Weeks later I was still thinking about him. I was having one of those days when you find a reason to cry in every song you hear. It was an off weekend with my kids, and while you may think that sounds free and liberating I often find it sad, lonely, and depressing. If only the most unconditional love in my life, my dog, Franny, could stay with me, I wouldn’t feel as deserted and would have a solid reason to get out of the house. But Franny was included in the visitation agreement. Better for the kids, he said. All of a sudden he was concerned with what’s better for the kids. The hypocrisy…
Even though this is Manhattan and there are a hundred things to do on any given day, I was sitting in my office feeling melancholy. So I decided to check in on what John Westmont was up to. I’d like to say it was the first time I had done this, but I’d be lying. At first I just did it to see whether Caroline had removed the tracker from John’s phone, but she hadn’t even bothered. Then I just found myself wondering what he was doing. It was bizarre behavior, I admit, but I’d been rather bored lately. He seemed to be moving quickly down Madison Avenue. Realizing with a jolt that what I was doing was no better than common stalking, I exited from the program and vowed not to check again. And I took it one step further. Caroline had set it up so I’d be copied on all John’s incoming e-mails. Since she seemed to have no intention of deactivating that either, I decided I would run a search and mark all of them as spam so they would all be redirected into my junk folder from now on. Out of sight, out of mind.
As I started the search, a new e-mail came in for him from the Apple store at Grand Central. I read it. I shouldn’t have, but I thought, It’s not personal, it’s just the Apple store.
We’ve reserved your spot in line at the Genius Bar and will be ready for you soon. You’ll get a reminder when it’s almost your turn.
From his location on the tracker I realized he must be going to the one in Grand Central Terminal. He’ll be there forever, I thought. I realized a little too eagerly that I actually did need to go to the Apple Store. And it was the perfect errand for an unplanned day. We were down to one laptop cord in our house and it was causing lots of bickering. It never ceases to amaze me that they can make two-and-a-half-pound devices that carry all your photos, music, movies, work, and the entire Internet but can’t make cords that last as long as their computers. I put on my coat and was out the door before you could say “totally inappropriate.”
As I noticed the Fifth Avenue Apple Store out the window of my cab, heading a whole seventeen blocks and three avenues out of the way to the Apple Store that I hoped John was at, I couldn’t help but giggle. I was excited to see him, and the spying element made it more fun—for the time being, at least. I promised myself that if I saw him I wouldn’t approach him first. I would let him find me. As if that little deal with myself would magically turn this unethical planned encounter into a real chance meeting.
I checked my (his) e-mail again. There was another.
We’ll be ready for you shortly. Please make your way to the Apple store.
It was almost too easy. I often thought about how people in my profession did this before modern technology. Like the detectives who inspired fictional sleuths like Sherlock Holmes and Philip Marlowe. It was a whole different world. My girls had been obsessed with Nancy Drew lately; I like to think that had something to do with what their mom did for a living. I bought them a complete hardcover set of the originals. I began thinking up titles for modern Nancy Drew books: The Secret Hidden Web Portal, The Mystery of the Facebook Group. My cab pulled over to the curb.
Upon entering the great hall at Grand Central I was, as always, awestruck by its beauty. I’ve never been a commuter, but I couldn’t imagine traveling to and from this place to be a routine worth complaining about. There is something romantic about train travel to begin with, but add in the grandeur and history of Grand Central station and it is downright enchanting: the constellation-covered ceilings, all the times visitors and natives alike have uttered the phrase “Meet me under the clock at Grand Central,” the majesty of its marble columns and arches. I could stare at the great hall for hours, but I had to move on. I had a mission. I headed to the store as his next Apple e-mail arrived.
Thanks for waiting. We’re now ready for you. Please check in with a specialist.
I walked into the narrow store just as John Westmont was being escorted to his seat at the Genius Bar for his appointment. I decided to put myself directly in his line of vision but vowed not to make the first move. I perused the power cords and chose two, pretending to be absorbed in the task. I approached the technician to John’s right, who was gently breaking some bad computer news to a woman who looked like she was going to cry. I think they both welcomed the interruption.
“Excuse me, can you please tell me which of these goes with the MacBook Air? I have the thirteen-inch,” I added, purposely not saying the year in case I needed more time to be noticed.
“Which year?” the technician responded, as I knew he would.
“Two thousand fourteen,” I said, which he followed with a tap on the box in my right hand.