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  This was how people interacted in 2014. They tweeted, and shared, and Reddit-ed. Contrary to his own feelings, the young users probably couldn’t imagine a world without this stuff, a world where people laughed out loud with each other, face-to-face, instead of LOLing over their computer.

  How often do people really laugh out loud? he wondered. Probably not too damn much. Not when they were on Facebook.

  Greg watched people use social media to share all the little bits and pieces of their day. It was like Mufasa in The Lion King: their kingdom was everything the sun touched.

  There were his friends that updated their status when they hit their favorite, trendy places around the city.

  James is at Stubb’s Barbecue, Austin, TX…

  Margie is enjoying a poetry reading at 12th Street Books…

  Live band tonight at HandleBar…

  Then there were the friends that routinely delivered factoids about books, music, and pop culture.

  Twenty years ago, U2 released their second album…

  The anniversary of the first Friday the 13th film is today…

  Hemingway wrote, “There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.”

  Of course, there were the daily-life, routine updates.

  Just cooked pasta for the kids…

  It’s snowing outside! I’m so excited…

  Ugh! Doctor appointment today…

  Political rants, changes in dating status, motivational signs and their de-motivational counterparts, bad jokes, the angry cat, jogging distances and routes, family pictures, funny pictures, 51 flavors of memes—all were routinely embedded in Greg’s Facebook newsfeed. There were inspirational and spiritual messages; there were people that cursed openly, and there were the conservatives.

  Some of his friends refused to accept Facebook, refused to give in to it, refused to be swept up in the wave of change. They comprised a very small percentage of the people in his world. Even his 65-year-old mother was online daily. His and Claire’s 15-year-old daughter, Nancy, had her own iPhone, Facebook account, and all the rest. Most people had waxed up their boards and were fully riding the digital wave.

  Of the we-refuse-to-Facebook crowd, he had several friends and acquaintances around town; they didn’t want to get wrapped up in what they considered the foolishness of mainstream social media. Most of them didn’t stay offline completely—they simply used sites that retained a professional, tactful facade—such as LinkedIn.

  And, maybe they’re right, he mused. Who can tell anymore?

  There was definitely an online venue for anyone that wanted to disrobe and bathe in the social media pandemic.

  LIKE it or not, he chuckled to himself. Pun intended!

  He was struck momentarily with a thought that made him a little sad … that children under the age of ten would never know a world without all of it.

  Greg sighed and refocused on the screen. A red notification flag popped up over the messages icon and he assumed it was his wife. She sent him little messages sometimes on breaks or during her planning period—all of the teachers had an hour built into their day to work on lesson plans, grade papers, and decompress.

  He clicked on the icon, bringing up the messages list. The most recent were at the top, colored differently, and easy to identify.

  The latest message wasn’t from Claire—it was from someone named Candy Simon. He furrowed his brows—momentarily confused—recognition failing him. The profile picture was a cherry-red Mustang convertible. He wondered briefly if he was being spammed, or if the message contained a virus. It could also be a random question about properties. It seemed pretty benign, so he gave it a click.

  As the screen changed, the significance of the image coalesced with the name in his mind; realization dawned on him at nearly the same time the message displayed on his screen.

  Hi, Greg. I just came across the Ball High School Class of 1994 Facebook page and I saw your name. Hmmm … it made me think about the old days. Are you going to the reunion? It’s been a really long time, right? I’d love to catch up.

  ~Candy~

  Greg’s stomach clenched involuntarily, and he felt the hairs on his arms stand up. Twenty years disappeared for a moment as he recalled the last time he had seen Candy, then Candice Graves. He felt overwhelmed by a strange brew of curiosity and guilt, nostalgia, and something else, something forbidden that danced in the back of his mind like a shadow in the night.

  It was the summer of 1994, just weeks before he moved to Austin and started school at the University of Texas. Candy and Greg had been dating for two years—they’d had an explosive argument—she didn’t want him to leave.

  That was the last time they saw each other.

  Chapter 2

  Paul

  Paul Harris was eating a sandwich when Amy called and broke up with him.

  He was sitting in Paul’s Sandwich Shop—which was purely a coincidence—he wasn’t the Paul. Between steady hands, he hefted a massive Tuna on Rye, his favorite.

  It was really just a shame that Amy called, because the sandwich was fantastic, and the day was going to be good. Better than good, it was leaning toward greatness. That morning he’d run four miles in twenty-four minutes—a personal best—and his Nike app had plotted the course and broadcast it out to all of his Facebook friends. He had over twenty likes in ten minutes.

  Yep. He was lost in tuna, green pepper, mayo, and onion, when his Blackberry started vibrating from his right, front pocket. Despite glorious beginnings, the ringing phone offered a foreboding that rattled his cage before he even knew who was calling. He felt his peace slip away with the vibrations.

  Sighing, he wiped his hands on a napkin, and tugged his phone from its home. He was in meetings so often throughout the week that he rarely used the ringer any more, except on the occasional weekend. He never wanted to be that guy, the one whose phone went off in the middle of one of his boss’s spiels, blasting 80s hair metal or something equally ridiculous. He could only imagine it…

  “So, what I need from each of you is to improve your salesmanship. Go back to the drawing boards, and rediscover the tactics and information that got you here. I know you’re brokers, but salesmanship is just as important as…” his boss would be saying.

