Chapter Text
Belly is back in the United States for exactly three weeks before she contacts Conrad.
She doesn’t mean it to happen that way. Despite how it will later seem, she doesn’t research what the respectable amount of time before reaching out to her ex-boyfriend who confessed his love to her just nights before her wedding to his brother is, though the thought had shamefully crossed her mind, even in Paris. She doesn’t choose a three week time period and meticulously count down the days until her three weeks are up, leaving her free to reach out with an uninhibited conscience. She doesn’t plan it at all. But when she does decide to reach out, it just so happens to fall on the 21st day of her return.
If anyone had monitored Belly’s online activity in the months leading up to that fateful day, they would have seen an increase in screentime, specifically on Instagram. Even more specifically on a single person’s account with some other accounts adjacent to this single person peppered throughout. They would have observed the first “like” exchanged between the two accounts—killaisabel liked c.b.fisher’s post—in five years. They would have seen c.b.fisher listed in killaisabel’s story viewers. They even would have seen killaisabel turn c.b.fisher’s post notifications on, off, back on, and then off again. Permanently, of course.
What they would not have seen was the data that can’t be collected through a screen—the way Belly’s pulse accelerated when she saw Conrad’s photo on her feed, the smile that melted across her mouth when she realized he’d watched her story, the panic she felt from head to toe over a sudden, irrational “what if” she had about Instagram alerting users to someone turning their post notifications on. These small human blips of human emotion could only be seen in person, and since Belly did these things only in her room where she tucked away from prying human eyes, no one saw the signs leading up to what was always inevitable. So when Conrad adds a post to his Instagram story 21 days after Belly’s homecoming, Belly bites the bullet.
At first glance, the photo is simple enough. An old, abandoned cabin sits in a small clearing in the woods. Weathered wooden boards line the cabin, rusted nails visible even from Conrad’s distance. Based on the angle, he’s probably crouching, angling the camera up to catch the full size of the structure, to emphasize its size and how it looms over the soft, silky grass. Over him. Belly brings her phone closer to her face and studies the photograph. She doesn’t know much about photography, but she can tell just from looking at it that something more than just portrait mode on an iPhone went into it.
Note: Find a way to subtly ask Mom if Conrad is into photography now.
Then Belly sees it. It’s so faint that she almost misses it, but reflected in a piece of broken glass resting against the front of the cabin is Conrad’s face. She can’t see his entire face, part of it being hidden by a dark mass she assumes is his camera pressed up against his cheek, but she can see just enough to recognize that it’s him. Dark and intensely focused, Conrad’s eyes are trained upwards, and if Belly really looks hard, she thinks she can make out the reflection of his hand holding the camera. He used to look at her like that, like he couldn’t possibly focus on anything but her. The taste of pennies fills her mouth, and she has to look away from her screen to get it to subside, a cruel reminder that she, unfortunately, does still care quite a lot about this man and what he does.
When she looks back at the photograph, her eyes go directly to Conrad’s face. He’d liked her story just last week—a selfie of her with an iced coffee from her favorite cafe in Philly—so she can like his, too. She can reciprocate, right? So she likes his story. Pauses. Then moves to the small box at the bottom of the screen and starts typing.
killaisabel: nice murder cabin
Send.
The second she presses the paper airplane icon, she regrets it.
“Fuck!” she hisses, dropping her phone like it’s just burned her. The soft thud of the phone landing on her comforter hammers the reality of what she’s just done even farther into her brain, and she brings her hands to her head, tucking her knees up to her chest. “Fuck, fuck, fuck. Oh, fuck.”
She spends the next five minutes searching Google and Reddit for ways to undo a sent message on Instagram, and in her darkest moment of panic, she considers texting Steven asking if it’s something he can do, but eventually, she resigns herself to the fact that she sent the fucking message. Against her better judgment, Belly picks up her phone and opens the message, reading the three words again and again.
After a year and a half of radio silence on her end, the first thing she says to him is a nice murder cabin in a reply to a picture on his Instagram story—a very nice picture, too, which just makes Belly feel even worse. Conrad had shared a photograph that he thought was good enough to go on his Instagram story (which he doesn’t post much to, though it’s not like she’s noticed how frequently he posts), and the only thing she said back was nice murder cabin.
