Vera read the note Greg had passed to her via the barista. It said: “I’ll be here again tomorrow at 7 p.m. I hope to see you here. Alone.”
Obviously, Greg and Cole had not hit it off.
Just then, Cole came back into the café, slipping his phone into his back pocket.
“I have to go,” he said. “Jill’s done with work.”
Cole eyed the note in Vera’s hand.
“What’d I miss?”
“Nothing,” said Vera, folding it and putting it into her pocket. “One of the patrons here passed me a note saying you were entirely too obnoxious on the phone.”
He gave Vera a disgusted look, knowing she was lying.
“So while I was outside, I got a call from Uncle Bruce. We’re leaving tomorrow night for the wedding.”
“Yeah. Is that a problem?”
“I’m gonna jet. Let’s meet at headquarters tomorrow around 8.”
Back at her apartment, with a suitcase open on her bed, Vera packed for this long work week ahead, tossing in dresses and fancy attire for the wedding. As she packed, she started to grow more curious about this millionaire matchmaker, so she got on her laptop and Google-searched “Owen Staley.” Google auto-completed his name with “is an asshole.” Not a good sign.
After learning more about Owen, via tabloid images and Wikipedia, it suddenly dawned on her that she should once again try the same thing with her mother’s name.
She had tried it years before, taking out a Facebook account solely to find her mother. However, she was never able to find anything on her, and after growing annoyed with people’s updates about cats and empty political statements, she deactivated her account.
Maybe this time would be different. She reactivated her Facebook account and hoped for the best, typing “Betsey Burrows” into the search bar.
This time, among the many Betsey Burrows that came up, a profile with a face that looked strangely familiar appeared. Vera clicked on it, but since the profile was private, she was only able to see the image and no other info on this particular Betsey Burrows.
The woman appeared to be around the age her mother would be, and had red hair just like Vera. She was beautiful, which made Vera excited at the genetic prospect of aging like her. Despite having no proof, she somehow felt that deep down inside, this woman had given birth to her so many years ago.
Just as she was about to click “Send Message” to Betsey Burrows, her phone rang. It was her father.
“Thanks for calling me back,” he said.
“Sorry, Dad. I got caught up with work. Why are you calling me so late?”
“I just wanted to say something.”
Vera’s father rarely ever used such a serious tone, so she knew that it had to be bad.
“Don’t try to find your mother.”
“I don’t want you to be disappointed.”
Vera digested his statement, before responding with, “OK.”
“I love you, Vera.”
“Love you, too, Dad.”
Then, he hung up.
Vera looked back at the Facebook screen, with her possible mother’s image staring back at her.