We Were Never Here(43)

I shoved my inhaler into my mouth and pressed hard. Ahhh. With the second dose, I noticed Adrienne had stood and was looming over me, her face twisted in concern.

“I’m fine,” I told her, snapping the cap back onto the mouthpiece.

But did either of us believe it?





CHAPTER 18


I woke up on my birthday with butterflies in my stomach—excitement, yes, but anxiety too. Not because I was thirty (still young, whatever) but because I had a feeling Kristen had planned something unexpected. The apprehension was like orange-red coals, threatening to ignite. What had she said about women’s intuition? We see things men miss?

I flopped onto my side and unplugged my phone. A deluge of birthday greetings on Facebook; texts from both parents as well as some friends. A video from a high school pal, still up in Minneapolis—her twin toddlers shouting, “Happy buff-day, Emiry!”

Nothing from Aaron, oddly. Or Kristen. Yet.

I padded into the kitchen and started up the coffee maker. As it brewed, I turned on NPR: A Missouri man had thrown acid on a congregant outside a Sikh temple. Horrible. A nut job, my mom would say with a shake of her head. And, okay—not healthy, I’d give her that, not emotionally controlled nor self-actualized. But what if monsters walk among us and they aren’t nut jobs? Sebastian was a seemingly normal guy who grew angry, so angry, he could have killed me. Anger isn’t a mental illness. Maybe regular people do terrible things all the damn time.

The doorbell rang and I opened the door to a skinny guy in cargo shorts, holding a package out in front of him. The box had a moist, loamy smell and I spotted the branding on top: Burleigh Blooms.

I smiled as I carried it into the kitchen and hacked at the tape, then pulled out a bundle of white calla lilies, as smooth and crisp as luxe hotel linens. Had Aaron sent these? That’d make him the first boy to do so since Ben, back in high school, when he showed up at our six-month anniversary with a mammoth bouquet from the grocery store. I fished around for a card and pulled it from its navy envelope.

    Surprises may not be your thing

But since you were not answering

My plea to make some birthday plans,

I took it into my own hands.

So finish breakfast and your joe,

Head to work, and off we go. —K



I had to hand it to her—though I hate surprises, I do enjoy a riddle. Kristen knew my brain so well, hers and mine were like the matching halves of a heart necklace. “Breakfast and joe”—that was the clue, a granular detail in a singsong prelude. I set my empty mug in the sink and flung open my cabinets, then my fridge, rifling around my dishes, inside the smooth bag of coffee grounds, under an egg carton’s lid.

Nothing—and I had to get to the office. I leaned over the sink, the counter digging into the heels of my hands.

Priya Is Waiting



It was faintly visible in the bottom of my dirty mug, tiny block letters like something printed out. I plucked out a plasticky disc and ran it under the tap, and the words grew clearer: invisible ink. Nerves bristled up my spine. How had Kristen known I’d use this mug today? And, Jesus—my chest froze over—how did she get into my kitchen to plant this?

A soft thwock behind me made me whirl around so fast, the rug skidded beneath my feet. A single flower had rolled off the counter and landed on the tile. It lay there in its sculptural beauty like a white flag, a dead dove, a Calatrava memorial to the dead.

I rubbed my temples. It was going to be a long day.



* * *



—

    Rain slapped the windshield as I drove to work. No matter how many times I changed lanes, I was always caught in a big rig’s wake, pounded by a torrential rooster comb. On the radio, a calm-sounding reporter announced that a man had been arrested in a sex trafficking case. Police found zip ties and duct tape in his car, she intoned, right as my tires began to hydroplane. I sailed ahead, my heart a sudden snare drumroll. The wheels found purchase and I lingered at a stop sign.

Zip ties and duct tape. Who would do that? What went through his head as he drove to work, supplies rolling around in the trunk?

I paused in the lobby, wet and wilted.

“Hi, Jeffrey,” I called to the guy at the security desk. He had a rind of gray hair and hangdog eyes. “Really coming down out there.”

But today, as with every day, he didn’t reply. I plodded toward the elevator, a puddle unspooling on the floor behind me.

Up at my desk, Priya trotted over with a massive cupcake. “Happy birthday!” she cried, presenting it with both hands.

“Thank you! Is this my next clue?”

Her impish smile confirmed it.

“So it turns out I didn’t even need to find the first one.” I peeled back the wrapper. “And drink coffee mixed with mysterious invisible ink.”

“Kristen told me to bring this right over. In case you didn’t find the first clue.” She pressed her palms together. “This is fun—I haven’t done anything like this since my sorority days.”

“Which was all of, like, two years ago.” I pulled apart the cupcake’s base and plucked something waxy from its center. A folded slip of parchment paper—Priya leaned over my shoulder to read it:

    Already, she’s Kibbling through her epic day!