5:55 p.m. (916-555-0275)
Chap. I think you should join tomorrow night for running club. We meet in McKinley Park by the benches. 6:30 p.m. Be there. And follow me on @Fleet_AF
I drop my phone. Quinn’s out to dinner with Alice, Jack, and his parents to discuss wedding-weekend details, so I can’t interrupt her evening with something as insignificant as text analysis. However, I know I can lure Lisa into my message scrutiny with the promise of a little scandal to tend to.
“Seriously, Lisa?” I take in her crude top.
“What? I’m trying to be a supportive friend. I saw it online, and it made me think of you in your exercise tights and this whole new healthy thing you got going on.” Lisa waves her hands down my body. “Not once but twice last week, you went running instead of hydrating with rosé and with me, so I thought you’d appreciate my attempt at being understanding. Though I have to admit the sober-sister routine is exhausting me.” On the front of Lisa’s purple T-shirt, in big white letters, it saysCamel Towing,and there is a picture of a tow truck with a slogan below that readsWe’ll Pull It Out When It’s in a Tight Spot. “See? Supportive, right?”
I have to laugh—this one may be my favorite.
“So how did you and this guy meet again?” Lisa asks, reading the text chain. And then one more time to make sure she didn’t miss any hidden innuendos. I love her for being as invested in deconstructing each word as I am.
“Well, I almost killed him with my car, and then he saved me from keeling over when I went out for my first run a couple weeks ago. And now here he is, showing up in my texts.”
“Uh-huh, uh-huh.” Lisa is examining me like she’s trying to solve a tricky riddle. She moves her lips as she reads along one last time.
“Have you followed him?”
“What am I, a stalker now?”
“On social media, you idiot.”
“Oh. No. Do you think I should? I signed myself up for all the apps last summer because Andrew said I needed to. Honestly, though, I really don’t care about a perfectly plated halibut steak or miracle contouringstick, or why the trivialness of it all is entertaining. I don’t get it. Pick up a book already.”
“It’s how all of America has turned into morons, that’s what it is. I used to be a political news junkie like you, but there’s too much drama on the Hill. So now I watch videos on how to apply drugstore-brand eyelashes.”
It’s my turn to examine Lisa. Her eyes are totally bald.
“Clearly, I haven’t mastered it yet.” Given Lisa’s information-consumption confession, I can’t help but think that Quinn’s neighbors’ media ideation might have legs. “Have you responded to him yet?”
“To Chap?No!”
“Holy shit, is this him?” Lisa has pulled up Chap’s @Fleet_AF account. I put on my reading glasses and practically climb into Lisa’s lap so I can get a better look.
On the screen is Chap with sunglasses perched on top of his head, in black boxer briefs and nothing else. Next to him are running shoes and a pile of clothes. Is there such a thing as a sport-porn subculture? My mom may know. Lisa and I watch the video.
“Today is the first official day of my marathon training. Since it’s Monday, it’s a push day, and I been looking forward to it because I like to see how hard I can go.”
Lisa looks at me, eyes bugged. I swat her arm. “What? He just called Monday a push day and mentioned his stamina, standing there in his underwear,” Lisa protests, feigning innocence.
“The last few years have been rough. I squandered dreams I had and opportunities I’d earned, and that’s on me.” This is feeling more confessional than carnal, and I wonder if I should stop watching Chap’s admission. It seems very personal and not intended for my viewing. But then he did put it out to the world, so who am I not to become invested in what Chap has to say?
Chap is putting on his running tights, talking, and balancing on one foot, then the other. “But the death of those dreams will hopefully open up doors for new ones.” He pulls a robin’s-egg-blue short-sleeve shirt overhis head, left arm in, then the right. “I’m not sure what those dreams will be yet, but I know that running helps keep my head on straight and my heart strong. Here’s to Day 202 of my run streak. Let’s make it a good one.” Chap snaps the waistband of his tights for emphasis to his declaration.
“What’s a run streak?” I ask Lisa, wrongly assuming she might know.
“I think he meant a streak run. He got dressed on-screen. Maybe he undresses in another post. Let’s look!” Lisa scrolls down Chap’s feed, but I feel like we’re violating his private life, not to mention I’m pretty sure we are not his target audience. Gen Zs seem to overconsume oversharing with fervor.
“Maybe you are part of the new dreams he’s talking about,” Lisa gibes.
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Lisa shrugs. “And give me that.” I grab my phone out of Lisa’s hand, but not before she hits “Follow.”
“Oh my God, is Chap going to be able to see I follow him now?” I yelp, horrified that he might find out that I was ogling him online.
“Well, when your username is as uncreative as @callie_kingman1, then yes, he’s probably going to figure it out. But maybe that’s a good thing. You almost hit him with your luxury SUV. He saved you from hyperventilating over a fire hydrant. Then he invited you to join him at his running club, and now you are stalking him online. This is a total modern-day Mrs. Robinson scenario, minus the corny Simon and Garfunkel soundtrack. And now he knows you’re interested in him. Enough back-and-forth. It’s time for you to get back in the game. Or really, get back on your back.”
“You know I can’t date him, right? If John and Andrew ever found out.” I shudder over an embarrassment that right now is only a thought, but a humiliating one.
