if it's me reading the signs

chapter one

the e-mail


Greg Serrano has always thought of himself as a practical man - perhaps to a fault. He sometimes loathed that about himself, the same way he loathed a lot of other things about himself.

He's been a lot less self-loathing since he hopped a plane and started a new life at Emory University. Because for once, for actual once, he is doing something good. A step in the right direction with the wind at his back.

The wind being West Covina and everything he'd left behind.

When you hate yourself, really truly hate yourself, it's hard to make good choices. Once he'd sobered up, those choices became easier and easier, and his self-worth grew. His love for life and his love for himself became second nature.

And it is a rush.

And it is just as addicting to him as the alcohol and the smell of her hair. He knows he has to chase that feeling. So, after he made it to the top of that escalator in LAX, he promised himself he'd never look back.

He was choosing life. He was choosing himself, for once. He couldn't regret leaving that life - leaving her and who he was - behind.

But see… that's the thing about life. The more it passes by, the more we look back. The more we dissect and reflect. He may not regret leaving, but he always did wonder.

Oh, did he ever wonder.

About what could have been… about her. What she was doing or who she was with… But not often, and never for long.

He treats it the same way he does when he thinks about drinking - sure, it crosses his mind, but he pushes it back out. Some days it's there more than others, but he never gives in. He fights through it.

But not today. Today, he doesn't have to fight.

It's going to be a good day.

He knows it.

Greg hops up the steps to the coffee shop on the corner by his apartment, and he's all but whistling. It is a particularly clear day, the sun is out, and the Georgia heat is somehow a lot easier on the stomach than the dry, desert air of LA.

He pulls the door open, carrying his messenger bag and laptop under his arm. He quickly finds and settles into his corner table where he does most of his studying these days - but not before nodding to the cute barista behind the counter.

He is a different person here - the kind of person he always wanted to be, but could never seem to let himself be. He smiles at strangers now.

Yeah. He's that asshole.

"The usual?" the cute barista calls out to him and he smiles shyly, giving her a quick nod. He's been playing with the idea of asking her for her number for the last three months, but still isn't totally sure he's in a place where he's ready to jump into something like that again. The farther he's gotten from Rebecca, the more he realizes just what an idiot he'd been. A classic case of the right one at the wrong time - the most tragic kind of love story out there.

He sticks his earbuds in his ears and pops open his laptop, ready to weed through his emails before getting some real studying done. It doesn't take long before he notices an email from Heather a few lines down. The subject line makes his stomach drop:

FW: fw: fw: Friends of Rebecca Bunch.

And just like that, a cloud rolls overhead, and his day gets just a little more dreary. He doesn't even want to click it. She is his kryptonite, and not thinking about her or pretending she doesn't exist is so much easier than missing her.

Cute Barista appears in his peripheral, and he yanks a bud out of his ear. He slaps on a tight-lipped smile, hoping she didn't catch the look of pure terror in his eyes only seconds ago.

"Here ya go," she beams brightly, setting the oversized, pale blue cup in front of him. He goes to thank her but chokes on his words when he notices the foam on the top of his latte is the shape of a heart, and somehow she was able to draw a big "R" in the middle.

Why is Rebecca's name the first thing that flashes across his mind?

"What's uh… what's the ' R' stand for?" he asks as she turns to leave. She peers down at the mug, her brown eyes widening.

" C'mon," she chuckles, "that's a 'B' ."

"That's a 'B'...? That is not a 'B'…"

"It is-!"

"Okay, so, say it is actually a 'B' - what would a 'B' even stand for?"

She scoffs, but there's no malice in her tone as she tells him, "You know… for Barney's …. As in the name of the coffee shop?"

"Wait, wait, wait," Greg says, holding his hands out as if to halt her. He cocks an eyebrow, "You mean to tell me I've been coming here for the last year and never knew this place had a name? " Greg asks, incredulously.

Her hands find her hips, as she tries to subdue a smile,"Well, it's on the window beside you, so you just must not be very observant." He looks to his left, and sure enough the name ' Barney's' is etched across the glass - albeit, backward from his angle. His eyes narrow at her, but the smirk never leaves his lips.

