Liam

 

Guinness lost out on that run he wanted to so badly.

He also lost his loose-leash privileges for our trek back home.

With the leash wrapped around my hand tightly, he’s forced to walk at heel, and when we pass by the bench we normally stop at to wait for Mae and Josh, I shake my head. “We aren’t staying,” I tell him. I fish my phone out of my pocket as we continue, quickly shooting off a text to my sister, before pocketing my phone once more.

We walk around the park, Guinness letting out a pitiful cry every now and then, then head out of the Balboa Park area, heading back home.

I cannot believe…

Guinness has never run away from me.

Never.

What in the world got into him today?

I thought about the woman and her daughters; the one girl and her big smile. The youngest, who slept through the entire ordeal.

The fear on the mom’s face…

I shake the leash lightly. “You scared that mom, Guinness.”

I’d probably be scared too, if I was a mom with two daughters…

My thoughts halted.

A mom with two daughters.

At the park.

Like my thoughts, my feet stop moving too. Guinness, who didn’t catch on, tugs forward before throwing an annoyed look over his shoulder.

I’m too busy pulling my phone from my pocket, though.

I’d left well enough alone.

After that first day in the park, I stopped looking for her.

For Kensley.

Guinness and I still ran at the same time every day, but I stopped looking…

I open up my text messages and thumb through the ones from Mae, my buddy Nick, Johnson…finally coming across one from my phone number.

I had a notepad app, but I preferred texting myself things.

Song lyrics.

Things to look up for the show the next day.

And, buried in the notes to and from myself, were seven lonely numbers.

Seven, because her area code was the same as mine.

Pulling Guinness to a nearby bench, I memorize the numbers before opening the Facebook app.

I’d managed to give myself a hard no on doing this.

But then today…

I swallow hard and look around, feeling guilty as hell. This took everything to a whole new level.

But I need to know what she looks like.

Maybe she doesn’t have Facebook.

Absolutely possible.

Or, maybe she doesn’t have her number associated with her account.

Also absolutely possible.

Still, though, I punch in those very seven numbers, with a leading three area code…

I bounce my knee, unable to sit still. Guinness looks bored, or maybe even sad. He lost out on a run and playing with Josh. As if he hears my thoughts, he swings his head over his shoulder, his cocked head and puppy dog eyes hitting me…but not enough to have me change my mind.

“You were naughty,” I tell him, looking at him quickly as my phone loads.

There’s probably not an account with her number.

I could try Instagram…

Before I can give up and stupidly try Instagram, an account shows up.

Kensley Cole.

My heart pounds in my chest, and I stop moving my knee.

I found her.

This was her.

This is Kensley from the show.

The profile picture doesn’t tell me much of anything—it’s a picture of her looking down, her blonde hair hiding most of her face as she laughs at whatever she’s looking at.

I sweep my thumb over the screen, not touching, as I decide: do I click in, or leave it be?

Do I do the creeper thing, and figure out if the voice matches the face?

…if the woman and girls from today were her and her girls?

Annnddddd…

I click in.

And once again, my knee starts bouncing erratically.

This is so stupid.

I’m such a dumb fuck.

What the hell am I…

The timeline picture that loads has my knee stopping.

Has my breath holding.

Right there, on the top third of my screen, is the woman and girls from a little bit ago.

And fuck they’re beautiful.

I mean, they were beautiful fifteen minutes ago, too, but…damn.

Not really thinking about it, I stand quickly and put my phone to sleep mode. “Let’s go.” I tug on Guinness’s leash.

The last thing I need is to be caught creeping on some chick’s Facebook profile. I’m slightly paranoid that someone will see that I’m checking out a profile that I’m not friends with.

You do that shit in the privacy of your own home.

I grin at the thought.

Shit, I can’t believe…

That I ran into…

My grin widens, and I shake my head.

I found her.

I saw her.

And hell, she is just as beautiful in person as her voice suggests.

 

*   *   *

 

I wait until we’re back to the house and Guinness has a fresh bowl of water before I sit my ass down on the couch and wake up my phone again. Kensley’s profile opens right away, because that was the screen I put the phone to sleep on.

Slouching in the corner, I get comfortable; one socked foot firmly on the ground with the other propped up on the wood coffee table that Mae made out of milk crates. Some Pinterest thing.

Chewing on my lower lip, I click on ‘photos.’ Now that I’m on Wi-Fi, it doesn’t take long for the page to load. I enlarge the first picture; there are three women in the picture but it’s easy to spot who Kensley is, even though she’s not the only blonde.

Girlfriends? Sisters?

I can’t tell.

I sweep slowly through the pictures, nearly all of them of her and other women her age. A concert. Bowling—which makes me laugh; who bowls anymore? At the beach.

This picture, she looks younger. I tap on the screen to allow the caption to show, but there isn’t one; just a notice that there are four comments. I tap on the comments and they pull up, but I’m not actually interested in those. I’m interested in the date those comments were made.

Five years ago.

Frowning, I go back to the previous picture, the bowling one.

Also, five year ago.

Other than the first picture, the one with two other girls, these tags were all years old.

I go back to the beach picture and, curious, look at the comments.

Ashley: Happy birthday!

Nicole: Ah! Hawaii birthday trip? Mad jealous!

Erin: That’s one way to do it. I’d have chosen Punta Cana personally… ;)

To which Kensley replied: You know I don’t drink.

The comments continued—

Erin: Because it’s not “legal.” Dude, it’s legal in PC!

So, she wasn’t twenty-one yet in this picture. Twenty? Nineteen, even?

My mind starts churning. Her oldest, she said, is four. These pictures were taken right before she was pregnant.

I frown and double tap the beach picture. Maybe she even was pregnant in them. Maybe that was why she wasn’t drinking?

Suddenly disgusted with myself, I put my phone to sleep and toss it on the couch beside me.

I am really fucking nuts.

That was crazy.

I am crazy.

I sigh heavily and slip further into the deep couch.

Guinness comes over and rests his wet chin on my extended leg. “I’m napping,” I tell him, folding my hands over my stomach.

His sigh is just as heavy as mine was, but he goes to lay down on the ground between the couch and table.

I can’t believe I stooped so low. I can’t believe I Facebook-stalked this girl.

Closing my eyes, I vow to not do it again.

It’s weird.

…but maybe Guinness and I will head back to the park next Saturday at the same time.

Maybe.