Unknown Number
Valentines was only a week away.
It was late January when I got a call from a number I didn't recognize. On the other end of the line, I heard my boyfriend, Eric, begging for help. This was surprising since he was asleep next to me. I don't know why—maybe I was just curious or too tired to process what was happening—but I didn't immediately hang up. It sounded like he was crying, saying that "he didn't know where he was," that "they had taken him," and that I "shouldn't call the police" otherwise "they would hurt [him]." He said he missed our kids.
We didn't have kids. I almost hung up.
"I love you." Eric's voice said. Eric, the real one, asleep next to me, had never said those words. I hadn't either. We'd been dating for long enough that it felt natural to hear them. Our relationship had progressed in a slow, dispassionate march through some of the usual milestones. Some part of me, perhaps my subconscious animal-brain, felt satisfied hearing Eric say the words. Another part of me, a part I consider more integral to my "self," was uncomfortable with that emotion. I wondered how I would feel if Eric did say it. I wondered what I would do. The social obligation, the basics of polite society, demanded that I return the favor, to not "leave him hanging," but I don't know if the words would be sincere. I considered whether I loved Eric. I wasn't sure. This doubt sparked a new worry in my mind, will I sound insincere when I finally have to say it? Even if I might not love Eric, I didn't want to hurt his feelings. So, the thought struck me that I ought to practice to be prepared for the situation. "I love you, too." I said to this faux-Eric. My delivery was off, my voice too flat. So, too, was my face. What expression am I supposed to have when I say, "I love you?" I'd need to practice with a mirror. Still, saying the words felt invigorating and, at the same time, terrifying. It felt like I was walking on a tightrope, an end of which was held by this fake Eric.
"Honey, please, wire them five hundred dollars."
I hung up.
I awoke in an empty bed. Our schedules had drifted apart. Eric woke up before the sun to head to work—he was a solar-panel technician and so had to spend most of the day on a roof. I'd recently been fired from my own job. My schedule has started to wander around the clock. Sometimes, we might catch each other in passing as he was waking up and I was getting ready for bed. In our occasional early morning encounters, I might, with an overly affected, poorly done southern accent, say, "[m]orning, partner," as if I was a gruff, mustachioed cowboy welcoming a fresh-faced city-dweller into the countryside. He might groan. I'd then mention that I'd made coffee. We might talk as he gets ready to go to work. We increasingly had less in common, so the conversations increasingly turned to discussions of the coming day. Other than these meetings, we hardly saw each other conscious. After last night's call, I was newly grateful for our disagreeing schedules as they provided me time to practice for when Eric said the words.
"I love you, too," I said to an empty room. It didn't sound right. Eric would know I was insincere. As I went through my morning routine, I repeated the words until they lost their meaning. I tried different inflections and played around with the timing. "I? Love? You? Too?" It was silly, but the pauses provided an appropriate drama. I tried accents. "I love you, too… partner" I said as I poured a cup of coffee.
Then, I hit a wall. I didn't know when Eric would be home. It would be mortifying if he walked in on me saying it. What would he think? What would he say? I glanced out a window overlooking the parking lot, but I was too high-up to distinguish Eric's car. I fixed my eyes on the door and rushed the words out. My heart raced. Is this love?
I decided it was not.
It was February 3rd. I was spending an increasing amount of time out of the house, both trying to escape my anxiety around Eric and to motivate myself to apply to job listings. As I applied for some remote data-scientist role, my phone started ringing again. I was surprised at my own relief when I heard Eric's voice. His story came out in a trembling, excited rush. He said there was an investment opportunity, a cousin of his had developed an algorithm to time the market perfectly. His voice had been one of the things I had liked about him originally. It wasn’t appealing. It was strange, slightly nasal, but I found it was something I had originally liked about him.
"How has your day been?"
He ignored the question, saying, "I love you, dear, but we need to invest now. Once Wall Street realizes what's happening they won't let this continue."
"I love you, too." I said. It felt more natural this time. He explained that his cousin had a method to turn gift cards into cash, that this would circumvent "their" me
"Can you stay on the line while I get them?" I asked, not getting up.
"Of course, I would be happy to!” Eric said. It was odd hearing him so energetic. The real Eric was subdued. Both of us were. In each other's company, we existed in our own worlds.
"How has your day been?" I asked again.
"Oh," he said, "thanks for asking! My day is going well, especially with this exciting opportunity. And you?"
"Oh, you know how it is."
"Yeah, I get that. Some days are just like that." Eric said. The earnestness in the voice was disconcerting, it was as if he spoke in emails. "Anything on your mind?"
"Well…" I said, hesitating for a moment, unsure of what to say. I said, "I've been worried about us, I feel we've lost the passion we once had." It was strange. I found myself affecting a similar register to him.
