The Accidental Text Read online

  The Accidental Text

  by Becky Monson

  The Accidental Text

  Copyright © 2021 Becky Monson

  Cover Art by Angela Talley Smith

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, business establishments, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under the copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without prior written permission of the copyright owner. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the internet or via any other means without the permission of the copyright owner is illegal and punishable by law.

  Contents

  Other Books by Becky

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Other Books by Becky

  Thirty-Two Going on Spinster

  Thirty-Three Going on Girlfriend

  Thirty-Four Going on Bride

  Speak Now or Forever Hold Your Peace

  Taking a Chance

  Once Again in Christmas Falls

  Just a Name

  Just a Girl

  Connect with Becky

  Website & Newsletter

  Facebook

  Instagram

  Twitter

  To my mama.

  I love that you can still inspire me.

  Miss you always.

  Chapter 1

  Maggie: So, here’s the deal, Mom. I don’t want to do this.

  I know it’s what you wanted, I know we’re only honoring your wishes. But honestly, what kind of mom asks her family to spread her ashes while jumping out of a plane?

  You. You’re that mom.

  I was prepared to do it, even willing to. But now that we’re here …

  I know I’ve done this before. Seventeen times, to be exact. But today I want to keep my feet firmly on the ground. Going up there seems reckless … and foolish. I mean, I’ve already lost you.

  Why couldn’t you have asked to have your ashes spread under some tree or in the ocean like a normal person?

  “Who are you texting?”

  “What?” I flop the phone facedown on my lap, my face instantly heating. My belly churns, but I suspect that’s because there’s a mixture of feelings going on inside me right now.

  “You seemed really engrossed,” my sister Chelsea says. She’s standing in front of me, holding a paper cup of coffee in one hand and looking down at me, seated on a rather uncomfortable wooden bench that’s pushed up against the wall of a mostly nondescript airplane hangar. I’m tasked with keeping track of all our rigs.

  She’s wearing a white jumpsuit with black-and-pink detailing, the top half zipped down to the waist, a black cotton T-shirt on underneath. Her highlighted brown hair is in a bun atop her head.

  “I was just … texting Hannah.” This is my standard excuse—this isn’t the first time I’ve been caught. It’s only a matter of time before someone figures me out. Or boots Mom’s phone up. So far no one’s bothered to do that. The phone has sat in one of the cubbies of my dad’s dark oak credenza desk for the past three months. I’ve been safe so far.

  In any case, the Hannah excuse is a good one since I text back and forth with my best friend on a daily basis and have been doing so for years. Sometimes even from our separate bedrooms in our shared apartment. What a time to be alive and lazy.

  “You looked very serious,” Chelsea says, her brows pulling inward.

  I reach up to grab my necklace, the one my dad bought for both Chelsea and me after Mom died, and remember that I didn’t wear it on purpose. It’s become such a comfort to me, I almost feel naked without it.

  “It was a serious text,” I say, suddenly feeling warm in my own jumpsuit. February in Phoenix isn’t all that hot, but it now feels stifling. I unzip the top of my teal-and-black suit, feeling the cool air hit my undershirt as I do.

  Chelsea looks at me with eyebrows raised, expecting an answer. I’m not actually going to tell her. I haven’t told anyone I’ve been sending texts to my dead mother’s phone. Not even Hannah, and I tell her everything. I’ve kept it to myself because … well, it sounds mental. And I’m not ready to explain or answer questions … or be committed.

  It started out simple. I had the thought that I wished I could text my mom. She’d been gone for a week and I knew she’d never see my message, but the phone felt like a connection to her. A tether. Also, I’d begged my dad to keep the number. It just felt so final to get rid of it. I also knew the phone had died and was sitting in my dad’s desk.

  So, I sent her a text. All it said was, “I miss you.” That was it. And then the next day I sent something similar. Then the day after that, the text was a little longer, and this kept going until the texts starting becoming thought dumps that I’d send to her. Or … I guess, to her phone. Three months later, it’s now become a habit—a part of my daily life.

  I know she can’t read them. I don’t actually need to be committed. I know there’s not some direct messaging service to heaven, even though that would be an excellent idea and I think someone needs to make that a thing. Who has an in with God that could ask for a favor? The pope? Oprah?

  It’s my dirty little secret. I don’t have a lot of those. This is probably the only one. And how dirty can it be? It’s not hurting anyone, and I really think it’s helped me work through all the feelings I’ve been having. There are so many. Twenty-six is much too young to lose your mom.

  “What are you texting Hannah about?” Chelsea asks, and then takes a sip of her coffee.

  I jerk my head up, bringing my mind back to my older sister, still standing in front of me with her signature I’m-not-giving-up-until-you-tell-me facial expression. It’s a look I’m quite familiar with.

  I stare down at my phone, still lying facedown in my lap, the silver sparkle case glinting in the overhead lighting of the hangar.

