Remarkably Bright Creatures(100)

“Oh, crap. That meeting . . . It didn’t go how he thought it would.” She groans again. “I should’ve called him yesterday. The shop got busy, and I was mad . . .” She pulls a cell phone from the pocket of her shorts. “I need to talk to him.”

Tova watches as Avery dials. The call goes straight to voice mail.

“He’s really gone, isn’t he,” Avery says softly.

“Maybe so.”

The two women watch the moon-bathed water in silence for what feels like a long while. Finally, Avery says, “It’s peaceful here. I never come down the pier anymore.”

“It’s my favorite place,” Tova says quietly.

Avery drops her gaze to the black water far below. “I talked someone down from this ledge, once. Stopped her from . . . you know.”

“Good heavens.”

In a half-choked voice, Avery goes on. “It was a woman. Right here, in this spot. A few years ago. I was out paddling super early in the morning, and she was sitting on the railing. Talking to someone. Herself, I guess. She looked rough. Like she was on something.”

“I see,” Tova says, her voice faint.

“She kept talking about a horrible night. An accident. A boom.”

A boom.

Tova gives a little nod, finding herself unable to speak, and the girl continues.

“I always assumed she must have been in combat or something. Trauma from an explosion, maybe.”

A boom.

Tova closes her eyes, imagining how easily it could happen. Something knocks the bow off course, and a gust of wind catches the newly slackened sail just the wrong way at just the wrong moment. The boom swings wildly. Smacks his head. Knocks him overboard.

An accident. It could’ve happened that way, or any number of ways. Captain of the crew team, an accomplished sailor, but there was that stolen beer. There was a girl.

“Sometimes I wonder what ever became of her,” Avery says. “Whether she’s still alive. Whether my saving her mattered.”

With a stiff inhale, Tova looks Avery in the eye. “It mattered. I’m glad you saved her,” she says. And she means it.





Expensive Roadkill


At mile marker 682, Cameron stops obsessing over the engine temperature gauge. It worked. He really fixed it. The camper is not going to blow up in the middle of the interstate.

At exit 747, he lets out a juvenile chuckle. The town of Weed! He puts his flashers on and pulls to the shoulder, intending to snap a pic of the sign to send to Brad. Because Weed, California, is never not funny. But his phone’s not in its usual place in the cup holder. Weird. Did he leave it in the back of the camper, maybe? He keeps driving.

At mile marker 780, he realizes why he couldn’t find his phone. He left it on the front bumper, right where it was when he was changing the belt. He can practically see it sitting there. Which means, by now, it’s an expensive piece of roadkill. He lets out a wild laugh. He hasn’t slept in almost thirty hours.

At a truck stop somewhere in the Rogue River Valley, he makes the smart decision to park and take a six-hour nap. When he wakes, he splashes his face with cold water in the public restroom and buys a black coffee, to go, from the diner. On his way out, he tosses a mostly full pack of cigarettes in the trash.

At or around exits 119, 142, and 238, he dwells on his idiotic resignation note. At exit 295, he starts composing an apology in his head.

At a bridge crossing the Columbia River, he reenters Washington state. Northbound, of course—he’s been going north. Going back to do things the right way.





The Dala Horse


For the last time, Tova boils water for coffee on her stove. Its lacquered top gleams, avocado green against the black coils, polished last night. Spotless. Could it possibly matter? It will almost certainly be ripped out, replaced by one of those sleek new ranges. No one wants a decades-old appliance, even if it works perfectly well.

Tova had been approved for accelerated checkin at Charter Village, something she’d lobbied after for weeks. Her premier suite would be available next week. She left them a telephone message first thing this morning, at whatever absurdly early hour she awoke, assuming she slept at all last night. The whole thing is a blur. Charter Village has yet to call back, but most likely it’s simply because their office isn’t open yet. It’s only just past seven.

Regardless, Tova has no intention of going.

She’s had a busy morning. Dusted all of the baseboards. Wiped down the windows. Polished the hardware on the cabinets, scrubbed every last doorknob. She should be exhausted, but she’s never felt more energized in her life. Without curtains or furniture, every sound she makes echoes against the naked walls and floors, and even the hiss of her spray bottle seems too loud. But keeping busy is good. Cleaning is always good. It’s something to do.

Where will she go? She’s supposed to be out of the house by noon. The movers who took most of the furniture yesterday have already been notified that there will be a change of destination. Thankfully, someone answers their phone at the crack of dawn. But what will that destination be? A storage unit, perhaps?

As for herself and her personal effects, Janice and Barbara both have spare bedrooms. At a decent hour, she’ll call Janice first. Perhaps she might alternate between them until other arrangements can be made. Her floral-print canvas suitcase, the same one she took on her honeymoon with Will, is packed and ready to go. The thought of spending the night in a bed that isn’t her own thrills and terrifies her, in turn.