Page 4 of Come Find Me Tonight

It had to have been a nickname. “Appa? I think that’s father in Korean.” I had to resist the urge to facepalm. Why did I have to be such a nerd?

She laughed and toyed with a curl framing her face and tried too hard to seem flirtatious. In that moment, it made me feel triumphant that I had caught her eye, too. The weight of the metal cross that hung around my neck under my shirt shifted and reminded me who I was. I didn’t doubt she was legal, but she was too damn young, too innocent, too inexperienced. I couldn’t let it go any further.

“That’s a fun fact,” she said. “It’s short for Apple.”

Apple? What kind of name was that?

“That’s a pretty unique name. I’m Robby.” I swallowed and looked down at my scuffed black Chucks. “And I think you should go. This isn’t the crowd for you,” I said, being the fucking hero. Her brows slightly furrowed at my statement, and her smile faded. I realized it probably came off like I thought she wasn’t cool enough to be here. “There’s just some…” I glanced around, trying to find my roommate, but I could hear his laugh nearby. “Bad dudes here.”

“You?” she asked.

I shook my head. “No, I’m about to head out.”

“I could go with you,” she said and bit her bottom lip like she was hopeful.

‘No, nope, not today,’ I thought to myself. ‘Stay strong.’

“Um, don’t come back here. Trust me.” I turned to walk away before I changed my mind. “Nice meeting you, Appa,” I called over my shoulder.

I got another beer and stayed at the party long enough to watch her leave with a female friend who also looked like a freshman. I remember feeling so grateful she had a buddy because she was safer that way. They both were. We went to a safe university, but it was late. The freshman dorms were a walk from the party’s location if they didn’t get an Uber, and I had to stop myself from following her at a safe distance to make sure she got back okay.

Instead, I trusted she’d be fine with her friend and went back to my apartment, welcoming the cool night air after the stuffy party. Back at my apartment, I fired up my laptop and searched the student directory for the name Apple. Thank fuck it was a rare first name because I had her full name, major, and student email address in seconds and only minutes before I found her on social media, @Appleygirl. I grinned at the sunny username and spent too long looking through her pictures, including any she was tagged in, and who she followed, while being careful not to accidentally like anything as I swiped through her page. My throat went instantly dry at the vast number of bikini pictures I tried hard not to look at. Her high school graduation pictures were also posted the spring before. I was right; she was fresh out of high school, and I wasn’t. She already had two thousand followers, so I hit the follow button.

And that started it all.

That was about six years ago, and I should have taken her home and made her mine. Or at least got her out of my system, so I could fucking move on. But that’s not the man my mom raised.

After my morning workout in my makeshift home gym in the garage, I head inside to shower and shave. I have meetings today, and they’re likely to be video calls. Letting the shower beat on my back, I think back to senior year again.

Months after my meet-cute with Appa, I found my roommate overdosed in our apartment’s living room, where he had choked to death on his vomit, and that sight will forever be branded in my memory. So many years later, I still have to press my palm on the moist tile wall of the shower to stop me from doubling over and puking at the thought.

Of course, I called the police as soon as I found him. Our apartment was silent as they took his body away that morning. But his rich family was convinced that I did nothing to save him, which wasn’t true or fair. I was asleep, and after living with him for months, I was used to him getting home in the early morning hours or having loud sex with random girls to the point I tuned it out completely. For all I knew, someone had come home with him and bailed when shit went south. The police cleared me, of course, as it was a classic overdose situation, but that didn’t stop his somewhat popular sister from blasting me on social media for letting her brother die. I muted my notifications but allowed myself a daily check to see if Appa posted anything new.

After the social media blast, I tried my best to keep to myself. Everyone saw the post, so I focused on finishing my classes and staying private. I didn’t even walk at graduation and moved back to Napa as soon as my last final was completed. To this day, my graduation gown and cap remain in their original plastic in the closet of my childhood bedroom.

The summer following my graduation, I helped Dad and his brothers with the vineyard. My parents knew I couldn’t do something like what I was publicly accused of, and I appreciated their endless love and kindness as I pieced myself back together. Appa helped, too. I eventually turned on notifications, so whenever she posted or added to her story, I would get a push notification. She posted little back then, but when she did, I’d spend hours studying every pixel until my eyes went dry.

I’m still that fucking way, and she posts far more now.

The best content she posts now is try-on hauls where she’s giving me permission to look at her body. She’s still as short, but her body has matured—fuller breasts, rounder hips, and toned arms and thighs from the yoga she posts. She was fuckable now, but this is the most we’ll ever be…me thirsting from afar.

After the summer in Napa, I got a remote job as a software engineer, which allowed me to work from anywhere, and I moved right back to LA. My family couldn’t understand why I left Napa again, but no one tried to stop me. I should have stayed, and I would’ve been there when Nonno died. But everything happens for a reason, and he was my biggest supporter and urged me to go back to LA for my great love. Now, I have his watch he brought over from Italy, and every time I wear it, I feel like he’s watching over me. He would have told me to piss or get off the pot with Appa, and maybe I needed to hear that.

Moving back to LA was awkward. The dust had settled from my roommate’s death, but it still clung to me. I felt like people whispered about me in public, even if that was irrational of me to think that.

His sister didn’t have that big of a reach, not like Appa does now.

I watched @Appleygirl grow from a thousand followers to a million over time, and she became America’s sweetheart of the social media world. Sure, Appa changed her username as she grew on social media to @AppaPie, but I kept up with her journey through it all. Her content shifted from group pictures with friends to more curated lifestyle posts and videos, but I never minded what she posted. As long as she seemed happy and healthy, that’s all I cared about. And judging from her videos where she speaks, she lost or curbed her Southern accent, but I bet it’s still there deep down.

Finishing my morning routine of working out, showering, shaving, and brewing stovetop coffee, like a good Italian, I sit at my desk with my teeny ceramic mug and my gallon water bottle. Some might call my existence lonely, but I have Rook as an outlet of sorts.

Technically, Rook is just a persona, and I don’t know how I came up with him now. Posting videos of myself under a pseudonym was addictive. Subconsciously, I might have created him for her. To anyone else, he’s a fantasy for those looking for one. His—our—video tonight will make some middle-aged wives shift in their chairs and clench their thighs. Perhaps they would even sneak into the bathroom to watch.

And that was the addiction.

But not Appa. She could have any man and must have one behind the scenes. My hands curl into fists, and my knuckles pop at the idea of another man…

My computer pings, notifying me that my first meeting has started. I clear my throat and turn my microphone on. “Hey, Robby here. Good morning,” I say and mute myself.