Home > Let Her Be(6)

Let Her Be(6)
Author: Lisa Unger

Today her blog post is about “Letting Go.”

We cling to the past, don’t we? To versions of ourselves, to people we tried to love, to dreams we have outgrown. But there’s only one moment. Now. And the only true self exists here.

There are prettily staged images scattered throughout the blog—a colorful stack of notebooks, a steaming cup of tea, a picture of her hand curled around a pen, poised over a blank page. More than two thousand followers have offered their “likes” on the Instagram post where she sits in half lotus, hands in prayer at her center. I used to love the soles of her feet, even when they were dirty from walking barefoot on the hardwood floor. They were always so soft.

I stare at the slope of her shoulder, the swell of her breast, the way that wisp of hair always escapes her bun. The light touches her face, making her skin glow. I spend too many hours scrolling through her feeds, reading her words. Time I could spend moving on. Working on my novel. Getting a real job. The days seem to disappear. I lie to my shrink, to my parents, to myself about how I’m spending my time. The truth is I crawl through a digital portal and swim through the dream world there, trying to find my way back to her.

I touch my finger to the screen. It’s cold and flat. There’s nothing there but hard glass, beneath that tiny mazes of circuitry, wires. No matter how badly I want to climb inside, I can’t.

It’s not real. Not true. Anisa is not there.

In the corner of the picture, I see a shadow. Someone tall and slim, unmistakably male. Must be Parker taking the photo, lucky bastard.

Wait.

I sit up quickly, start scrolling back through images taken on my phone.

The whole catalog of us exists there. Funny moments, private ones, a few X-rated, the curated ones we posted on social media to show everyone how deeply we loved each other, how special we were.

Not on here: the night I grabbed Anisa’s tender wrist too hard when she tried to leave after an argument. The day I made her cry while I grilled her, ceaselessly, possessed, about text messages that turned out to be from her cousin. The afternoon she realized that I had been following her while she was having a girls’ day with her friends. That look on her face—the disbelief, the anger and sadness. Not something I want to revisit. The night she piled all my stuff outside the door of her apartment and I banged and banged and yelled, Anisa sobbing inside, until a neighbor called the police.

No, we don’t share those things, the ugly moments between the beautiful ones.

There. I find it. Anisa sitting in half lotus. Same top, same strand of hair prettily falling, same light on her face.

That shadow in the photo, slim and dark.

The lucky bastard is me.

Okay. What does that mean?

Is she just recycling old images? Or—is it? Is it a sign maybe? She must know I’m watching her blog, her social feeds; it’s not the first time I’ve suspected that she’s sending me veiled messages. Which I would never say out loud, especially not to Dr. Black, because it sounds . . . batshit crazy.

Or—is someone manufacturing these posts? Using her catalog of old photos—cropping, filtering, photoshopping. It’s all too easy to do, to create a new reality from the old.

I zoom in on the photo and see that she’s wearing the Tiffany infinity necklace I bought her for our first anniversary. The sight of it sends a jolt through me.

Our first anniversary. One year—it made our love seem so real. I knew we weren’t ready for the big step. We were still living in our separate apartments. Her job in finance kept her exhausted, run ragged. I was working for a temp agency—publishing my short fiction in small journals, working on my novel—heavily subsidized by my parents.

Even though I knew it wasn’t time for a ring, I wanted so much to get her something in that little blue box. I could afford only the smallest version of the necklace, in sterling. Still, I made my point. Infinity, forever.

She loved it, of course. And made a big fuss over it, posted it all over her feed. All the world, our world, gushed at the sweetness.

That Will. He’s a keeper.

I stare at the image on the screen. So is it the old photo? Or is she still wearing the necklace?

My phone rings then, startling me so badly that I throw it in the air. It lands on the bed beside me with a thud. Her image disappears.

Emily’s face, nestled against Anisa’s, appears in its place. I remember taking that picture of them. One of our many joyful outings together—this one for frozen hot chocolate at Serendipity. They both have chocolate lips and big smiles. Afterward we walked forever in Central Park. We were a cozy little threesome, like something out of a Victorian novel. Anisa and I were the young lovers, accompanied by the doting sister, cousin, ward, whatever. She, this attentive third, was a sweet, lovely thing—but just that much less lovely than the heroine of the story. Poor Emily.

“Hey,” I answer.

“You have my notebook?” She sounds annoyed, as if it’s something I did to keep her looped into me. I should have just left it. “You didn’t—”

“Read it? Yes, and now I know all your secrets, Emily.”

There’s a leaden silence.

“Just kidding,” I say, eliciting a relieved sigh. “Come on. I would never. I tried to catch you.”

I hear the wail of a siren in the background of the call.

“I’m in your neighborhood,” she says. “Can I stop by for it?”

“Sure.”

Why would she be on the Upper East Side? I wonder. And did I tell her I was staying with my parents?

But how can we keep any of this straight anymore? What we said, what we posted, what other people posted about us on their feeds. A chaotic mishmash of almost-true gossip and fake news, of rumor and posturing. Anisa and I had a couple of parties here while my parents were away. Most of her friends thought it was my place; I never cleared it up unless pressed. It’s a family home, I might say if questioned. Oh, wow, is the normal response. Translation: I knew you couldn’t afford a place like this.

I try to tidy up, my head spinning with thoughts of Anisa, that photograph. That shadow. Me or the elusive Parker? The infinity necklace.

When Emily knocks on the door, I let her inside. She’s let her hair down, taken off her glasses. There’s something so delicate about a redhead, isn’t there? Anisa used to say that Emily had fairy-princess hair—all gold and white highlights. Anisa was right. Emily’s curls shine in the foyer light.

I’m practically bursting to tell her about my Instagram discovery. But I know what everyone thinks of me. When you stalk a young woman and then try to kill yourself, you lose all your credibility. It’s hard to convince people that you’re on solid ground.

Anything I say on this topic is going to sound crazy.

Maybe I am crazy.

How are you supposed to know these things? So I just hand her the notebook and hope she’ll leave quickly. I want to get back to my internet sleuthing. She flips through the pages as if she could tell by looking if I’ve been snooping. She tucks it possessively into her satchel.

“I’m sorry about today,” I say. “I didn’t mean—”

She smiles, lifts a hand. Her glitter nail polish is chipped. “It’s okay. I know you loved her, Will.”

Love her. I still love her—wildly, madly, deeply. As much as ever.

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