Page 62 of Even After This
Someone please bring me some Imodium for my diarrhea of the mouth.
I glance over at Cade. His lips purse as he sweeps his forefinger across his neck in a swift motion signaling me to cut off the call.
Think of something. Think,think,think.
“So, uh, yesterday I drove east on Highway 30.”
Cade grunts and jerks his hands out in question. Even his hair looks upset.
I shoo him away and fold back over the shelving for privacy. “There’s a billboard that has bothered me for a couple of years. In big, giant letters it says, ‘Stop his snoring ladies.’ There’s no punctuation on the sign. And so when you read it, it sounds like someone is saying something about snoring ladies. ‘Stop his snoring ladies.’ I had to pass it a few times to figure out that was, in fact, what it says. But then you go by another few times and look at the other information on the sign, and you realize it’s an advertisement for a product to help people stop snoring. But they left out the comma.” I’m on a roll now, gaining confidence as I ignore the grunting sounds from Cade. “They want the sign to say, ‘Stop his snoring, comma, ladies.’ They want the ladies to stop his snoring. But without the comma, you think they want someone to stop a group of snoring ladies.”
It’s true. I keep talking while throwing out an animated hand during my enthusiastic monologue.
“So, anyway, yesterday I drove by the sign, and after two years, someone corrected it. They put a comma in between the words ‘snoring’ and ‘ladies.’” I giggle into the display of phone chargers. “It’s hysterical. I have so many questions. Did people complain about the typo? Was there a company meeting where it got addressed? Who paid to correct the sign?” My chuckle calms. I take a breath and lower my voice. “I just wanted to share it with you. Maybe you had a long day and this will make you laugh.”
Hitting the screen to end the call with more force than necessary, I freeze. The remaining oxygen whooshes out of my mouth as the brutal cascade of reality flows over me in a tingling sensation from my hair follicles all the way down to the tips of my toes.
What have I done?
My breathing increases, and I turn to Cade with wide eyes. “I’m not allowed to talk to famous people.”
He bites his lip. “I think I know why.”
“Can I call back and erase the message?” I shove the phone into his hands. “Fix it. Fix it now.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am, there’s nothing I can do.” He grimaces.
I run my hands through my hair and hold it in a ponytail. “Maybe I should get ahold of Penelope.” I pace two steps, turn, and walk back. “No, she’d tell him.” Releasing my hair, I snap my fingers. “I’ll contact Verizon. They’d be reasonable, right? I mean, I can’t be the only person in dire need of erasing a message.” My voice rises. “Oh my gosh. What if it ends up on some kind of auditory YouTube? My fifteen minutes of fame.” Which, upon reflection, is the length of the voicemail I just left.
“It’ll be okay.” Cade holds out his hands as if he can push back my hysteria.
I shoot daggers from my eyes at him while I snatch my phone back.
“Look at the bright side.” He shrugs, hair calmed down and unmoving. “There’s an excellent chance he’ll change his number after he hears your message.”
Why does that make my heart hurt?
“Listen, ma’am—”
“Stop calling me ‘ma’am.’” I stomp my foot. “You’re making me wish I had gone to the Verizon store. Normal-aged people wearing mom jeans and flats shop and work at those stores.”
Cade fights a grin and loses. “Listen. I’m sorry I accidentally called him. But I’m thinking”—his amusement vanishes, and he rubs the nonexistent stubble on his chin—“that maybe that call happened for a reason.”
Wonderful. The lead in a boy band just played the fate card. And the worst part is the tears pricking my eyes.
He points to the phone dangling in my hand. “Have you backed up your phone?”
“I did it before I left this morning.”
“Do you have current AppleCare coverage?”
“I’m pretty sure I do.”
“Good. Let’s look at your options for replacing this phone. I think it’s probably your screen.”
Oh my word.
I give him my information, and while he types into an iPad, he says with a small smile, “I think you’re my favorite customer of all time.” Before I can protest, he holds up a hand and clarifies. “My favorite customer of all time who I can’t tell anyone about.”
