And then I remember Remington. All our texts are in my trashed phone. And nowhere else. I want to throw up, and it’s not only because of nausea from the accident. I try to recall his phone number. I can’t. I’m not a numbers girl, just like I’m not a technology girl. I like English, not math.
Do I have his number written down somewhere? I wonder in increasing worry. Maybe, if he sent me his phone number first. But I realize that he didn’t. I sent my number to him in a letter. I remember, because I was so worried about taking that step, afraid he wouldn’t want to go from letters to calls. In the end, he didn’t call me. But he’d texted. And now, all those years of texts might be gone, wiped away with one accident as if they never existed.
“What matters is that we’re both okay. A phone can be replaced, but people can’t,” the bike messenger says.
I turn my phone over. An edge crumbles in my hand.
“Great, hit-and-run dude is a philosopher,” Daisy says.
“I didn’t hit and run. I’m here. I hit and stayed. And this whole hitting situation isn’t my fault. You may be cute but did anyone tell you that you’re obnoxious?” he asks Daisy.
“All the time,” she says. “So, you think I’m cute?”
A loud pounding sound drowns out their voices. I put my head in my hands, hoping it will go away. But the sound is coming from inside my brain.
“Olivia, are you okay? Olivia—”
And for the second time, it all starts to slip away—the hard ground, the voices, the music of the city, the feel of cool air on my body, the smell of asphalt. I vow, if I can get the world to come back, even for a minute, I’ll do things differently. I’ll go after my dreams. I’ll find a boyfriend and actually have sex. I’ll change my life one risk at a time, so when I finally do die, it won’t be with regret. And I’ll get better at numbers and technology, so I can back up my damn phone.
“I can’t believe a hot bike messenger ran you over and then you got Dr. Heartthrob to care for you. You have the best luck.” Daisy lounges in the chair next to my bed, looking fresh and pretty. In contrast, I feel like I’ve been run over by a bike. That sounds lame. A truck would be far more dramatic.
“I spent the last few nights in the hospital and had my phone destroyed. I don’t have good luck,” I counter.
“Don’t be so negative. You could have been seriously hurt. The universe works in mysterious ways. Besides, Doc Hotty said you can leave the hospital today.”
I adjust the bed to sit up higher. Bruises still mar my body, and though the pounding in my head has lessened, it hasn’t gone away entirely.
Daisy is right, though. I’m lucky and should feel grateful. After I passed out on the street, I woke up in the hospital with a painful headache, balance issues, and the worry that my brain could be irreparably broken. Luckily, my broken brain proved temporary, and the doctors finally proclaimed me fit to go home.
It wasn’t exactly a near-death experience, but it shifted something in me. When I was in the hospital, it occurred to me that there would only be a few people who would care if I disappeared tomorrow, and one of them was behind a screen with no intention of ever meeting me. I wanted something different from my life, something more.
Speaking of screens…
“I hate to ask you, but were you able to take my phone to the repair shop?” I ask Daisy.
“Do you want the good news or the bad news?”
“The bad news.” If she gave me the good news first, I wouldn’t be able to enjoy it, because I’d be worrying about what bad news would follow, canceling out the good.
“The repair guy said your phone is fucked.”
“Shit,” I whisper, closing my eyes against the tears that threaten. The truth is, I don’t care about the phone. All I care about are my texts with Remington. And his contact number, which I still can’t remember.
A sense of loss settles over me. His old PO Box is no longer valid. I tried to send him a Christmas card a few years back, and it had come back to me as undeliverable. I only hope that he’ll wonder what happened and write to me at Mr. Jensen’s shop. But after our last messages, when I stupidly broke our rules, I’m not sure he will. He might think I’m ghosting him, and maybe he’ll be happy about it. Maybe he’ll be relieved I stopped texting.
“Hey, you look like you lost your entire Agatha Christie book collection. It’s okay. Daisy to the rescue. Surprise!”
She holds out a small paper bag. I peek into it and pull out an iPhone, a far newer model than I’d had.
“Daisy! I can’t accept this. There’s no way I can afford it.” Especially after I get the bill for the hospital. I have insurance, but it’s not a great plan and my co-pays are ridiculous. How am I going to pay for more medical bills?
I could, if I accept the job offer as a technical writer, I can’t help thinking. I’d make double what I make at the bookshop and have better benefits. Ugh. I got my master’s in creative writing, not software manuals.
Daisy waves a hand. “Oh, this old thing? I just had it lying around.”
I raise an eyebrow.
“Stop looking at me that way. You deserve this. You never ask for anything. Just think of it as a birthday present. It’s unlocked, so I bought you a temporary SIM card with data.”
“I can’t accept it, Daisy. That’s too much.”
She blows out a breath. “You’re so stubborn. You need to get better at accepting gifts. If it makes you feel better, think of it as a loaner until you can get yourself a replacement.”
I don’t want to accept it, but I need a phone. “Thank you, Daisy. I’m grateful for the loan. I’ll give this back to you when I get a new one.” I try my best to give her the cheerful smile she deserves for being so amazing, but it wobbles a little.
“Hey, what’s wrong? I thought you’d be happy with your new phone.”
“No, I am. I’m just tired. And maybe a little sad about everything in my phone I’ve lost.”
She grins impishly. “Which is how I come to the good news.”
“Wasn’t the phone you gave me the good news?”
“Nah. That’s just a bonus. The good news is that even though your phone is fucked, I flirted with a repair guy, who is some genius specialist, and he’s going to do us a solid by trying to fix it or at least recover all your data. He can’t get to the job right away, but he said he’s confident he can do it.”
“Daisy!” I squeal. “Thank you, thank you!” This time, my smile is real.
“You can thank my teeny tiny but perky boobies and see-through shirt. He stared at my tits the whole time I was trying to convince him to help.”
“Thank you, Daisy’s boobs!” I say with enthusiasm.
“You know, it might not be a bad thing that you lost your phone. To be honest, I was tempted to let it stay broken.”
“What? Why?”
“To start fresh without your text buddy as a distraction. You can have your own summer of risks—just like you said Nanna wants you to have.”
“I’m not going to model nude for a famous photographer like my grandma did. Not that anyone would want me to.” I look down at myself.
“Of course they would. You’re hot, even if you insist on hiding your assets. But you don’t have to do exactly what she did. Just take a risk a day, any risk. It can be something small. Like getting on Tinder.”
“Really? Tinder?”
“Well, any dating app. There are plenty. Or what about speed dating, then? Bungee jumping? We’ll think of something. But the point is to take some risks.”
I gnaw on my lips, which are chapped after two days in the hospital.
I nod. “Okay. Let’s do this. The summer of risks.”
“Yes!” Daisy pumps her fist in the air as if she’s Rocky Balboa at the end of a fight. “But you need a plan, or you won’t do it. You need to take one risk a day for the entire summer.”
“Okay,” I agree. “But I get to choose the risks, not you.”
“You have to seriously consider the ones I suggest.”
“Fine,” I say, because sometimes it’s easiest to just agree with Daisy.
“This is going to be fun,” she says. “And I think your first risk should be finding someone new to crush on.”
A new crush.