  Only to be abruptly, harshly, and completely derailed by the loud, tinny sounds of a cell phone blaring Warrant: “She’s my Cherry Pie…”

  Every set of eyes moves to him. The two older brokers give an unbridled look of distaste. Most of the others share a communal look of disdain; sighs follow and eyes roll. A multitude of knowing, and disapproving, looks are shared around…

  What a jerk…

  Does he have any sense!

  Who does he think he is?

  The boss puts on the façade of waiting patiently, but inside you know he’d really like to have his hands comfortably around your neck, squeezing—maybe see you bound at the wrists and ankles, held taut between a horse and a large wooden rack, and pulled until your body rips apart.

  All because Warrant was helping you relive your glory days, suggestively lamenting how cherry pie can make a grown man cry.

  No. No reason to risk any situation like that, even if you’re Warrant’s biggest fan, which he was not.

  He flipped open his phone, saw Amy’s picture on the digital screen, and answered, “Hey…”

  “Hi Paul,” she said. There was an awkward silence, during which he felt his peace dissolving. The good mood he’d been enjoying began to crack and threatened to shatter.

  She sounded uncomfortable, but he wasn’t going to coddle her—pry out whatever it was she wanted to say—so he waited. “Where are you at?” she finally asked.

  “My place—Paul’s—eating a sandwich.” He always called it his place. Never tired of the joke. “What’s up? I’m getting this weird vibe from you,” he said with mock-sympathy. They’d been dating for almost a year, but the last few months, things had been in a slump. Their relationship was in
a valley, but he knew they’d come out of it. It was natural—all relationships fluctuated between high and low, good and bad; after all, the initial high really had nowhere to go but down.

  It didn’t take a Physics major to figure that out.

  But Amy didn’t seem to get it. The last few weeks he had watched her mope around—moody—out of touch. She paraded her emotional state around in front of him constantly, a cat that wants to be petted. Paul knew she wanted him to ask her what was wrong, but he refused to play those games—she needed to learn.

  And he didn’t like cats.

  Yesterday was it, though, the boiling point, and he’d had enough…

  Paul had only just sat down to March Madness—college basketball—his favorite sport in its most glorious month of the year. With so many games to see—a smorgasbord of sports action—he was in paradise. He watched as many as he could, back-to-back, in a state of ecstasy; and when he had to work, he recorded the games on his DVR.

  Ever since he had played varsity basketball in high school, he couldn’t get enough. Ate it for lunch and dinner. It never bothered him that he was mostly second-string—they had a dynamite starting lineup. He still got some playing time, and frequently scored in the double digits.

  His Achilles heel, his flaw, was his height. He was the shortest guy on the team at six feet. If ever there existed a physical limitation for a sport, that limitation was height, and the sport was basketball. He and his buddies had stacked up the gymnastics mats underneath the goal in middle school and practiced dunking, waiting for their growth spurts. But, he’d never done more than graze the rim, not in games, when it mattered.

  It just never happened for him. Six feet: that’s it. So he had to rely on his handling skills.

  Paul could move the ball like nobody’s business, and his coach appreciated his aggressive style. They had an unspoken arrangement … all Coach Bradley had to do was give him one of those nods, nearly imperceptible, hardly more than a vibration of his face and head.

  Then someone on the other team would get injured—might even be out for the rest of the game.

  …When Amy walked by the first time, he didn’t give it a second thought. He was engrossed in the magic of the burnt-orange ball as it was dribbled, driven, and passed. All was right in his world.

  When Amy walked by the second time, he felt the corner of his right eye twitch. Then she sighed—an ugly, desperate sound to his ears.

  When Amy walked by the third time, he could barely contain it.

  “Hmm.” He heard her, hemming and hawing, making noises. She paced around the room, moving things, sighing again … and again … and again.

  Damn it! he thought. She’s like a damn horse, clopping around here.

  He clenched his teeth and the muscles in his jaw flexed visibly. Paul reflected inwardly that he should eschew her feeble attempts at baiting him into her trap, drawing him into whatever little game she wanted to play. I know it’s one of those hormonal, female things, he thought smugly, calming himself, shoving tortilla chips into his mouth. He focused on basketball again.

  When Amy walked by another time, something snapped. He slowly, deliberately set aside his snacks and his Diet Dr. Pepper. He paused the game, stood up, and cracked his knuckles—not by squeezing one hand with the other—but by making very tight fists. Just like Bruce Lee, right before he fucked people up in those old martial arts movies that his dad had watched religiously.

  What followed wasn’t pretty, but his father had taught him to do what needed to be done, no matter how repugnant it seemed at the time.

  A woman’s pleading is merely a physical reaction to stimulus, he figured, much like perspiration is a reaction to heat.

  Five minutes later he left Amy lying on the dining room floor and sank into his college-basketball-spot on the couch, right in front of the big screen. Turned up the volume and got the game going. Duke was one of his favorite teams, maybe the favorite, and he would revel in the sights, sounds, and moves of every game as if they were vying for the number-one spot.

