A Little Pig

I was supposed to be finding a photograph of the old ferry terminal before it came down. My laptop was balanced on the kitchen counter, a bowl of soup cooling beside it. I worked three days a week for the Bellwether Harbor Archive, where the budget was small enough that I did research, captions, and whatever else needed doing. The city had asked us to document the terminal before demolition, and I was searching local posts for a picture of the west entrance in the rain. A photo appeared under the tag I was following. The terminal's rusted doors shone dark with water. In the corner, someone had added a caption: "Some places look better when you stop pretending they're charming." I clicked the profile because the photo might have been old enough to help with the archive. A pink pig in a blue raincoat stared out at me. The handle was @smallweather. The profile was public, with 1,097 posts. I read the caption again. It could have been about the terminal. The next post was about a woman who took three pictures of her coffee before drinking it. I glanced at my own mug. I had taken one picture of the storm outside the archive that morning and sent it to Miles. The post was dated that same morning. I sat down. The account had a habit of making its complaints sound general. A woman who wore too much navy and called it practical. A person who corrected the names on old signs but forgot to tip the delivery driver. Someone who said "I'm just tired" when what she meant was that everyone else should rearrange their plans around her. My hands went cold as I scrolled. I had worn navy to dinner with Miles and his old friend Tessa two nights earlier. I had corrected the name of a local lighthouse on a plaque during a tour. I had skipped dessert after a long day and said I was tired. None of those things was unique. Together, they formed the outline of my week. Then I found the post about a woman who had brought a paper bag of peaches to her boyfriend's apartment and left it on the counter because he'd said he was running late. I remembered the peaches. I remembered the bag. I remembered Miles telling me that Tessa had been at his place when I dropped them off, and that she'd joked the fruit was "a very serious gesture." The post was dated the next morning. I scrolled up. Down. Back again. I looked at the posts surrounding it, searching for a name, a tag, some sign that I had misunderstood. There were no names. There was a picture of Tessa's dog, cropped to show only one paw. A post about her mother's old kitchen clock. Then another careful little assessment of me. I recognized Tessa's phrasing. She used "the whole performance" for things other people called fussing. She called the harbor "our wet little bowl," a phrase she'd used at dinner the first time Miles introduced us. One post had a photo of a pale blue couch, the same couch I'd sat on while eating the peaches. A link on the profile led to a music account. The music account linked to Tessa's public profile. I set my phone down and picked it up again. My first instinct was to call Miles. My second was to keep reading until I found something that hurt enough to justify the call. I found plenty. The post about the navy dress came from a month ago. The one about my coffee had appeared at 8:17 that morning. A week earlier, someone had written that a woman who complained about people not showing up for her had refused to attend a birthday brunch because the restaurant didn't have a quiet corner. I had refused that brunch. The restaurant had been hosting a live band. I stopped when I reached the account's first post. It was two years old, three weeks after Miles introduced me to Tessa. A tiny drawing of a pig wearing a crown. The text read, "Some people arrive and start rearranging the furniture before they've even learned where the cups go." I closed the page. Opened it. Closed it again. Miles came in carrying a paper grocery bag, kicking the door shut behind him. "Hey," he said. "You're up late." I turned the laptop so he couldn't see the screen. "Do you know an account called smallweather?" His expression barely shifted, but I had been with him for two years. I knew the slight pause before he answered when he was deciding whether to be careful. "No," he said. "Why?" "I found it while looking for archive photos." "What's on it?" I could have shown him. Instead, I watched his face. "A lot of opinions." He set the groceries on the counter. "People have a lot of opinions online." "Sure." He leaned down and kissed the top of my head. I stayed still. After a moment he stepped away, took a loaf of bread out of the bag, and asked if I'd eaten. I told him I had. He didn't ask why I'd searched the account. I didn't tell him the name on the profile was Tessa's. After he went to shower, I took screenshots. I saved the page, the post count, the profile links. Then I texted Dani. Dani: Are you awake? She called before I could put my phone down. "I found something," I said. "Bad something?" "I don't know yet." "Then tell me what you do know." I looked at the pig in the blue raincoat on my screen. "I think Tessa has been writing about me for two years." Dani didn't fill the silence with reassurance. "Send me the link." I did. "Stay there," she said. "I'm coming over."