Lucky Caller(55)

It made me want to cry. How stupid was that. Imagining something too hard and upsetting yourself for no reason.

The door opened, and a pair of black-clad legs descended the stairs.

“Hey.” Jamie sidled up to me. “Celeste was looking for you.” A pause. “What are you doing out here?”

It had been silent in the Sounds of the Nineties chat since the revelation yesterday. I didn’t know what to say to everyone, how I could possibly make it right.

I swallowed, looked away. “Just, uh…” I didn’t know how to explain it. “That speech was really nice.”

“It was.” Jamie’s voice was soft. “Sometimes they get me too.”

I looked over at him. His tie was off-center. My fingers itched to straighten it.

His brow furrowed a little. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” Then I shook my head. “No. Probably not.”

And suddenly wanting to cry wasn’t just an impulse, but an actual thing that was happening.

“Hey,” he said. I turned my face away, looking toward the back gate. “Hey, what is it? What’s wrong?”

I just shrugged, and when I could speak, the only thing I could think to say was, “That M&M cake was really nice.”

“Nina—”

“Remember, for my birthday? I never told you. I was so … That was so nice of you, you didn’t have to do that, it was—you’re too good. I don’t know how to be good like that. I don’t know how to not be a human garbage can, Jamie.”

“You’re not a garbage can. Jesus.” He now looked both concerned and bewildered.

“How do you know that?”

“Well, for one thing, no one would throw that many M&M’s away.”

I let out a puff of air, not quite a laugh. When I looked back at Jamie, his expression was too open, too honest.

“I let everyone down,” I said, and hated how pitiful my voice sounded, how small. “Everyone hates me.”

“They don’t.”

“You don’t hate me?”

“I don’t.”

“But you should. After everything…”

He shook his head. “I don’t.”

I nodded. Swallowed, wiped hastily at my eyes.

“Are you free tomorrow?” Jamie asked after a moment.

There was no wedding tomorrow. We had dinner plans with the Dantist, but I could cry off.

“Yeah.”

“We could meet up,” he said. “Try to figure the whole thing out. We have till Friday, right? We can fix it, I promise. No one hates you. We’ll fix it. Okay?”

I nodded. “Okay.”





52.


WE DECIDED TO GO TO a sushi place on Sunday, near the IUPUI campus downtown.

It was not a date. It was a brainstorming session. But I still put on a nice shirt and my cleanest sneakers, and I even tried to do a hair tutorial from YouTube. Rose walked in when I was sitting on the floor in front of the mirror on our closet, trying to replicate the French braid twist by Beautyglitterqueen99.

“What are you doing?”

“Practicing for prom,” I said, and Rose must’ve been truly distracted, because she didn’t question it, despite me having never once shown interest in having decent hair for prom—or honestly, prom in general.

Rose was working that evening. Mom and Sidney were going to Dan’s. I insisted that I couldn’t join since I had plans, and headed down to the lobby at ten till four to wait for Jamie. I figured we’d take the bus together, or maybe he would borrow Gram’s car.

It wasn’t a date. It was a brainstorming session.

I tapped my foot against the tile floor absently while I waited. The desk attendant glanced my way, but then went back to staring at his cell phone. The desk phone rang eventually, and I could hear him: “This is Joe at the Eastman, how may I help you?”

I waited. I listened to Joe’s side of the calls that came in. I checked my phone—it was possible I got the time wrong. Maybe we said five? But I remembered it clearly, after work last night: Jamie shifting back and forth in the elevator, Is four okay? Gram doesn’t really like me staying out late on Sundays.

I went on the Instagram page for Conrad and Co. while I was waiting and scrolled through pictures of the team: a bearded man (Will) at the soundboard, a woman with bleached blond hair pulled back in a ponytail (Tina) holding two giant coffee mugs. My dad, wearing sunglasses inside, throwing up a peace sign at the camera.

I switched to playing a mindless game on my phone when the Conrad and Co. pictures began to stoke an unpleasant feeling in my chest.

I texted Jamie, hey it was 4 right? at ten past. I was suddenly way too conscious of my Beautyglitterqueen99 hairstyle.

At twenty past, a thought struck me: Maybe we were supposed to meet at the restaurant? I just assumed we’d meet here—we both lived here. What was the point in going separately? But maybe he was coming from somewhere else. Maybe he was already there.

I sent another text: Are we meeting there?

What if he didn’t have his phone?

I hated talking on the phone, but I gave him a call anyway. It went straight to voicemail—maybe it had run out of battery or maybe he forgot to turn it on (as if I ever turned mine off).

Finally, at four thirty, I went upstairs to his apartment and knocked lightly on the door. No one answered.