I smile as I realize what she’s doing. “You can’t google him. He’s a data scientist. He doesn’t have a digital footprint.”

  My mom looks at me as if I just peeled off my alien suit. “Excuse me? Did you say he can’t be googled?”

  Anissa leans back in her stool and looks out the window toward the backyard, clearly wanting to stay out of this.

  “So what?” I reply. “A lot of people aren’t on social media.”

  My mom’s shocked expression turns to concern. “Colette Marie Baker, if this is a joke, it’s not a funny one.”

  I look at her as if she’s lost her mind. “You’re making way too big of a deal about this. Some people don’t appreciate having their life story available online. Anyone can get their personal information removed from the internet. You can pay someone to do it for you. There are a bunch of companies that do it.”

  Anissa smiles when the back door opens. “Happy Thanksgiving, Coach!”

  As my dad removes his rain boots, his face splits into a wide grin; a rare sight these days.

  “Hey! Happy Thanksgiving. How’s my number-one striker?” he says, referencing Anissa’s position on the club soccer team he coached, the one where Anissa and I met back in high school.

  Anissa beams with pride, probably recalling memories of her glory days. “Doing real good. Graduated summa cum laude and started law school a few months ago. And we got my grandmama into a new care facility back in Columbus. So, I don’t have to fly back and forth to help my dad so much anymore.”

  My dad nods as he straightens his boots in the tray near the door. “I remember how often your mom made that trip. I’m glad you’ll be traveling less now.”

  I pretend I’m not upset as Anissa and my dad continue their discussion about how she’s doing in law school while I wait for him to greet me. I try not to feel as if I don’t exist, the way I felt when I was a lowly fullback on our club soccer team. Or when my dad and Elle used to talk about their many fishing trips.

  “Hey, pumpkin. Good to see you,” my dad finally says, kissing my cheek as he passes me on his way toward the stairs.

  I glance at my mom, and she’s staring at the green bean casserole in a daze. My dad didn’t say a word to her. I guess I shouldn’t feel so bad about being occasionally ignored. She has to endure his emotional unavailability every single day.

  Finally, my mom blinks a few times and sucks in a sharp breath through her nose, letting it out slowly as she puts on a brave smile. “Who wants some champagne?”

  I can’t help but notice the parallels between my mom’s need to numb her sorrow with alcohol and French culture, and my need to numb my grief with dirty martinis and hot sex on the day I met Jake. But my needs have changed since then.

  Jake is naturally profuse with his affection. He isn’t emotionally unavailable, like my father. He’s just digitally inaccessible. There’s a huge difference.

  But I can’t deny that I relate to the rejection I glimpse in my mother’s eyes.

  Not being let in when you know the man you love is hurting is beyond frustrating. But can you really expect someone to share the burden of their suffering before they’re ready? Or is the act of withholding their pain a type of abandonment?

  As my mom serves up three glasses of champagne, I can’t help but recall the champagne I declined while at the spa with Frankie yesterday. I wanted to stay sober while I spent my day with Jake’s baby sister, even if she was lit up like a Christmas tree.

  Frankie showed me her dorm and her favorite hiding place on campus; a small stone bench she found behind a row of bushes outside a building near her residence hall. She confessed she goes there to smoke when her straight-laced roommate is in the dorm. The whole time we were hanging out, I wanted to ask her to share her story with me. If she did it herself, then Jake wouldn’t have to worry about doing it for her.

  But as I toast to a happy Thanksgiving with Anissa and my mom, I’m glad I didn’t ask. I’m not entitled to the details of her pain. Jake and Frankie will let me in when they’re ready.

  20

  Unknown Connection

  It takes a solid twenty minutes to find a parking space within a quarter-mile of Colette’s apartment on Christmas Eve. I don’t know how she deals with the frustration of this parking situation every time there’s a holiday. I should have picked her up last night to avoid this.

