A Little Pig

Chapter 3: The Dinner Reservation

I was trying to choose between two restaurants when Miles called the next afternoon.

He suggested the place near the marina, where the tables were close together and the menu changed every season. Tessa liked it, he added, because she knew the owner. I told him I'd rather meet somewhere quiet.

"Just us?" he asked.

"Yes."

There was a pause. "Okay. The diner on Oak?"

We sat in a booth under a framed picture of a lighthouse that had been painted the wrong color. Miles arrived first and had ordered coffee. I put my phone between us, screen down.

"I found the account while looking for archive photos," I said.

"Smallweather?"

"You recognized the name."

"I've seen it before."

"Where?"

"On Tessa's feed, I guess. I don't remember."

I took out the three screenshots I'd printed at the archive. I had wanted paper because I could hand it to him without watching him swipe through hundreds of posts.

He looked at the first one. His fingers rested on the edge of the paper.

"Is this Tessa?" I asked.

"I don't know."

"Do you think it's me?"

He read the caption again. "It could be."

The post was about the woman with the paper bag of peaches. It didn't name me. It described the blue grocery store bag, the late afternoon, the boyfriend who had been distracted by a phone call.

"You were there," I said. "Tessa was there. We'd just met."

"That doesn't prove she wrote it."

"No. It doesn't."

I felt proud of myself for saying it. I hated that I had to be proud of myself.

I showed him the post about the lighthouse plaque. He had been with me on the tour when I corrected the name. Tessa had been standing behind us, holding a paper cup.

"Why would she write this?" he asked.

"I don't know. That's why I'm asking you."

Miles folded his hands around his coffee. "Tessa can be sharp. She says things that sound harsher online. But she doesn't usually mean them literally."

"Do you think these are about me?"

His eyes went to the screenshot again. "Some of them could be."

I waited.

He said, "She's been my friend since we were kids. We used to make fun of each other constantly. It was how we talked."

"I'm not your childhood friend."

"I know."

"I'm not part of whatever shorthand you two have."

"I know that too." He rubbed the bridge of his nose. "I'm not saying it's okay."

"You just said she doesn't mean it."

"I'm trying to understand it."

"So am I."

He took a sip of coffee. "What do you want me to do?"

"Find out if it's her."

"And if it is?"

"I want you to take it seriously."

"I am."

I looked at him. "You're asking me what I want you to do like the answer is going to be a task you can finish in an hour."

His mouth pressed into a line. "That's not fair."

"Maybe it isn't. I don't know what's fair yet."

The server came by with a basket of fries we hadn't ordered. Miles thanked her and slid it toward me. I didn't touch it.

He told me Tessa had been under stress lately. Her mother had sold the house where Tessa grew up, and there had been a lot to sort out. Miles said he didn't think she was a cruel person. I asked if that was the point. He said no. He said he was trying to tell me what he knew.

"What do you know?" I asked.

"That Tessa can be judgmental. That she makes private jokes. That she's never been good at liking people she thinks are taking up too much space."

"Do you think I take up too much space?"

"No."

"Does she?"

He looked away toward the window. "I don't know."

I put the screenshots back in my folder. "We're supposed to sign the lease on Friday."

"I know."

"I don't want to bring this into the lease conversation."

"Then let's not."

"That isn't what I mean."

He reached for my hand. I let him touch two fingers, then moved my hand back to my lap.

"I want to talk to her," he said.

"Okay."

"I'll ask her."

"Okay."

"Can you give me a day?"

I agreed, though I had no reason to. We'd been together long enough to know how long a day could become a week, how a difficult conversation could be postponed until the person asking for it began to feel unreasonable.

That night, Miles sent me a picture of the lease. The apartment was in a brick building above a florist, with one bedroom and a small second room where I could work. We'd toured it together twice. I could already picture the archive boxes on the shelves.

Miles: The landlord needs both signatures by Friday. Still good?

I typed, "Not sure," then erased it.

Me: Let's talk after you speak with Tessa.

He sent back a thumbs-up.

The next morning I saw Tessa at the archive. She was there with a friend, picking up a print of an old harbor map for her mother. I was standing behind the front desk, holding a stack of forms.

She smiled as if we'd last seen each other at a pleasant dinner.

"Nora," she said. "How's the archive?"

"Busy."

"I saw your pictures from the terminal. You make a ruin look romantic."

"Thanks."

She put the map under her arm. "Miles said you had some questions about an account."

I didn't move. "He talked to you."

"I asked him what was going on." She smiled again, but her eyes had gone still. "People post odd things online. I hope you're not losing sleep over it."

I felt a hot, sharp rise in my chest.

"Are you saying it's yours?"

She lowered her voice. "I'm saying you shouldn't take everything personally."

I watched her take the map and walk out.