Down the Rabbit Hole

He remembered the day. They’d gone hiking, her hair was windblown, her cheeks pink, and they’d gotten to laughing over something. Her laugh was so infectious, her face so brilliant with joy, that he’d wanted to capture it. Of course he hadn’t told her that, or she’d have gotten embarrassed and cynical. She never believed compliments.

They’d hiked one of the steeper trails that day, tramping through old fallen leaves, though the colors hadn’t quite changed yet. Macy had said she loved fall the best because its breezes were summer heat wrapped in cold, as opposed to spring, which was winter cold veneered with warmth.

“Two old ladies,” she said, marching up the path ahead of him, her booted feet picking their way over roots and rocks with confidence, “one with a feather duster, the other a knife.”

“That’s—visual,” he said, thinking he could use something like that in an ad. “But why two old ladies? I’d think spring would be a young woman.”

“Because every season is wise. But they’re not all kind.” She tossed a smile over her shoulder at him. “Do you think I’m crazy now?”

“Did you make that up?” he asked.

She dropped back as the trail widened so they could walk side by side. “Years ago, when I was a kid.”

“Then yes.” He grinned down at her and put an arm around her shoulders.

She stopped, her hands going to his waist, fingers through two side belt loops, and looked up at him. Her eyes shone as she pulled him close. “And you still like me?”

His heart had caught in his throat. He couldn’t speak, so he only nodded, bringing one hand up to smooth strands of hair from her face.

She sighed. “Good. Because I really like you.”

They kissed, and the fire that always burned between them flared to life. They’d said they loved each other that night, as they curled up under the warmth of her down comforter, sated from food and fresh air and vigorous exercise. Jeremy couldn’t remember ever being happier.

Sitting in the cubicle of Macy’s photos, he watched the video of her laughing over and over and over, until finally he rose, knowing he had to do something. He had to get out, he had to talk to her. He had to tell her how much she meant to him, even if she still wanted to let him go. What a fool he’d been, taking her for granted. Not that he’d realized it at the time, but now he did. Noticing how many times he reached for his phone, how often he wanted to turn from the “now” of this place to the “maybe” of a message from her—even if the “now” was whacked and the “maybe” not happening—he realized that the retreat into his apps was habitual. Even here, inside a smartphone, he reached for his phone.

But even if that weren’t enough, the countless pictures of him looking at his phone, reaching for his phone, holding his phone, would have convinced him. He was appalled with himself. If he never saw another smartphone screen again he’d be happy, if only he could get out of here and back to her. But right now all he had were smartphone screens, and he had to use them the best way he knew how.

As he moved back down the hallway toward the elevators he was suddenly arrested by the sound of her voice. He stopped and listened. “Don’t forget eggs again!” “Call Mom.” “Tell Lute he was right.”

Had to be her Reminders app. He moved on to Messages, heard what had to be audio texts. “I don’t know how to get his attention! I must be the most boring person on the planet. Do you think it’s me?” Then the sound of her laughter again—clearly in a different conversation—and finally, “I don’t think I can do this anymore . . .”

The elevators, thank god, were right where he’d left them. He pushed the down arrow and waited, one shoulder leaning against the wall. He was exhausted and upset. He wished he could go to sleep and wake up back at home. He would run to Macy’s apartment and beg her to give him another chance. He’d reform. He’d get a dumb phone. He’d learn to pay attention.