Missing You(20)

Aqua.

Here was something odd. She could talk to Stacy about her father’s murder, but Stacy had never met the man. Stacy didn’t know “old Kat,” the Before Kat, the one who dated Jeff and smiled freely and existed before Henry Donovan’s murder. But the first name to come to mind—the one person who would understand more than any other what she was going through—was, well, Jeff.

That didn’t seem like a good idea, did it?

No. At least, it wouldn’t at six in the morning or ten o’clock at night. But right now, at three A.M. with a few belts of Jack coursing through Kat’s veins, it seemed like the most brilliant idea in the history of the world. She looked out the window of her apartment. They say New York is the city that doesn’t sleep. That was nonsense. When she stayed in other cities, even smaller ones like St. Louis or Indianapolis, people seemed to stay up later, though it seemed more out of desperation than anything else. We aren’t New York City, so we will work harder to have a good time. Something like that.

The streets of Manhattan at three A.M.? Still a cemetery.

Kat wobbled toward her computer. It took her three tries to log on to YouAreJustMyType.com because her fingers, like her tongue, were thick from drink. She checked to see if by some chance Jeff was online. He wasn’t. Well, that was too bad, wasn’t it? She clicked the link to send him a direct message.


Jeff,

Can we talk? Something happened here and I would really like to bounce it off you.

Kat

Part of her brain realized that this was a really bad idea, that this was the online dating equivalent of drunk texting. Drunk texting never worked. Never, ever, never.

She sent the message and managed to half pass out, half fall asleep. When the alarm went off at six A.M., Kat hated her pitiful self even before the hangover rushed in and started shooting pain sparks through her skull.

She checked the messages. Nothing from Jeff. Or Maybe-Jeff. Right, hadn’t she realized at some point that maybe it wasn’t Jeff, just some guy who looked like him? Didn’t matter. Who cares? Where the hell is the Extra Strength Tylenol?

Aqua’s yoga class. Uh-uh. No way. Not today. Her head would never take it. Plus, she went yesterday. She didn’t have to go today.

Except . . .

Wait, hold up a second. She ran back to the computer and brought up Jeff’s profile. Other than Stagger, the only person who was really still in her life, who knew her with Jeff and her dad and knew the old her, was, well, Aqua. Aqua and Jeff had grown close via her, even rooming together in that crappy two-bedroom on 178th Street. She hit PRINT, threw on her clothes, made the run over to the east side of the park—arriving, as usual, when everyone was meditating, their eyes closed.

“Late,” Aqua said.

“Sorry.”

Aqua frowned and opened his eyes in surprise. Kat had never apologized before. He knew something was up.

Two decades ago, Aqua and Kat had been classmates at Columbia. That was where they met freshman year. Aqua was, quite simply, the most brilliant person Kat had ever known. His test scores were off the charts. His brain was revved up, worked too fast, finishing homework assignments in minutes that would take others all night. Aqua consumed knowledge like some consume fast food. He took extra classes, worked two jobs, started running track, but there was nothing that could stop the mania.

Eventually, Aqua’s engine overheated. That was the way Kat thought about it. He cracked, though in truth he was just sick. Mentally ill. It was no different, really, from having cancer or lupus or something like that. Aqua had been in and out of institutions since. Doctors had tried everything to cure him, but his mental illness, like those physical ones, was, if not terminal, chronic. Kat didn’t know where he lived now exactly. Somewhere in the park, she guessed. Sometimes Kat would bump into him away from the morning class, when his mania was at a more fevered pitch. Sometimes, Aqua would be dressed like a man. Sometimes—okay, most times—Aqua would dress like a woman. Sometimes, Aqua wouldn’t even know who Kat was.

At the end of class, when the others closed their eyes for Corpse Pose, Kat sat up and stared at Aqua. He—or she, it got very confusing when someone was a part-time transvestite—stared back, a flash of anger on his face. There were rules in this class. She was breaking one of them.

“I want you to relax your face,” Aqua said in that soothing voice. “Relax your eyes. Feel them sink down. Relax your mouth . . .”

His gaze never left hers. Eventually, Aqua acquiesced. He rose from a Lotus Position in one effortless, silent move. Kat rose too. She followed him through a back pathway heading north.

“So this is where you go after class,” Kat said.

“No.”

“No?”

“I’m not showing you where I go. What do you want?”

“I need a favor.”

Aqua kept walking. “I don’t do favors. I teach yoga.”

“I know that.”

“So why are you bothering me?” His two hands formed fists, like a little kid about to throw a tantrum. “Yoga is the routine. I’m good with routine. You calling me out, wanting to talk like this, it isn’t part of the routine. It’s not good for me, losing my routine.”

“I need your help.”

“I help by teaching yoga.”

“I know that.”

“I’m a good teacher, aren’t I?”