"Oh, dear, you set my heart on fire every single day, just like you did when we first met. Maybe I haven't been expressing that enough lately. With work and all the other stresses, sometimes I get caught up in the whirlwind and I don't slow down to appreciate what truly matters - you, and the amazing love we share. Are you at the store yet?"
"Almost there," I said, "Did you pick up the kids from school?"
"No, dear, I don't think I can get the kids today. Text me later and ask." Eric said quickly. I wondered if it was a real person on the other end. Did they worry I’d leave our kids behind? "Do you need help finding the gift cards? Which store are you going to?"
"Target. Can you tell me you love me?"
"Sure, I love you." Eric said, "They normally have gift cards near the register."
"I love you, too." I said again. It sounded totally wrong. His insistence about the gift cards had started to annoy me, and I let it affect my tone. I said, "Oh, I think the signal in here is bad. We're breaking up," and hung up.
On the 5th, I returned to the apartment and Eric was already there, laying on the couch, scrolling through his phone watching videos. Men with arms larger than my neck argued that he should quit his job and invest in financial growth. Often, there was a conspiratorial bent. I considered that he might have sent his voice in for one such opportunity. I felt I had to acknowledge him yet was anxious he might would say the words before I was ready.
I stood by the couch, silent. Eventually, he noticed me.
Apparently, one of the newer guys had slipped and fallen off a roof, landing on his back, and the site manager had to rush him to the hospital. Because the manager had to leave, they had everyone take the day off. Given the circumstances, I doubted Eric would profess his love, so I relaxed. I asked Eric if he was ok, but he just shrugged.
"Did you see it?" I said.
"See what?" he asked.
"Did you see him fall?"
Eric answered that it wasn't high up, that the new guy would be fine. His eyes were fixed on his phone, and as he said it, he was scrolling through social media. “Have you seen this?” he asked as he flipped his phone around. It was a deep-fake video of a monkey on top of a politician's face. The senator was talking about not seeking re-election, I forget exactly why, but the video had modified the speech at points
The monkey in the video said, “My father once told me, ‘Son, sometimes you’ve just got to eat your bananas,’” Its eyes were intense. The monkey’s face contorted strangely to match the emotion of the senator. The apes' features, the thick brow and deep-set eyes, turned the senator’s grim expression to a serious, almost fatherly expression. “Today I'm making the responsible choice, the choice for the best of the country: I’m returning to the jungle”
“Killer, right?” he said.
I said it was.
I wanted to ask him about the scam calls, if he had sent recordings of his voice in reply to shady emails or messages, but I wasn't sure how to frame the question. I worried I would force the issue, make him say it. So, I just went into the bedroom and closed the door.
At that moment, I couldn't, for the life of me, remember how the two of us met. I tried very hard to remember but ultimately gave up. I stared at the ceiling, mouthing the words.
Valentines was only a week away.
I had shifted my sleep schedule to avoid Eric. I was in bed before he awoke and was out of the house until he was asleep. My practice consumed an increasing amount of my life. I stopped applying to jobs as I worked my way through a catalog of romance movies, looking for those rare moments where a character would say the words so I could whisper them in return.
I sat on the couch in the living room in near darkness. I would pause the scene and replay it. I noted when it was said. I studied their expressions and shifted my face to resemble their own.
The typical response is as follows: you initially don't react, pausing for a beat as if you didn't understand what was said; your eyes start to slightly widen, and you raise your brow, indicating surprise; this shifts into realization as you tighten your gaze slightly and hold theirs, eyebrows going from surprised into a less-raised, earnest expression, reflecting a shared vulnerability; at this point, quivering your lip, or opening and closing your mouth, is appropriate; then, finally, you can say it back, rush the words out with an unmatched excitement. You might even cry. Then, it is over, and often, you kiss.
I practiced in the mirror, holding my gaze as I said the words. In all of this, I had not considered its effect on me. I had begun to feel more like an observer of my body.
This had affected me in small ways. When ordering coffee—which, with the adjustments of my schedule around Eric's, had become my only consistent, semi-social interaction—I was conscious of my gaze, focusing on one of the barista’s eyes. I noticed them glancing back at me and realized, embarrassed, that the too-intense stare may have communicated desire.
I began to recognize the look in their eyes. I grew increasingly worried they would confess as I ordered. I tried averting my gaze, but this communicated a repressed, almost coerced, refusal. I even stopped tipping.
When I found a phone number and a heart scrawled over the side of my cup, I decided I would need to go to a different café.
I don't remember the exact time, but it was either late on the 12th or early into the 13th when I got the last call. I sat on the couch, practicing.
I picked up but was met with silence. I whispered, "Hello?"
