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Mac: Have you decided where we’re having dinner tomorrow night?

Pursing my lips, I contemplate my options. Cancel dinner, and go the Christmas Gala alone, or have dinner with him, get some closure (maybe) and still go to the Christmas Gala alone. I blow out a breath, the urge to have another cigarette niggling in my throat.

We’re not, Forbes. Not now, not ever.

I type the words, but hesitate. Would it really be so bad if I saw him one last time? He said he’s just in town for the holidays, so… I hit send, and shove my phone back in my drawer for the rest of the day. My emails are open on my iMac, should my clients need to reach me, and I’ll be cutting out early anyway to see Oakley about a dress. There’s no logical reason to see Forbes again, not when I can’t be sure that Dad knows he’s in town. For all I know, Forbes got an invite of his own, and as little sense as this all makes, I think it’s best I pretend we never bumped into each other on a fucking dating app. I make a metal note to leave a review of the app that reads: I hope the developers get plenty of shit under their Christmas tree this year.

* * *

“Why won’t you delete, you fucker,” I half-shout at my phone. Chocolate hops off the couch because of my yelling, but if she were in my shoes, she’d be doing the same thing. The app is up-to-date, I checked, but if I scroll to the one-star reviews, I realize not many people have had success deleting the app when they no longer want to use it. Seems most users have had the same problems I’ve had, including the message-bomb thing. Unfortunately, because the app is open, it shows I’m online, and a message comes through. It’s Forbes, I know it is, and as much I’d rather toss my phone in the Hudson River than talk to him, I open our chat, and read the messages he sent after I declined dinner.

So you figured it out then.

Took a little longer than I anticipated.

I’m wounded, Avril, have I aged so much you didn’t recognize my pictures?

Have dinner with me.

Please.

I stare at his messages, willing them to be from someone else, but he’s online. And if he’s online, is he talking to other people? Of course, he is, I berate myself. He wouldn’t be on the app if he wasn’t chatting to other women. Gross. Which also means he’s either divorced, and looking for a good time, or he’s still married and he’s cheating. Again, ew.

It’s been ten years, I type back. And I did everything in my power to forget you.

It’s harsh, but it’s true. And I had done everything in my power to forget him. I’d been successful until this morning, when I used the power of Google to unearth where I knew him from.

Ouch. I’m going to pretend you didn’t just hurt my feelings.

I don’t respond. I don’t know what to say to him given his very sudden and most unwelcome reappearance in my life and I hate that feeling. Helplessness.

I’m going to be at the gala anyway, he says. We might as well go together.

If his intent is to get me to react, it works because I’m typing up a storm without much forethought.

Absolutely not. We are not having dinner. I am not going to dinner with you. Now leave me alone so I can find another, more suitable, date!

This is the part where I should just close the app, since deleting it requires a degree from MIT, and be done with this. I can go stag, as much as I loathe the idea, but right now it feels like the safest option. On that note, I send him one last message:

Don’t contact me again, Forbes. Have a nice life.

I’m about to close the damn thing when he replies:

You know I have the means to get your number, Avril. I’d hate to get it without your permission, but I will if I have to.

The fucking nerve! Then again, he was always so brazen, and ten years ago, I admired his ability to get what he wanted from people without so much as flinching. He used whatever means necessary, and it seems that hasn’t changed. I’m still deliberating how to go about this when my phone rings, making me jump on my spot on the couch. The unknown number should be a warning, but there’s no way Forbes got my number that quickly. I can’t decline the call either because sometimes I have to deal with clients over the phone. We may be closing for the holidays but I work straight through December, and only take my leave in January. I can’t be idle at this time of year, and I have Forbes to thank for that. I swipe my screen, and put the phone to my ear.

“This is Avril Bennet.”

“Avril, how are you?”

Oh. Dear. God. That voice. It’s deeper than I remember, perhaps refined by time and age, and I dare say it’s better than the warm honey I always associated it with as a teenager.

“Forbes,” I reply through gritted teeth. I’m not going to bother asking how he got my number because these days, anything is find-outable with technology. “You’d better have a fucking good reason for contacting me after I asked you to leave me alone.”

“That mouth,” he murmurs. “Though I must admit, you do have the voice of a woman now.”

“Can I help you?” Not the smartest thing for me to say, but my brain is actively revolting against everything I’m telling it to say, and going with what it feels like. Every cell in my body recognizes his voice, and is responding according to old programming. Seems the app isn’t the only thing in need of a software update, the kind that wipes everything but the essentials.