  But then I wouldn’t have been able to bring her favorite donuts for breakfast. I guess everything in life has an upside and a downside.

  A middle-aged Hispanic woman with a young boy in tow walks toward the apartment entrance at the same time. I hurry forward, being careful not to drop the bag of donuts or spill the hot chai latte in my hand as I use my other hand to hold the door open for them. She flashes me a warm grin, and I nod as I return the smile.

  Once inside, my shoulders tense as she and the boy head for the mailboxes. Colette’s creepy neighbor is standing in front of his open mailbox, sifting through a stack of envelopes. I stop just inside the front entrance and watch quietly as I contemplate whether I should say anything to him.

  I have a feeling the complaint Colette filed against him with the property manager wasn’t taken seriously. It’s been almost four months since he destroyed the frame I left by her front door, and she still hasn’t mentioned him. I’ve avoided seeing him by insisting Colette and I spend most of our time at my apartment since we got back together two months ago. But I always knew I’d run into him, eventually.

  Merry Christmas to me.

  The guy glances at the woman and the boy a few times as she checks her mailbox. I keep my breathing slow and quiet as I observe. As he closes and locks his box, he stares at the woman. His eyes are locked on her as he walks away. He appears to say something to the woman, but I’m too far away to hear.

  I hurry forward, and the sound of my footsteps gets both the man’s and woman’s attention.

  “What did you say to her?” I ask, my tone curious as I approach the creep.

  He stops at the bottom of the staircase and squints at me, as if he’s trying to remember where he’s seen me before. His eyes widen as he shakes his head imperceptibly.

  “Do you even know how to mind your own business, boy?” he replies, straightening his shoulders.

  “What did he say to you, ma’am?” I ask the woman as she approaches the stairs.

  She shoots him a fearful glance, then shakes her head. “I don’t want trouble. No, thank you.”

  “He said to go back to Mexico,” the boy says, glaring at the man with surprising bravery. “And he said a bad word.”

  I nod at the boy. “Thanks, bud.”

  The woman yanks him up the stairs, and he smiles down at me with a proud expression as they disappear from view.

  I chuckle softly as I shake my head. “Yeah, I’m not really good at minding my business when it comes to creeps like you.”

  He lets out a wheezing smoker’s laugh as he turns around and heads for the elevator instead of the stairs.

  “Your girlfriend’s real good at minding her own business, since they dismissed her bullshit complaint. They called me right after she filed it to say they weren’t concerned,” he replies, looking smug as hell as he presses the call button. “I think she got the picture. That’s a real obedient little girl you got there.”

  “What the fuck did you say?” I roar as I rush him, using my free forearm to pin his throat against the wall. “Say it again, motherfucker. I fucking dare you.”

  His eyes are wild with fear as his face turns bright-pink.

  “Fuck you!” he says, spraying spittle on my cheek.

  “I could crush your fucking windpipe right now,” I snarl as I ease my arm off and step back. “This is your last fucking warning, you piece of shit. I catch you slipping again, and this won’t end well for you.”

  The elevator doors slide open, and he rushes inside. He presses the button for whatever floor he’s escaping to, then he appears to punch the useless close-door button a few times. As the doors slide shut, he attempts to get in the final word.

  “You’re gonna regret you did that. Your girlfriend’s gonna regret it!”

  I race up the stairs to beat him to the third floor, but when I reach Colette’s corridor, I hear the ding of the elevator doors opening on the floor below. That fucking coward is trying to hide from me. I’m not playing that game.

  Striding toward Colette’s door, I knock three times.

  “It’s open!” she shouts from somewhere inside.

  I shake my head in disappointment as I try the handle and find the lock isn’t engaged.

  “You’re supposed to keep the door locked,” I say, still slightly out of breath from the spike in adrenaline and the rush up the staircase.

  She’s standing in the kitchenette wearing nothing but one of my T-shirts as she washes her French press in the sink. “I unlocked it a few minutes ago because I knew you were coming.”

