number, if you feel comfortable. And I already know you don’t want to talk on the phone or video chat. We can text.
I don’t want to talk or video chat, I think, but how does he know this? How is that possible?
As if I’ve typed out the question, he responds:I know because I remember what it felt like to be the old me. We can text. Just text. For now, at least.
I stare at the message with the understanding that it’s time to make a decision. Do I want to know Adam Roth? Seconds tick by, and I watch both videos again, processing his story, and God, what a story it is. He was like me. Heislike me. And now his transformation is from me to the male version of Jess. The idea that he didn’t just see me, but hesees me, really sees me, all that I am, all that I could be, and wish to be, stuns me.
As unbelievable as it might seem, the words that stand out the most are the ones that are unrelated to his changing persona.“I’m running out of time.”
