“Huh?” I ask, looking up at him.
“Your cider. It got cold. I’ll put it in the microwave for you.”
“Oh. Yeah. Thanks,” I say.
He puts the mug into the microwave and sets it for thirty seconds. “What’s going on? You seem out of it. Is Thanksgiving really getting to you this much? I know it’s important to you to make it perfect, but we wouldn’t care if you ordered a bucket of chicken and a frozen pie. Well, Xavier probably would. Actually, I don’t know if he would. He might just consider that about as accurate as what we really eat and be all in.”
“It’s not Thanksgiving,” I say.
He looks concerned as he takes the mug out of the microwave and brings it back to me. Steam rising from the top of the newly heated cider feels good on my face as I lean over it. Breathing the cinnamon and cloves into my lungs reminds me of my grandmother. It’s good to know the house will finally have another holiday like she used to have.
“Then what’s wrong?” he asks.
He sits down beside me and reaches over to squeeze my knee. It’s one of those things he does that seems so small but can make such an impact. It’s not the gesture itself, but the unspoken meaning behind it. I’m here. You’re not alone. I am focused on you.
“I got a really weird call while I was at the grocery store,” I say.
“The same wrong number?” he frowns.
“Yeah,” I say. “But this time, they left a message. And it turns out, it wasn’t a wrong number. Just the wrong recipient.”
“What do you mean?” he asks.
I look over at him and see the deep concern in his eyes. This brings me to my feet. I hate when he worries about me. Not because I don’t want him to care about me, or I think I’m invincible. I don’t want to be the reason he worries. But I also don’t want to overreact. I don’t want to see fear and menace everywhere.
I walk over to the cabinet and pull out my large stock pot. I don’t even know what I’m going to cook, but I want to keep my hands busy.
“It’s just a really weird situation,” I tell him. “It probably doesn’t mean anything. The message was from my college, asking me to call back because they have all the information I have requested. So, I called them back and the woman in the office said they got a message from me a couple of weeks ago requesting my class schedules, and the information I had given them for my alumna bio for the newsletter. She had gotten it all together and tried to call a few times, but I hadn’t answered, so she left me a message to confirm my info.”
“Okay,” Sam says. “It’s good that she was so persistent to make sure you got the information you wanted. But why did you ask your class schedule and stuff?”
“That’s the thing. I didn’t.” I shove the pot under the faucet and start to fill it with hot water, apparently committing myself to pasta. “I didn’t even call the school. And when she asked to confirm my email address, she gave me one I’ve never even heard of.”
“What was it?” he asks.
I pick up my phone where I left it on the corner of the counter and pull up the notepad where I wrote down the email address. I hold it out to him and shake my head, shrugging.
“I have no idea what this says. I don’t recognize it at all,” I say.
“They’re going to send information about you to some stranger’s email address?” Sam asks, the worry building up in his voice again.
“No. I gave her the burner address I use when I don’t want messages to be traced back to me. I am going to give Eric this address and see if he can track it down.”
I put the pot on the stove and crank the burner up to high heat, then go to the pantry for a canister of pasta. Setting it aside, I take out another pot to start some sauce. Which I should have done an hour before starting the pasta. I’m going about this in totally the wrong order, but I can’t seem to make everything line up. The whole situation has thrown me off more than I want to admit.
“It’s probably just some guy who saw you on the news and wants to know more about you,” Sam says.
It’s in a tone I think is supposed to be reassuring, but I scoff.
“Just what I need. Someone else trying to track me down.”
“Exactly. This isn’t new to you. But you seem really worked up about it. Why do I feel as if this is about more than some creeper trying to get random bits of information about you?”
“Because it’s not about that,” I say. “I mean, yes, it’s creepy. I don’t particularly relish the idea of someone being able to manipulate the University into thinking she’s me. I’m glad whatever number she gave went out of service, so the University had to call the contact information they have on record and I was able to intercept the email they’re going to send. But that’s all essentially things that have happened before. It’s the same concept, just another version.”
“But...” he leads.
“But it brings up the memories about college I haven’t thought about in a long time and didn’t necessarily want to think about anymore.”
“About what?” he asks.
I hesitate. This isn’t something I’ve ever talked to him about. I haven’t talked to anybody about it in thirteen years. Now I’m not entirely sure what to tell him.
“There’s no connection. I don’t even know why I thought of it. Only that this wouldn’t be the first time something strange happened at that university.”
I put butter and olive oil in the pan to start warming as I chop up onions and carrots, then put them in