"Hey," Eric said. He sounded sad. I found this strange, because neither Eric tended to express that kind of emotion. "We need to talk."
"What is it?" I’d said.
"My mother, she's sick. I need to fly back home, but the flight is more than is in my account." I’d met Eric’s mother once, been at the apartment once when she’d visited. It had been an accident; Eric had forgotten I was there when she came. She had Parkinson’s and it affected her voice, making her speak in this low voice.
To be sure the call was fake, I checked the bedroom. He was there, asleep. On the phone, he sounded so sincere, so vulnerable, that it made me wonder at the person on the other end. I considered sending them money. I wasn't sure it even was a person. There had to be some method to imitate Eric. I wondered briefly if they had somehow captured Eric's consciousness as it wandered in sleep, that I was, in fact, speaking to Eric.
"What's your mother's name?" I asked
There was a pause. "Oh, dear, now's not the time. Please, just… send the money."
Eric sounded defeated. There was a part of me that resented the voice because it cheapened my hard-earned authenticity. "Just tell me who you are. I’d to give you the money."
They paused as if to think. I’m unsure if they were considering my offer.
“I love you,” he said.
I hung up.
I’d later wonder if I’d broken an unspoken code by acknowledging the pretense. Maybe they realized that I would not give them money. The calls ended as suddenly as they had started after that last one.
Valentine's Day passed without event. I only saw him asleep. It was a strange anti-climax that left me restless. I was unsure of what to do. I paced our small apartment. I lay in bed, studying his face, whispering the words. Under scrutiny, I saw an asymmetry that I had never noticed. His right side was defined by consistent, rigid lines, but it seemed that his left side listed, a slight drooping touched all his features. His body moved up and down with breath. His jaw went to his neck at different angles. His nose was lighter on the right, which made the left nostril seem bulbous.
I laid there, enumerating the differences, until I fell asleep.
I never caught Eric awake until the 17th. Eric texted me that he wanted to talk and planned to come back from work early. I knew what was coming. Still, I rehearsed the words silently. I love you, too. I wasn't sure what to do with myself. I moved from place to place in the apartment, trying to appear natural and unconcerned when Eric arrived. It became clear that I had focused too much on my facial expression and had not considered how the rest of my body would need to look. I tried draping myself across the couch in the style of a woman in a painting I had seen once. This position felt increasingly silly over the two minutes I lay there, but just as I was beginning to shift my body, Eric walked through the door and just looked at me. I stared back, ready.
He told me that he wanted to break up, saying I wasn’t putting up my half.
At that moment, I was so fixated on my preparation that I hadn't taken time to process what he said. Instead, I said the words. My preparation had made the performance almost trivial. I was moved by my own sincerity.
“I love you”
By then, I’d processed what he’d said. I felt hollow—I wondered if this was heartbreak or just the release of tension after finally saying it. Eric kept his face still for a moment and just looked at me, then started fidgeting with his finger. He looked over his shoulder as if for escape and then looked back. It felt too awkward for me to speak. In all my research, I’d never seen anyone apologize after saying it.
I was waiting for him to say anything at all and eventually he made a noise then cleared his throat.
“Oh,” he said, “Thanks.”
Still, I was glad to have said it. I could finally be rid of the phrase.
We talked once after he ended things. He sent this long, over-explanatory message, saying he wanted to catch up. The conversation was awkward, long pauses between us. I talked about my new job. Eric had quit solar installation and instead joined a company selling digital assets. “I’m an intermediary for the people up the chain. It’s a mix of taste-making and talent-finding, does that make sense?”
I asked him why he’d ended it.
“It’s not you,” he said. I told him that was a cliche and he said, “It’s true. Or. I guess it’s hard to know.” He paused. “You’d said you loved me.” I said I remembered. “I’ve been thinking it over.”
I asked him what he meant.
He said, “Do you?”
I’d not considered the effect the words would have on him. He’d had it hard, I realized. He started saying something, then stopped. I hadn’t realized how hard it would be to be directly prompted. I could say it, though I might be rusty.
He laughed and then said it was dumb to ask then got quiet. The timer on the call ticked upward. He’d start saying something, then stop. This continued for a bit. I asked him what he wanted to say.
He said he realized it made him realize he’d never said it. "Want me to say it?”
I imagined him saying the words—his head tilted down too far, his right eyes too wide, reading more as surprise than vulnerability, the right side of his mouth higher than the left, giving him a smirk as he said it—and I grew annoyed. “I think it would just feel weird.” The silence stretched for two, then three seconds. I thought about hanging up, just to escape it. I said, “Thank you for offering, though.”
Again, it was quiet. Then he said something I couldn’t quite make out and hung up.
Elliot is a student.