She’s about to close the app, to delete the fucking thing, when suddenly, three dots appear in the bottom left of their messages. Belly’s heart leaps into her throat, and she stops breathing. She tells herself that he’s not actually typing, that Instagram has glitched and is showing her something that isn’t actually happening, but the dots keep bouncing, each bounce a taunt personally designed to humiliate her.
c.b.fisher: Thanks. I think?
The dots appear, then they stop. Appear. Stop. This repeats a couple more times, but after five minutes pass without a reappearance from the dots, Belly gives.
killaisabel: it was supposed to be a compliment
killaisabel: i assume you were trying to capture its murderiness????
Send.
Belly rereads her messages and swears under her breath at herself, already regretting the inclusion of murderiness, which no longer sounds cute, just immature, now that she reads it back to herself. Somewhere on the other side of the country, Conrad Fisher, who handwrote her letters the entire time she was in Paris, letters that she didn’t even the decency to reply to, is reading murderiness and probably wondering what the fuck he’s been doing wasting his time on her.
c.b.fisher: I was going for authenticity, so if “murder cabin” is authentic to you, then I guess I achieved my goal.
killaisabel: that’s really deep
c.b.fisher: Good. It’s what I was going for.
Suddenly, the corner of Belly’s mouth twitches. It’s not a smile. Not yet. But it’s something.
Two days later, Belly posts a picture that Taylor takes of her excitedly gathering up her favorite items from Trader Joe’s. miss you already, paris but ohhhhh so good to be home!, she captions the picture, adding it to her story, too. Within seconds, she has a notification from c.b.fisher. Then another.
c.b.fisher: Looks like your sweet tooth is still going strong.
killaisabel: looks can be deceiving
c.b.fisher: I’ll keep that in mind.
killaisabel: do you have trader joe’s in california?
She knows the answer already, had Googled it before asking the question and knows the closest one is located 1.1 miles and six minutes away from him, but she doesn’t want to drop the conversation. If she can keep him talking, then she can keep him here with her, even from all the way across the country, feeling continents and worlds and universes away from him.
c.b.fisher: Yes. There’s one not too far from me.
killaisabel: that’s cool
killaisabel: do you go there often?
Belly winces. She sounds like she’s dropping a bad pick up line, but there’s nothing she can do about it now.
c.b.fisher: Often enough.
c.b.fisher: I’m sure the Philly Trader Joe’s has missed you.
killaisabel: i hope so!!! i swear i single handedly kept them in business when i was in high school
c.b.fisher: I remember.
Belly’s fingers go numb, completely devoid of feeling, and she lowers her phone. He remembers? The urge to ask him what else he remembers prickles at her like an itch under her skin that she can’t scratch. She starts to type a response.
killaisabel: oh????
She deletes it.
killaisabel: :)
Delete.
killaisabel: hey do you hate me for never replying to your letters?
Delete.
Belly flips her phone over and doesn’t open Instagram for the rest of the night.
Belly doesn’t even get a full 24 hours without Conrad’s Instagram taking up every millimeter of space in her brain because she’s halfway through completing an internship application when the notification pops up on her screen.
c.b.fisher added to their story
Immediately, Belly moves her laptop off her lap and grabs her phone, opening Instagram and pressing on his story icon. Her stomach flips as she waits for the post to buffer, and she drums her fingers against her knee, impatient. And then it loads, and she’s looking at a picture of…Conrad’s legs? The picture is framed like he’s showing off his running sneakers, which arguably, he is, but his athletic shorts seem like they’re displaying a lot of leg—a lot of thigh, specifically. Belly’s mouth goes dry, her tongue leaden. He’s standing, the camera pointed down at the ground, capturing just the hem of his shorts and miles and miles of his long, muscular legs. But what catches her eye is a jagged, light pink slash across his right thigh. She can’t even imagine the angle he must’ve tilted his phone in order to get it in the picture, but it’s there, a loud, violent reminder of the summer they shared but disguised as something subtle. Unnoticeable to anyone but her. Frankly, it pisses Belly off.
