The Accomplice(11)
“You do,” Owen said. “It’s so awesome.”
Owen and Luna ordered drip coffee, deciding not to wait for anything fancy. They strolled down Market Street, searching for something to do that was both diverting and inexpensive. They soon realized that nothing fit the bill. They returned to the car and kept driving.
Owen checked on Luna out of the corner of his eye. She was gazing out the window, lost somewhere else. She was so inaccessible in that moment that Owen felt lonely.
“What are you thinking?” Owen said.
He’d never asked that question before. His last girlfriend asked that question so often, he’d had to admonish her to quit. That question was, in fact, a secondary reason for their breakup.
“Huh?” Luna said.
“You looked like you were thinking something specific.”
“I think when you think, it’s always specific at the time.”
“Well, what was it, specifically, in that moment?” Owen said.
Luna wasn’t going to answer that question. There were certain questions she never answered. For instance, if someone called her and said, What are you up to? Luna always said, Nothing, even if she was most definitely up to something. If someone inquired about her academic performance, she would tell them her average was a solid B/B-, even if she scored all A’s that semester. When questioned about her general well-being, she responded like someone living out her final decade. I’m still here.
But the question What are you thinking always got under Luna’s skin. It seemed that whenever she was asked that question, she was thinking something so private and shameful that she couldn’t possibly ever share. Caught unaware, she always responded with cheap lies. I was thinking what a beautiful day it is; I was thinking about how I should shave my legs this week; I was thinking about making a dentist appointment.
Luna was generally against lying, considering her past. Although she didn’t take as hard a stance as Kant. Some questions, Luna thought, invited a lie. Although she didn’t lie to Owen.
“I don’t think that’s any of your business,” Luna said. “It’s my favorite thing about my brain. No one else is in it or has access to it. It’s mine alone.”
Owen was accustomed to girls offering themselves up on a plate to him. He loved how Luna, even after a year of deep friendship, remained a puzzle.
“So, what are you thinking now?” Owen said, like a lowbrow reporter.
“That you’re even more annoying than I thought you were,” Luna said.
Owen laughed. “I love you, Luna,” he said. “You know. Not in a weird way.”
The words surprised Owen. He didn’t realize until they were uttered that they were true.
“I know,” Luna said.
She couldn’t remember the last time anyone said they loved her. At least not anyone she wanted to say it. She felt the same but couldn’t offer those words. Her reticent nature had iced over years before. The thaw would take some time.
“What are you thinking?” she said.
“I was thinking that I wish we were twenty-one so we could kill the afternoon in a dive bar.”
That was partially true, although he had been thinking many things in the few minutes of silence after he spoke. He was thinking about the cruel note he found in Luna’s philosophy reader; he was thinking about the best way to cool things down with Scarlet; he was thinking about what might have transpired between Mason and Luna; and he was thinking about how she didn’t say I love you back.
For the next several hours, Luna and Owen took a walk along the river, ate cider doughnuts, and visited a tourism info booth, hunting for any form of amusement. They were surrounded by people decades older who were thrilled by the sight of a dead leaf.
“Is that what happens when you get older? You get more and more excited by smaller and smaller things?” Owen asked.
“I hope so,” Luna said.
Later, staring at a local map, Owen and Luna realized they were only an hour from Sleepy Hollow. Neither had been before. They took their time making their way down. They stopped at a diner that looked like an Airstream. In Tarrytown, they walked along the river until it was dark. It was after nine p.m. when Owen and Luna found themselves roaming the cemetery, searching for Washington Irving’s grave. Owen tried to recall details from the famous story that he was so sure he’d read. Luna could only remember the cartoon’s pumpkin head. Owen tried to scare Luna a few times, ducking behind a headstone, nothing fancy. Luna spooked easily, Owen noticed. He had never detected that trait before. The rustle of leaves, even the sound of her own shoe crunching gravel, could cause her to start. At one point in the night, Owen disappeared behind a gravestone, and when Luna looked back and saw nothing, she experienced a wave of fear so powerful, she began to see stars and had to steady herself on another gravestone, which was slick and slimy, causing her to scream and recoil from the unexpected tactile sensation. Then she became angry.
Luna fought hard to keep all her emotions, even joy, under the radar. But when an unruly emotion surfaced, it was merely an opening act. Anger was always the headliner.
She yelled Owen’s name as if he was a mile away. “Where the fuck are you?”
Owen hadn’t heard that tone before. He’d seen a flash in her eye but nothing tangible. She always managed to tamp it down.
The anger-management classes Luna had been forced to take in high school had taught her well. Counting to ten, if you’re committed to it, drains the momentum from anything. Luna often counted to ten when any feeling struck her. Even elation.