  “I was just venting,” I say to Chelsea. It’s the truth. Just not the whole truth.

  Chelsea dips her chin once, letting me know I should continue. Or rather, expecting me to continue.

  Part of me wants to lie. I could tell her I have a stomachache or a serious case of diarrhea … but in an effort to be more honest about my feelings, I decide to tell her the truth. “Fine,” I say. “I’m just … not … feeling this.”

  “Not feeling what?” She raises just one perfectly shaped eyebrow. It’s an exclamation point on her well-practiced judgmental look.

  “This.” I throw my arms out, gesturing around the space. I look over to see a group of people heading toward the big
hangar door, getting ready to load a plane. Some have a skip to their step, but it’s clear by the rigid posture of one particular man that this is his first time. I’d love to tell him that it’s not half as scary as it seems, but even after jumping many times, I’m currently struggling myself.

  Chelsea’s eyes go wide, the one eyebrow rising even higher, and I could put money on what she’ll say next. “But it’s what Mom wanted,” she says, sounding exasperated.

  Yep. Those were the exact words I knew would come out of her mouth.

  “I realize that.” I hold back an eye roll.

  “So then, what’s your problem?

  I look to the side, away from Chelsea’s penetrating gaze.

  “I just feel … anxious. Like something could happen … to you, or Dad, or Devon, or me.”

  Chelsea moves to sit next to me and puts an arm around my shoulders. She has the ability to go from judgmental to compassionate in a split second. It’s impressive. The comforting gesture, combined with my still-churning stomach, makes tears well up in my eyes.

  “Mags, it’s going to be fine.”

  “I know,” I say, adding a sniffle. “I was totally on board until we got here. I’m just—maybe I’m not ready or something.”

  “Ready for what?” my dad asks. He’d been standing some feet away from us engrossed in something on his phone, the white cylinder urn filled with my mom’s ashes tucked under his arm. I hadn’t realized he’d moved closer to us. Now he’s looking at me with concern in his blue eyes, deep crow’s-feet in the corners. Chelsea has his eyes, minus the crow’s-feet. Devon too. I got my mom’s green ones.

  “Maggie’s having second thoughts about the jump,” Chelsea says.

  “Oh, Magpie.” My dad uses the nickname he’s called me since I can remember. He takes a seat on my other side, setting the urn next to him. He’s wearing a black jumpsuit with gray detailing. He wraps an arm around my waist. I’m now in a very public family sandwich. I just need Devon to come over here and pull us all in a big hug. Not that Devon would ever do that.

  I feel my dad reach up and run his hand down my ponytail, then he tugs lightly on my dark-brown locks. I may not have gotten his eyes, but I did get his hair, except that his is now mostly gray.

  “What’s going on?” he asks.

  “I feel … anxious, I guess.”

  “We don’t have to do this today,” he says.

  My heart skips a tiny beat at this idea, and the churning in my stomach starts to slow.

  “What?” Chelsea says, sitting tall next to me, her back rigid. “We have to.”

  “Why?” Dad asks. “There’s no rule.”

  “But it’s—”

  “Your anniversary,” I finish Chelsea’s sentence for her. My shoulders slump, and a weight drops inside my gut.

  “So what?” my dad says.

  “Well … I mean … I …” Chelsea trails off, and I feel her stiff posture falter next to me.

  Today, February eighteenth, would have been thirty-three years for my parents. That’s why we picked this date. It has significance. My parents had a marriage for the ages. Something I’ve hoped my whole life to find. They met through mutual friends when my mom was twenty-four and my dad was twenty-six. It was love at first sight, according to my dad; my mom needed a little more convincing. It didn’t take much, because they were married less than a year later.

  All my life, I’ve had this movie in my mind of being walked down the aisle by my dad and looking over to see my mom crying tears of joy. I’ve dreamed of this since the day I decided boys were no longer gross and smelled like sweaty feet. Well, sometimes they still smell like sweaty feet—I’m just able to overlook it.

  But my mom didn’t even get to see me in a long-term relationship. Not anything that went beyond six months. I’ve never really been in love, I’m pretty sure. At twenty-six, my dating history has been sparse, to say the least.

  I realize I’m still young, and I hopefully have a lot of life ahead of me, but my wish to have what my parents had looks so far away, it seems unobtainable.

  So far my parents’ relationship has only rubbed off on Chelsea, who, at nearly twenty-nine, is married and has two kids. The most adorable girls in the world, in my doting-aunt opinion.

  Devon seems to be more on my track. Only he’s too big of a player to look for anything lasting. He’s a year and a half younger than me, so he’s old enough that it’s starting to be concerning.

  “I don’t care about dates,” my dad says. “We can do this anytime.” He runs a hand up and down my back.

  “I think we should just do it today,” Chelsea says. “We’re already here.”

  “Not if Maggie isn’t feeling it.”