  Paul was only marginally aware of Amy’s sobbing from the other room. His spirits were high. I love this game, he had thought, reaching for more tortilla chips…

  “Paul…” he heard her sigh—whine—through the phone. “I can’t do this.”

  “Do what?” he asked, but he knew exactly what she was talking about. He felt his face redden and looked around the restaurant. A balding, middle-aged man with thick glasses glanced up at him from a newspaper. He stared Glasses down until the man put his face back behind his newspaper—buried it really—behind the black and white pages.

  He felt like everyone around him was interested in his business. Eavesdropping. Maybe they’d heard what she told him—thought they knew the score. They think some woman is making a fool of me, he grimaced, pushing his free hand back through his hair. Because everywhere you turn, there’s a woman trying to sucker some guy into something. But I’m not some little bitch.

  The last of that precious peace that he so dearly deserved slipped away, a mudslide moving downhill, gaining speed. Destination: Paul Harris’s face.

  “Paul, come on, you know! I just can’t handle it any more. Your mood swings … everything.” She stopped talking for a moment, but he heard her breathing and waited. “I’m not going to let myself be treated that way—”

  “Come on, I’m eating a tuna sandwich, Amy! I’m eating a fucking sandwich!” He looked around and now people were really looking at him. His temples throbbed, and he could feel his heartbeat in his arms, head, and neck. He tried to force himself to be calm, talk himself back off the anger ledge. He was pissed at himself for letting her get to him. “Amy, let’s just talk about this after I get off of work.”

  “No, Paul. I already moved my things out of your place. Keys are on the counter. I won’t be back.”

  “Amy…”

  “Good-bye, Paul.”

  “Amy!” he screamed. The only answer he received was a click on the other end. A wave of rage washed over him and it took a mighty effort to rein it in, bring it under control. He realized he was still holding the phone to his ear, so he closed it slowly, precisely, and lowered it to the table, placing it there with the utmost care and attention. He breathed in slowly and deeply. Slowly and deeply.

  He could sense that people were still watching him. He looked up and smiled at a pleasant looking, young black lady that was eyeing him wearily. She quickly looked back down at her food, and then thinking twice, wrapped up her sandwich and rapidly made a beeline for the door. He kept the smile plastered on his face for a moment longer, looking around, but no one else dared to look at him. Zero eye contact.

  Must be smarter than they look…

  He exhaled and glanced back down at his phone, then his food. He was already nearly back to normal. The blood was slowing its movement through his body, gradually returning to normal pressure and pulse. Soon his body would betray nothing of what he had just felt. He put it all out of his mind. It was weak to be emotional like that, in front of people.

  Paul continued eating his tuna sandwich, marveling slightly at the incredible taste.

  Chapter 3

  Martin and Zoe

  Martin Lange’s cancer was in remission.

  The look on Dr. Reynolds’s face when he delivered the news was worthy of ten thousand words—ten pictures. It was roughly ninety-nine percent pleasure. His eyes were aglow and his cheeks full of color and life when he spoke that single, magical word: “remission.”

  Then there was that other one percent, that unknown something inside of Dr. Reynolds that made it seem like he was sleepwalking. If he’d pinched himself to make sure he was awake, it wouldn’t have taken anyone by surprise.

  Reynolds’s vexation manifested itself in comically raised eyebrows. Each sentence was punctuated by the exaggerated lifting of those woolly, white caterpillars that were resting on top of his eyes, and occasional, quick shakes of the head. The doctor was astounded and surprised, bu
t in a good way—a way that he was infinitely happier to encounter than the alternatives. He was so pleased about their triumph that he was tempted to update his Facebook status and tell the world: I just told someone they’re going to live!

  Zoe cried, but then, that’s what Zoe did; she was a living, breathing water sprinkler. She cried when babies were born, at weddings, and over sad books. Movies were common catalysts for ocular moisture. Once, or twice, television commercials were even the culprits.

  Martin thought he was lucky to be in remission from cancer, but knew he was lucky to have Zoe. If someone told him that he had the option of living with cancer and Zoe, or living cancer-free without Zoe, he’d take the former every day of the week and twice on Tuesday.

  “Oh, Martin—” Zoe began.

  “Shhh…” Martin interrupted, pulling her close. She returned his hug, holding him tightly. He looked down into her water-filled eyes and was surprised when she started laughing. It wasn’t the quiet laughter you might expect from a woman of such small stature; they were loud, uncontrollable guffaws. Her small body shook with each reverberation. Martin laughed along with her, and Dr. Reynolds joined them. He wondered briefly if anyone in the hallway or waiting room could hear them. What would they think? Would they recognize it as the sounds of someone beating cancer? More likely they’d think of mental patients hatching plots, the peals of laughter a precursor to the havoc they’d soon be wreaking.

  “Doc…” he said, when the laughter subsided, “I don’t know how to thank you...”

  “Martin,” he interceded, shaking his head rapidly from side to side, his eyebrows doing another quick north-south, north-south. “There’s no need to thank me. This moment is all I need.”