"Maybe so. But this looks like an 'R,' not a 'B,' so…"

"Gimme a break, dude."

"Hey, you tried. And that's all that matters," he teases, and she's pulled away from their cute banter - she returns back to her counter, getting on with the rest of her orders.

Greg's smile slowly fades when his eyes trail back down to his laptop - back down to that ominous e-mail.

He hasn't wanted to see or talk to anyone back in West Covina ever since he caught wind that Josh and Rebecca were getting married - it seemed utterly laughable. And while he had wanted to be happy for them, there was always going to be that feeling of regret and jealousy over Josh and how everything had unraveled with Rebecca.

Needless to say, he wasn't sad when he found out the wedding fell through. Nor was he surprised. Chaos seems to follow that girl everywhere she goes, and now it has made its way into his inbox.

Greg sucks in a sharp breath and clicks the email, his pointer now hovering between ' open ' and ' delete '.

Why does the decision seem so hard? It shouldn't be this hard - not after all this time. Not after she almost married his best friend. Not after their sordid history.

To prove that it's not hard, that he has come so far in his own recovery, that he can handle it (and honestly out of blind curiosity), he opens the e-mail.

He scrolls through, but everyone's responses are so vague - a slew of 'get better soon' and well wishes. It's been through a few different conversation chains, both names he recognizes and some he doesn't. But at the very end, he sees the original email, as well as Heather's message that is just to him:

Greg,

Just thought you might want to know. I hope everything's going well at the Harvard of the south. Don't be a stranger.

-Heather

The original e-mail houses a youtube video. He's feeling more hesitant than he was before, if that is even possible. The video title just says "Update on Becks." Greg exhales, pulling his loose earbud back up to his ear, hovering it as though he's not sure he wants to hear it at all, the way a kid peeks through their fingers at a horror film.

He sees Valencia come into frame right away, which is strange considering last he knew, they weren't the best of friends.

"Hi everyone. I'm Valencia Perez, Rebecca Bunch's friend. I wanted to just post a quick update on Rebecca because I know a lot of people are worried about her," she says. Greg feels his jaw tighten and his eyes slightly blur - he's still not sure what any of this means.

" What did you do…? " he finds himself whispering aloud.

The video continues, "Rebecca went through a tough time a few days ago, obviously. But she's stable now, and she appreciates everyone thinking about her. If you want to connect with her, you can just write in the comments below and I'll make sure she gets the message. Thanks all."

Greg can hear his heartbeat in his own ears as he closes his laptop shut and sucks in another breath, realizing he didn't breathe at all while he watched the video. He slinks back in his chair, staring at nothing in particular as he tries to piece everything together. He looks over at his coffee, the letter in the foam looking more like an "R" than it originally had.

That is definitely not a "B".

"Rebecca?" he hears another barista call out, a brown to-go cup in her hand. "Order for Rebecca?" A short-haired woman in a flowery skirt comes up, taking her drink and shoving a tip in the tip jar on her way out.

Greg pinches the area between his eyes, warding off a headache that is relentlessly starting to creep up on him. His chest feels tight, his mouth waters.

He suddenly wants a drink.

Nope. No. Not today.

He knew better than to open that e-mail. He scoops all of his stuff up along with his coffee and heads to the front counter.

"Is something wrong?" Cute Barista asks him.

"Uh…" he stammers. He can't even begin to know how to answer that question. "No, I'm fine. Can I actually get this to go? I forgot I have somewhere I need to be." His own voice sounds so far away as he says this to her.

"Of course," she nods, picking up his cup and pouring it into a to-go cup instead.

"Thanks…" He slaps down a five, reaching for his coffee.

"Oh, and since you've never asked…" she says, leaning over the counter and scrawling something across a napkin with her blue pen. She slides it to him with a sly smile. "Here's my number," Cute Barista says.

(One of these days he'll need to figure out her actual name.)

He nods once and thanks her again when a witty remark fails to come to him. He looks down at the napkin: 555-689-7197. He opens his mouth to tell her he'll call her or something, but he catches the last five digits: 97197. It takes him a moment to place it, his eyebrows pulling together as he studies the numbers.

Odd.

That's the zip code for West Covina.

...What a strange coincidence.


To be continued...