  “Why’s everyone sitting here?” Devon asks, walking toward us, the top half of his jumpsuit unzipped and hanging around his hips, the arms swinging back and forth as he approaches. He’s got a white T-shirt on that shows off all the time he spends in the gym.

  “Maggie doesn’t want to jump,” Chelsea says.

  “I didn’t say that.” I whip my head toward her.

  “Oh, sorry.” She purses her lips. Her eyes move to Devon. “She’s ‘not feeling it.’” She uses air quotes for the last part.

  “I don’t sound like that,” I say, referring to her whiny imitation of me. “And only old people use air quotes.”

  Chelsea’s mouth drops. “I’m not old!”

  “Girls,” my dad says, his voice chastising.

  “What’s going on, Mags?” Devon asks, his eyebrows pulled so low they hood his blue eyes. “Why are you freaking out? You were fine in the car on the way here.”

  “I’m not freaking out,” I say defensively. “I’m just having second thoughts.”

  “Why? We’ve jumped out of a plane plenty of times. You know what Mom says about jumping—”

  “It’s safer to jump out of a plane than to get behind the wheel of a car,” I say, finishing the quote my mom pulled out when people couldn’t understand why this was a family pastime of ours. It wasn’t like a weekly thing or anything. But it was often enough that it caused concern for some people.

  “Exactly,” Devon says, a smug smile on his lips.

  “I know all that. I just … I can’t shake this feeling.” I look down at the floor.

  “So we’ll wait,” Dad declares, his tone carrying a finality to it.

  “No,” Chelsea protests loudly.

  He holds out a hand to Chelsea. “If Maggie isn’t feeling like doing this now, then we’ll wait for another day when she is.” He picks up the urn in his hands, his eyes perusing it reverently.

  Devon holds out a hand toward my dad. “We’re already here. If Mags doesn’t want to do it, I’ll do it. Give me Mom.” He flexes his fingers back and forth at my dad.

  “No,” my dad says, pulling the urn in toward his chest in a protective stance. “We do this together. It’s what your mom wanted. We can wait.”

  I want to tell them that we should just do it, that I can suck it up, but the relief I feel from the thought of not going up in that plane is so overwhelming, I can’t even bring myself to say it. I can’t fake it.

  “When will we do it?” Chelsea asks, her obsessive need to have things planned out—to know all the details—making an appearance. When we were kids, she used to schedule time to play with me and our bubblegum-pink Barbie DreamHouse.

  “When Maggie is up to it,” my dad says definitively.

  Devon runs a hand down his face, his frustration evident. “Fine.”

  “Sorry, guys,” I say, feeling tears building in my eyes. It’s from a little regret and a lot of relief. “I’ll get it together, I promise.” A tear escapes and falls down my cheek. Devon reaches over and rubs my shoulder, proof that, while irritated by the scenario, he still loves me.

  My dad wraps his arm around me, pulling me toward him, and I lean my head on his shoulder. “Take all the time you need,” he says. “Mom’s not going anywhere.” He holds the urn up as proof, a jok
ing smile on his lips.

  “Dad,” Chelsea chides, the corner of her lips curled upward. “That’s totally inappropriate.”

  “It’s the truth, though,” he says, with a shrug that makes my head bob up and down on his shoulder.

  Chelsea stands up from the bench. “I better go, then. I can salvage the rest of the day with Mark and the girls. He took the day off, you know.”

  Her intentional jab is felt in my gut, but not enough for me to change my mind. “I’m so sorry, you guys. I’ll be ready the next time, okay?”

  My dad stands up and offers his hand to help me up. “You let us know when that is, Magpie.”

  Chapter 2

  “You choked?” Hannah asks me, her dark-brown eyes wide with disbelief. Her nearly black, perfectly straight, long hair tossing back and forth as she shakes her head at me.

  “I didn’t choke,” I say, my tone defensive. “I just … freaked out.”

  “That’s choking,” she says, dipping her chin to her chest.

  “Fine. I choked.”

  We’re currently sitting at the oak dining room table at Hannah’s family home, a modern light fixture hanging above us, giving the room a warm yellow hue.

  It’s the first time I’ve seen Hannah in person since the ill-fated ash spreading incident yesterday. She’s been extra busy at work and came home late last night after I was asleep and was gone this morning by the time I woke up.

  We’re only two doors down from the house I grew up in, the house where my dad still lives. Even though we have our own apartment in downtown Scottsdale, you can regularly find us around here, in one of our childhood homes. We mostly hit up Hannah’s because her grandma likes to make us dinner and it’s a thousand times better than anything we could make on our own. Hannah and I both lack in the cooking department.

  “What’s wrong with you?” Hannah asks, tilting her head to the side.

  “Sorry?”

  She shrugs one shoulder. “You’ve gone weird on me. The Maggie I know would’ve jumped out of that plane.”

  I look down at the table, the soup Hannah’s grandma prepared in front of me.