She slams her thumb against the heart icon to like his story and then starts typing.
killaisabel: morning run????
c.b.fisher: It’s a little too late to be considered morning, but yes.
killaisabel: it’s 11 your time. that counts as morning
c.b.fisher: Not to me. To me, this is late.
killaisabel: ok old man. what’s that saying about early to bed, early to rise?????
c.b.fisher: Makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise.
killaisabel: yeah that sounds like you rn
c.b.fisher: Thanks?
killaisabel: you’re welcome
killaisabel: btw your scar looks kinda painful
c.b.fisher: Painful?
killaisabel: yeah it still looks pretty raw. does it hurt??
c.b.fisher: [typing]
c.b.fisher: [typing]
c.b.fisher: [typing]
c.b.fisher: [typing]
This time, when Conrad doesn’t reply, Belly doesn’t message him again.
After that, Belly doesn’t hear from Conrad for a week. She posts regularly, updating her story more than she ever has, even to the point where Taylor comments on it.
“B, are you in your influencer era?” Taylor teases, nudging her playfully with her elbow. “You could totally do it, you know. If that’s something you want to get into, just let me know. I’ve gone viral so many times on TikTok that I’ve got all the tips.”
“I don’t want to be an influencer,” Belly protests and wrinkles her nose. “I don’t know. I’m just like, enjoying being home and documenting things now. I took a lot of photos when I was in Paris, but I didn’t post them, and I guess I’m just enjoying posting things.”
Taylor groans, her head falling in defeat. “You should’ve totally capitalized on the Paris thing and gone viral there. It would’ve been so easy to go viral. An American hottie exploring France with her hot, sexy Spanish poetry quoting man? Unbelievably sexy content.”
“Oh, my God!” Belly’s eyes grow wide, and she whacks Taylor’s arm. “Leave poor Benito out of this. I already feel bad enough that I broke his heart. Having a whole influencer era flaunting my relationship just to then break up with him would’ve made everything even worse.”
“Well, things are fine now between you guys, right? You said you left Paris feeling good about how things were with you two.”
“Yeah, we’re friends, and everything’s fine, but.” Belly shrugs. “Still. Anyway. I don’t have to think about that anymore because I’m home and getting back to my real life. I’ve got some applications in for some internships, I’m looking at programs, and I’m living with my mom again like the true prodigal daughter I am.”
“Mmhmm.” Taylor refreshes her Instagram feed and frowns, her mouth pulling down. “Interesting.”
“What?” Belly asks.
Taylor’s eyes cut towards her, and she tilts her head, pursing her lips. “Conrad just posted a new story.”
Instinctively, Belly starts to pull her phone out, but then she stops, feeling Taylor’s gaze glued to her. She tucks her hand under her leg and hopes Taylor didn’t notice her initial move for her phone, but Taylor’s focus hones in on her traitorous hand.
“Conrad’s been posting a lot, too,” she points. “Interesting how you two are suddenly so active. Especially Conrad. He’s like, never active.”
“He’s not? Huh. I didn’t notice,” Belly says, the lie rolling off her tongue a boulder off a cliff.
“I’ve followed him since we were 12, and he’s never, ever, ever been active like this.” Taylor’s tone is accusatory, but Belly pretends she doesn’t hear it, choosing instead to shrug and look convincingly bewildered.
“I wouldn’t know,” she says, pairing her nonchalant words with a nonchalant sigh. “Hey, didn’t you say you had a couple dresses you wanted my opinion on? Do you have pictures?”
For a split second, Belly doesn’t think Taylor’s going to take the bait, watching how Taylor watches her with narrowed, suspicious eyes, but then the suspicion fades as excitement starts to take its place. “Yeah. I’ve got this dinner coming up at work in the next couple weeks, and I’ve got a couple options I want your opinion on. When you hear the words, ‘farmer chic,’ what do you picture?”