  “Your creepy neighbor is out there verbally assaulting people. You need to keep your door locked at all times. Do you understand me?” I say while Gary sniffs my shoes.

  “Assaulting people? Assaulting who?” she glances at the chai tea and donuts in my hand.

  I plant a soft kiss on her forehead and place the cup and the bag on the counter. “It doesn’t matter. I dealt with it. But you need to take him more seriously. He either really doesn’t like you or he likes you way too fucking much. Either of those are bad.”

  She looks taken aback by this information, though I can’t tell if she’s just pretending to be surprised.

  “What makes you say that?” she asks as she places the French press in the sink and rinses the soap suds from her hands.

  I debate whether I should tell her I know the status of the complaint against her neighbor. She’s been assuring me the investigation is still in process. I now know the property manager dismissed Colette’s concerns almost immediately, which is exactly what I expected them to do.

  But I don’t really have a right to call out her white lie unless I’m ready to come clean about my own secrets. And I can’t put that burden on her. Not on Christmas Eve.

  I shake my head as I take her in my arms. “Nothing. He’s just bitter.”

  She smiles and places her damp hands on my cheeks. “I’ll promise to keep the door locked if there’s a chai latte in that cup and a vanilla custard in that bag.”

  I raise an eyebrow at her. “What else would be in there?”

  She smiles as she reaches for a dry towel on the counter, using it to dab the moisture on my cheeks before she dries her hands.

  “I could get used to this level of service,” she says, tossing the towel over her shoulder and tugging the front of my shirt to pull my face to hers. “Hot lattes and hot donuts delivered by a hot guy.”

  I lean in to kiss her, ignoring the buzz of my phone vibrating in my pocket. She tastes a little like the cinnamon mouthwash she bought recently. After finding the stash of cinnamon-flavored gum in the glove compartment of my truck, she said she wants our mouths to be in sync.

  God, I love the taste of her lips. I love the taste of every part of her.

  My phone buzzes again, and I groan as she pulls away from me. “Whatever it is can wait.”

  “What if it’s Frankie?” she says, taking a step back and reaching for her chai latte.

  I let out an exasperated sigh as I slip my phone out of my pocket. But the notification on the screen is not a text message. It’s two missed calls from a phone number with a Palo Alto area code.

  My pulse quickens as I unlock my phone. I have one voicemail.

  “What is it?” Colette asks as she seems to recognize the worry in my face.

  “I don’t know,” I say as I tap the voicemail and bring the phone to my ear.

  “Hi, Jake. I’m really sorry to have to call you on Christmas Eve. Especially with—Oh, I almost forgot. This is Ren, Frankie’s RA. We spoke before. Look, I’m really sorry to have to leave this kind of voicemail, but, as far as I can tell, Frankie’s been M.I.A. since last night. She could be with a friend, but we like to check in with the residents during the holidays. She’s not in her room, and she’s not answering her phone. Can you try getting a hold of her to let her know to check in? I’d really appreciate that. Again, sorry to bother you with this today. I’m sure it’s nothing serious.”

  She ends the call by leaving her phone number and wishing me a happy holiday season. I pull the phone away from my ear and stare at the transcription of the message to make sure I heard it correctly.

  I knew I shouldn’t have taken Frankie at her word when she said she didn’t want to come to Seattle for Christmas; that she would be fine by herself in California.

  “Jake, what’s wrong? Is it Frankie?” Colette pleads as she places her latte on the counter.

  I nod slowly as I navigate to the list of favorites in my contacts and tap Frankie’s name. “Her RA can’t find her.”

  Colette’s mouth falls open, but she stays quiet as I bring the phone to my ear. The call to Frankie rings four times, then rolls to voicemail. I call a few more times before I send her a text message.

  * * *

  Me: I just want to know you’re okay. We don’t need to talk.

  * * *

  I stare at the message for a few minutes, a heavy silence pressing in on me as I await her reply. But it never comes.

