Chapter 13
The search for “Jack Dobson” returned almost seven million results. Several in the first few pages linked back to his Twitter account, but that was about it. There were lots of Jack Dobsons, from a prominent entrepreneur to a British gardener. Mostly it was ancestral records and obituaries for other men named Jack Dobson. Outside of his Twitter feed, nothing much came up for him.
I didn’t need to check his Twitter and Facebook. I’d already prowled those. Each of the accounts only went back about two years, and neither of them gave me much beyond his usual Photoshop requests. He didn’t have personal pictures or information. No snaps from vacations or adventures. No snaps of his food, even.
As far as the internet was concerned, Jack Dobson was essentially two years’ worth of funny pictures and that was it.
Which meant, of course, that there was much, much more to the story.
He’d said, “Good luck with that,” when I told him I was going to Google him. I’d taken it as a throwaway comment, but now it took on added meaning. He’d known I wouldn’t find anything.
I thought about that all day, wondering why. There could be a hundred reasons from sensible to sinister. I had a few friends who didn’t put their real names on their public profiles, mainly to deter creepers like…well, me, currently. But what was weirder was the two year thing. There was another version of Jack somewhere, with a rich and informative digital life story.
When Ranée got home, I waited until she was curled up on the sofa and browsing through Netflix before pouncing. “So I’ve been chatting with Jack. And I’ve got questions.”
She set down the remote. “Define chatting.”
“We connected on social, and long story short, he had coffee and a bag of Cheetos delivered to my office today.”
She turned the TV off. “No long story short. I want all the story.”
I told her about the seagull pictures all the way up to the coffee delivery.
I expected her to gloat that she’d succeeded in connecting us, but she only nodded. “He’s cool, right?”
“He seems to be. Funny, surprising. But secretive. And I want to know if that translates to shady.”
She shook her head. “I’ve only met him once, but he made an impression. I’ve asked Sean more about him since getting him involved with the whole Photoshopping joke. Jack has an interesting story. You should get him to tell it to you.”
“But if you know it, why don’t you just tell it to me?”
“Don’t you want the thrill of discovery?”
I rolled my eyes. “This from the girl who’s first to creep on any guy’s social if I so much as smile at him. Why are you being so cagey about this now?”
“Fair point.” She drummed her fingers against the arm of the sofa. “I know he had a career change a couple of years ago. I know he keeps to himself a lot. He’ll hang out with Sean, but Sean gets the impression he doesn’t hang out with too many other people. Sean actually doesn’t talk about him that much. Says he’s a cool guy, and he likes the idea of you and Jack talking. He wouldn’t suggest anyone shady. That much I can promise.”
“I’m so confused. You’re almost weirdly loyal to someone you’ve only met once instead of to me, your most favorite roommate of all time.”
“I am loyal to you, which is why I told you to get rid of Paul and to talk to Jack. No dumb boys for you.”
“Paul’s not dumb.” It was a reflex to defend him even though it wasn’t my job anymore.
She grimaced. “You’re right. He’s not dumb.”
Huh. Any kind of concession toward Paul was new. “You feel sorry for him now?”
“No. It’s a respect-for-the-dead thing. He’s dead to you now, right?”
“No. Dang, Ranée. We didn’t end on bad terms. I’d say hi if I saw him again.”
“But the relationship is dead?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay. Then out of respect for the dead relationship. But with Jack, it’s not loyalty. It’s more like I’m protective of him.”
“Protective?” It was an interesting word choice. “Why does he need protecting? Is something wrong with him?”
“I’m not sure he does. It’s almost a…I guess it’s more like respect. Some people deserve to have stories told on them. But some people deserve to tell their own stories. He’s more like that.”
“You’re freaking me out, being all deep and stuff. Stop it.”
She grinned at me. “You got it. Can we talk about how insanely hot Jack is?”
“I appreciate him for his mind.”
“And his fine-looking face.”
“And his fine-looking face.” And then I remembered something. “You never even told me what Jack does. I asked you before and you ducked the question.”
“I don’t think I was trying to. I don’t actually know what he does now. I know what he used to do. He and Sean worked together. They don’t work together now, although Jack found his new job because of Sean. He went out to visit him and he says the area ‘spoke’ to him.”
“Portland?”
“Outside of it, yeah.” She yawned. “Ugh, I need a nap before I go out. I’m so tired.”
“You can always just not go out.” She raised her eyebrows at me, and we both burst out laughing. “I forgot who I was talking to. You’re right. Take your nap.” I got my argument ready for when she tried to convince me to go out with her. I already had big plans for the night. I’d come up with a new strategy to do some Jack research, and I was itchy to get to it, but she didn’t say anything, just went back to her room.
The door shut behind her, and I opened my laptop. I’d no sooner logged in than a DM popped up.
JACK: Hey.
EMILY: Hey. I don’t have time to talk right now. I’m trying to do some research on you.
JACK: On me? You can just ask.
EMILY: I have. You don’t answer.
JACK: Oh yeah.
EMILY: Are you going to answer now?
JACK: Probably not.
EMILY: Why not?
JACK: I guess it depends on the question. Maybe you want me to answer boring stuff.
EMILY: It would be interesting to me. Doesn’t that count?
JACK: Wait. You set that question up so that I can only say yes or I look like a jerk, and if I say yes, it implies I’m willing to answer your other questions.
EMILY:
JACK: Okay, I’ll answer. But there are ground rules. No asking boring work cocktail party questions, like where are you from and what do you do. Do you accept?
EMILY: I accept.
