Not Today, But Someday(13)

“I am,” I tell her, confused. I don’t think anyone my age can really understand what it’s like to be truly passionate about something. Something other than getting wasted or getting laid. I don’t know how I fell into this group of friends. They’re nothing like me, but I guess misfits tend to flock together, even without having much in common.

“Cheese and mushroom?” she sighs.

“Yeah. And water, please.”

At the table in front of me sits two guys. One guy with dark hair has his back to me. The other – the one facing me – looks strangely familiar, but I don’t think I know him. Initially, I wonder if he might be someone I went to school with before transferring here, but I can’t place him. I try to ignore their conversation, but the music in the restaurant isn’t quite loud enough and even with his back to me, the guy in front of me is a noisy and opinionated New Yorker.

“If you guys hadn’t moved away, I think I’d ask her out.”

“Yeah,” the guy facing me laughs. “I hope she’d be smarter than that. You blew it. I wouldn’t let that happen.”

“You’d cock-block me?”

“Shut up, she’s my sister.”

“She’s lookin’ good, though. She’s starting to look like a woman.”

“What, just because she decided to wear makeup today?” He laughs, pushing his reddish-blonde hair out of his eyes.

“No, although that doesn’t hurt. I think I see something happening up here,” he says, bringing his hands up to his chest and curling his fingers into crude little cups.

The other guy drops his slice of pizza and pushes his plate away. “Either you stop talking about Emi, or I get a cab home.”

Emi. Red hair. Sister. I study his features quickly. His eyes are a muddy brown, nothing like her crystal clear green ones. Maybe it’s a coincidence. I look harder, using my artist’s eye to examine the fine details of his face. I only saw her briefly the day before. His skin is pale, like hers. That’s not enough to make a convincing connection, though. I wish I could see her again.

Lauren brings my food and drink, then stops by the table next to mine, asking if they want refills. She flirts with the guy facing me in what is likely a wasted attempt to make me jealous. As she walks away, his face flushes red and he smiles. I see her dimples in his cheeks. They have the same smile. I’d know that smile anywhere.

I can’t help but eavesdrop now, but as I eat my pizza, they don’t talk about her anymore. They talk about people they obviously know from another city. I’m sure it’s the city where she lived before she was forced to move here. Still waiting for a little more evidence, I finally get it when this guy – whose name I’ve learned is Chris – starts talking about his parents imminent divorce.

The friend lights a cigarette, undoubtedly used to what’s acceptable in New York. Lauren promptly lets him know that he can’t smoke in the restaurant in our small town. Instead of putting it out, Chris and the other guy decide to leave.

I pull out a few bills and throw them on the table as I get up to exit the restaurant. The two guys are still talking by the door when I get outside.

“Hey, uh,” I interrupt, “do you have another one of those?” I gesture to his cigarette, shivering in the cold.

“Sorry, man,” he says.

“Joey, damn it, give him one. It’s freezing, come on.”

“No, it’s alright,” I say, backing away.

“Come back,” Joey says, reaching into his pocket. He hands me both the pack of cigarettes and the lighter. I take one out and light it, thanking him as I hand them back. I take a few steps away to the other side of the entrance. I’m not sure what compels me to stay and listen, but I do, trying to look like I’m intently focused on something across the street.

A car pulls up, and an older man and woman get out. “Chris,” the woman calls. He turns around, startled. I sit down on a bench and stare at my feet, tapping them to a silent rhythm that only I can hear. As I think about her, I realize the rhythm is my heartbeat.

“What are you doing here?” he laughs.

“Is Emi with you?” she asks, frantic. I can’t help but look up once I hear the urgency in her voice.

“No, why?”

“We got into it,” the woman continues. “We left her in her room and had dinner with Mom, and when she went to take her some food, she was gone. Her coat, purse, boots are all gone.

“Well, I don’t think she’d be here. Wherever she went, it’s probably closer to Morristown, because she’d have to go on foot. I doubt she’d take a bus anywhere.”

I don’t wait to hear anymore, trying to act casual as I make my way to the SUV. Having grown up here, I know Morristown like the back of my hand. I also know good places to hang out on a Saturday night.

The main problem is, I don’t know what she likes to do. At all. Would she try to sneak into a bar? Or would she find a coffee shop, settling in with a cappuccino as she listened to a live local musician? I decide to just head to the north end of town, where the residential area meets the shopping strips.

Cars honk at me as I drive well below the speed limit. I laugh at the thought of getting pulled over for that. Would the cops still take me to the station for that offense? Suddenly, it’s not funny, and I decide to park the SUV next to a coffee house. I go inside and order a chai latte, needing something to keep me warm while I wander the downtown streets looking for a girl I know nothing about and have only met once. I realize my chances of finding her aren’t good, and judging by her despondent mood yesterday, I doubt she wants to be found.