This story begins with an answering machine. Which means that, yes, it happened a long time ago—I believe in 2003. I was at home in North Carolina visiting my parents, and on the second day of my stay, I plunged my key in the lock of the front door, dropped my bag on the table beside it, and hit the play button on the answering machine—autopilot reflexes I’d perfected years before when I’d actually lived in this house. The first message was obviously for my parents—skip. Ditto for message number two. But the third message contained a familiar baritone voice—Liam*, the guy I’d dated my senior year of high school through my junior year of college. We hadn’t spoken in the two years since we’d broken up.
Oh, that’s nice, I thought. I haven’t heard from him in forever. We should really meet for a cup of coffee while I’m here. Wait a second. How did he know I was home?
“It was wonderful seeing you two last week,” Liam said, his deep voice echoing through the foyer. “Thanks for the advice.”
And that’s when it hit me—this message wasn’t for me. It was for my parents. Keep reading »