JACK: And for every question you ask, I get to ask you one too.
EMILY: Any other rules?
JACK: We can choose not to answer any questions we want.
EMILY: This isn’t turning out to be a very high stakes game.
JACK: Them’s the rules.
EMILY: Fine. Me first.
I took my hands off the keyboard so I could think about how to ask the questions that would get me all the answers I wanted. What could I ask Jack that wasn’t “cocktail small talk” but would still help me get to know him?
EMILY: What are the best and worst purchases you’ve ever made?
JACK: 8 inch chef’s knife. That was the best thing.
EMILY: You like to cook!
JACK: No. I like knives.
EMILY: That’s not disturbing at all.
JACK: Yeah, I like to cook. I think this is where I’m supposed to impress you by telling you that I like making my own pasta from scratch.
EMILY: I’m impressed.
JACK: Don’t be. I don’t actually do that. But I do cook a lot.
EMILY: Is it small talk to ask you what your favorite thing to cook is?
JACK: Hmmm. Yes.
EMILY: Okay, then what’s the biggest kitchen disaster you’ve ever had?
JACK: That’s a good one. That I don’t want to answer.
EMILY: Too revealing? Will I be able to psychoanalyze you too well? Does it involve fava beans and nice Chianti?
JACK: Nicely done with the Hannibal Lechter reference, but maybe I’m the one that should be nervous you had that just sitting in your back pocket.
EMILY: If I can overlook your knife obsession, you can overlook this.
JACK: Fair. And I don’t want to tell you because it’s embarrassing, not revealing.
EMILY: I know I agreed to you vetoing questions, but I get to add a rule now: you can decline to answer on the grounds that something is too revealing because it would allow an internet stranger to track you down at your place of employment, but not because it’s too embarrassing.
JACK: But what if I don’t agree to that rule?
EMILY: Then I log off, and we don’t play anymore.
JACK: I’ll agree to the rule.
EMILY: Then you’re up. Tell me the kitchen disaster.
JACK: My brother and I had a double date for the winter formal one year. To save money, we decided to make dinner at home. We decided to make pasta but not from scratch. From chefs Barilla and Ragu. That’s already embarrassing.
EMILY: Better than Chef Boyardee. But you were saying how you’re a total cheapskate and wouldn’t take your dates out?
JACK: Rude.
EMILY: I kid. I’m sure you were trying to be fun.
JACK: No. We were being cheap. Anyway, our dates were sitting at the breakfast bar watching us and I decided to showboat. I plopped the noodles in the sauce pan and tried to get fancy with the tossing. It landed in my hair and ruined my white shirt, so then I had to borrow one of my dad’s and it was way too big and I looked like a slob for the rest of the night.
EMILY: …
EMILY: …
EMILY: …
JACK: You’re trying to stop laughing long enough to type, aren’t you?
EMILY:
JACK: My turn. Best thing you ever bought?
EMILY: Some shoes.
JACK: ARE THEY MAGIC?
EMILY: Not exactly.
JACK: Then how can they best the purchase ever?
I snapped a shot of the red stilettos I’d bought with Ranée to celebrate my promotion and sent it. It wasn’t a fancy picture, just them sitting on my closet shelf, but I felt they spoke for themselves even without telling the whole story: that buying those shoes had indirectly led to us having this conversation at all.
JACK: I get it now. Without seeing anything else you’ve ever purchased, I’m positive you’re right.
EMILY: I am. So it was a two part question. Worst thing you ever purchased?
JACK: I saved up a bunch of Fruity-O’s box tops so I could trade them for x-ray specs. It turns out that x-ray specs don’t work.
EMILY: But that’s not really buying anything.
JACK: I had to buy all the boxes myself because my mom said she wouldn’t buy us sugar cereal. In six months I had twenty boxes and two cavities. I could have bought them at a local store for the price of four boxes. That…is the most 90’s story ever. Do they even still do contests like that?
EMILY: Ranée lives on cold cereal. Let me check…nope. Five different brands, no contests. Although any time McDonald’s does Monopoly my dad goes crazy and eats there three times a day while he tries to collect all the pieces. He doesn’t even like McDonald’s.
JACK: I mean, the burgers are bad. I get it. But can anyone truly not like McDonald’s? Because the fries.
EMILY: The fries.
JACK: Your turn. Worst thing you ever bought?
EMILY: Easy. Tickets on a discount airline to Mexico.
JACK: Without any further details, that already sounds bad.
EMILY: So, so bad. But you’re just repeating my questions. You need to come up with some of your own.
JACK: Uh…worst place you’ve had to bury a body.
EMILY: …
EMILY: …
EMILY: …
JACK: HAHAHA why would anyone ask that no reason next question
EMILY: Sorry. It’s just that I’m a planner so I pick pretty convenient locations to bury bodies.
JACK: Understood. Then let’s go with…an expression you would ban from English forever.
EMILY: “At the end of the day.”
JACK: Amen.
EMILY: You would ban amen?
JACK: No, I meant at the end of the day, I agree with you.
EMILY: You’re not funny.
JACK: I am.
EMILY: FINE. A little bit.
I stretched my fingers and yawned, realizing I’d been sitting so long that I had a trigger spot throbbing near my shoulder blade. I flicked a glance down to the time. It was almost eleven. Holy…
EMILY: Didn’t realize it was so late. I have to go, but not until you tell me your answer. What phrase would you ban forever?
JACK: “I have to go.”
My heart turned a tiny bit melty. Well-played, Jack Dobson. Well-played.