Belly spends the next half hour going through dress options with Taylor, all the while feeling her phone in her pocket like it’s burning a hole through her clothes. By the time Taylor leaves, Belly feels half-crazed from the utterly exhausting amount of restraint she’s held over herself for the past 30 minutes, and she claws at her pocket, yanking her phone free.
c.b.fisher added to their story
When Belly presses the story icon on his profile, the photo fills her screen. It’s innocent enough, just a photograph of what appears to be a hiking trail without any inconspicuously placed limbs or reflected faces. He’s got a couple other photos in his story, and she clicks to the next one, but with this one, she notices something new. In the top corner of the picture, she sees a green rectangle with white words. “Close Friends.” She’s watching a story for Conrad Fisher’s close friends list, and she can see it, which means he put her on his close friends list. Her throat swells shut, and she immediately likes the story without even paying attention to what it is. Close friends. Close friends. Close friends?
In this picture for his close friends, Conrad’s hand rests against a tree trunk. At first glance, perfectly innocent. But Belly’s breath quickens the longer she stares at the picture. She used to talk about how big his hands were, used to take them in hers and turn them over, running her fingers over his knuckles, her fingertips, his palms, anywhere she could touch him. He’d always seemed a little embarrassed of it, ducking his head like he was trying to hide behind his bangs whenever she’d mention their size, but this picture is anything but bashful. It’s loud. Aggressive. Nothing she ever thought she’d associate with him. The position of his hand against the trunk isn’t even suggestive in any way, shape, or form, but she knows this picture was meant for her.
killaisabel: i had no idea you were such a nature lover now
c.b.fisher: It’s been nice taking advantage of the hiking trails out here. I think you’d like them.
killaisabel: idk i never liked doing those beach hikes your dad always seemed gungho about
c.b.fisher: Well, that was hiking on sand, and hiking on sand kind of sucks. These trails are nice because they’re actually in the woods and NOT on sand.
killaisabel: hmm maybe
c.b.fisher: Speaking of sand, are you looking forward to going back to Cousins this year? It’ll be your first birthday back from Paris.
A pit forms in Belly’s stomach, and she’s careful as she crafts her reply, ignoring the way the ache in her heart intensifies with each word she types across her screen.
killaisabel: i’m not going this year. i’ve applied for some internships so i’m hoping to get one of those to keep me busy this summer
c.b.fisher: Sorry to hear it. Good luck with the internships.
killaisabel liked c.b.fisher’s message
4:06 A.M.
Conrad
You should come out to California for your birthday. It’s on a Sunday, right? You can come for the weekend, and I’ll show you around. I know it isn’t the same as Cousins, but I’ve got a beach nearby, and you can see these hiking trails for yourself to see if they suck as much as the ones my dad had us do on the beach.
4:19 A.M.
Conrad
If you don’t already have plans, of course. If you do, just ignore this.
4:20 A.M.
Conrad
Not that you need my permission to ignore it.
4:33 A.M.
Conrad
Sorry, I know it’s 4:30 in the morning your time.
But think about it. Coming here. It’d be nice to see you again.
It’d be nice to see you again.
Belly stares at her laptop. Off to her right, her phone screen glows, the image of her calendar for June visible in her peripheral vision. She feels insane, tangled in her blankets, pajama top sliding up high above her stomach. Her eyes are still bleary with sleep, but her brain is electric, wired. The second she’d seen Conrad’s name in her texts—not in her Instagram DMs, in her texts—she’d known she was balancing on the edge of a precipice. Then she’d seen his offer, and she’d wrestled her laptop out from underneath a gnarled tangle of charge cords by her bed. She can only imagine how feral she looks with her unruly hair, crusted mouth, and bright, feverish eyes. God, she feels feverish and all because of a text.
Roundtrip Flight Itinerary to San Francisco International from Philadelphia International
Departure from Philadelphia International: Friday, June 19, 6:00 A.M.
Arrival in San Francisco International: Friday, June 19 8:58 A.M.
NONSTOP
Departure from San Francisco International: Monday, June 22, 4:00 P.M.
Arrival in Philadelphia International: Monday, June 22, 6:59 P.M.
NONSTOP
Total: $944.83
Confirm Purchase?
Yes. No.
Belly moves the cursor, and she holds her breath. All she needs to do is click. One simple movement, not even a movement as much as it is a twitch of her finger over her laptop’s trackpad. One single, imperceptible movement, and everything changes, no matter what she decides.
It’d be nice to see you again.
“Fuck it,” she whispers, her heart a loud and terrible racket in her ears. Her mom is going to kill her.
She clicks.
Yes.