  “I have to go to California.”

  “I’ll go with you,” Colette says, immediately heading for the nightstand to retrieve her phone. “Anissa is at her mom’s house in Bellevue. We can drop Gary off there.”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  She turns around with her phone clutched in her hand, her fingers poised to call Anissa. “You don’t… You don’t want me to go with you?”

  “It’s not that I don’t want you to go. It’s just that I don’t know if…”

  I sigh as I try to think of a way to tell Colette it’s probably better if she isn’t there, because of the unknown connection between Frankie’s trauma and her. But the hurt look in Colette’s eyes makes my stomach twist. There’s no way I can shut her out right now.

  If I take Colette to California, I don’t know what we’ll find. But if we locate Frankie, I know we’re going to find her broken in some way: drunk, high, suicidal, or all of the above. This scares the hell out of me.

  A painful mass forms in my throat, and I grit my teeth at the overwhelming feeling of uncertainty. Today may be the day where our three paths finally converge. I just hope it’s not where Frankie’s ends.

  21

  Mensonge pour Protéger

  As Jake tries to find the words to tell me why he wants to go to California alone, my eyes widen as a lightbulb goes off in my head.

  “I think I know where she is,” I whisper, holding my phone against my chest.

  Jake blinks at me. “You know where she is?”

  “I don’t know for sure, but I think I might know where she is.”

  I explain to him the stone bench Frankie showed me when we were in California last month. Her hiding place.

  “I can’t remember the name of the dorm where it was, but I think I remember where it is in relation to Frankie’s dorm.”

  Jake’s mouth drops open and his brow furrows as he looks down at his phone and taps the screen.

  “I need you to explain this to her RA,” he says as he places the call on speaker.

  The shrill sound of the phone ringing makes my pulse race.

  “Of course,” I whisper as we wait for the call to connect.

  “You’ve reached the Housing Front Desk at the Governor’s Corner. Our offices are currently closed.”

  Jake sighs with frustration as he disconnects the call. “Damn. I didn’t realize the number she left in the voicemail is different.”

  He taps the number in the voicemail transcription, and the phone rings again. My heart aches for him as his chest heaves with the effort of trying to remain calm. I want to hold him and assure him everything will be okay, but I know that’s not helpful.

  “Hey! Jake! I’m so glad you called,” a young woman answers.

  “Hey. This is Ren, right?” Jake clarifies.

  “Yeah. Look, I’m really sorry to do this on Chris—”

  “Please don’t apologize,” Jake interrupts her. “I don’t care if it’s Christmas Day or four in the morning. If you ever have a problem with Frankie, please don’t hesitate to contact me. You did the right thing. But I think we—I think my girlfriend might know where she is. She says Frankie has a spot she likes to go to be alone. Explain it to her, baby.”

  I draw in a deep breath and lean in closer to the phone. “I don’t remember the name of the dorm. I’m not good with directions. But I remember we exited Frankie’s dorm and turned right. And we passed the dining hall on our right and—”

  “Wait a minute,” Ren cuts me off. “Where did you exit Norcliffe? Was it the north entrance or the south entrance? Or one of the side entrances?”

  I shake my head in a slight panic. “Oh, gosh. I don’t know. But the place where the bench is… I think the name of the dorm started with an M or an N. But it wasn’t her dorm, so it’s not Norcliffe. I mean, I hope I’m not mixing up the names. I don’t know.”

  “Hmm. Was it Meier Hall?” Ren asks.

  “Yes! I mean, I think so. I’m not totally sure.”

  I’m afraid to look away from the phone as Jake holds it between us. I don’t want to see the disappointment in his eyes.

  “Do you think that’s enough to work with?” Jake asks.

  As if he can sense my worried thoughts, he places his free hand on the back of my neck and gently squeezes.

  “I think we can work with that,” Ren says. “I’ll go out and have a look myself. I’ll call you back to let you know what I find.”