Tell Me Three Things(62)

I pull the blanket off her, force her to face me.

“Tell me.”

“I’m so into him, I can’t even take it. I didn’t expect to even like him a little bit, and now, holy crap. I don’t know what to do with myself. All I think about is him,” she says, and I know exactly what she means. That’s how I think about Ethan—damaged, impossible-to-date Ethan. All the time, even when I don’t want to. Even when he is completely irrelevant to whatever I’m doing, like drinking with annoying Joe and wondering how Ethan would fit in. He’ll never come to Chicago. Never see Scar’s basement. But he was there anyway, in my mind.

And as stupid as it is, I admit I think about SN that way too. Not Caleb, not the real-life version of SN, but the one on my screen. The one who is always there for me.

He’s not real, of course. We’re all better versions of ourselves when we get that extra time to craft the perfect message. The SN I know and obsess about can’t translate into real life. He’s a virtual soul mate, not a real one. I do realize that.

“Scar, that’s amazing.”

“No, it’s horrible. I feel like an idiot. It’s Adam, for God’s sake. Your-old-neighbor-the-worst-kisser-in-the-world Adam. Though he’s a great kisser now.” She pulls the blanket over her head again, and I rip it off.

“Look at me. He’s into you too. Seriously, he’s been working out. I can tell. Why else would he suddenly start working out? And he can’t stop touching you and looks at you all the time. I mean. All. The. Time.” I throw my arms around her, because I’m so happy. She deserves a good boyfriend and everything else she could possibly want. Certainly, she deserves the happy ending of the romantic comedy about the boy next door, even if, technically, he was my neighbor, not hers. Close enough.

And she’s right: I did leave, and I didn’t for a second worry about what my moving would mean for her. I haven’t asked enough about Adam, about her new life, have only been focused on complaining about mine.

“I’m so sorry for not being here for you. I was an *. But I’m here now, okay?”

“Okay,” she says, and snuffles into my shoulder.

“So tell me everything,” I say, and she does.

—

Later, we eat Scar’s mom’s tofu noodle soup with hot sauce, which Scar promises is an ancient cure for hangovers. The food is staying down, so I consider it a win.

“Adam wants me to make him some tattoo stickers for his computer,” she says, and I smile at her. She really has it bad. No matter what we’re talking about, she finds a way to work him into the conversation.

“They’re awesome. You should totally sell them on Etsy.”

“Yeah, he’s already picked out what he wants if he ever gets real ones, but I want to make one that means something. That symbolizes him, or us. But I don’t know. It’s probably too soon.”

We slurp our soup, stare into our murky bowls. I don’t know if it is too soon. This is not my area of expertise, and I don’t want to screw things up for her.

“Is that your phone that keeps beeping?” Scar asks me. Since we sat down, I’ve clocked at least ten messages, but it could be more.

“Yeah,” I say.

“And you don’t want to check it?” I have purposely left my phone in my bag. An intentional, not an FAA-mandated, untethering. When I powered it on this morning, I already had a bunch of messages that I was too afraid to read. A few from Agnes and Dri, but I figure if they want to drop me as a friend, it can wait till Monday. Perhaps most terrifying of all: one from SN. I can’t believe I was stupid enough to IM drunk. I need to get a phone-locking Breathalyzer. Does that exist? If not, I’m going to invent it, disrupt the industry, and make a bajillion dollars.

“Not really.”

“It could be an emergency,” she says.

“What emergency? If my dad needs to reach me, he has your landline. I’m all yours right now. No Wood Valley crap.”

“I like to hear about the Wood Valley crap. Seriously,” Scar says, and stands up, stretches in a way that makes me wonder if she’s taken up yoga. “I just want to talk about me too, sometimes.”

“I’m sorry.” My new mantra. Hope my repetition of those words—I’ve said them maybe a hundred times this morning—doesn’t cheapen them. When my mom died, that was the expression I hated the most because it seemed like an easy way for people to deal with me and move on, the words a beautifully wrapped gift box with nothing inside. No recognition that her having died meant that she was now dead, every day, forever.

“I’m getting your phone.”

“No. Please don’t.”

“It must be done.” She grabs my phone from my bag, swipes the screen. “What’s your code?”

My tongue burns and my eyes water from the hot sauce. Still, I take another sip of soup. Avoid her eyes. Stir noodle and seaweed into a tangled knot.

“Fine. I know it anyway.”

“You do not,” I say, though of course she does.

“One-two-three-four. Yup, right in. How many times have I told you that you need to change that?”

I laugh, but I’m scared. What’s in my phone? What does SN have to say for himself? Why are both Dri and Agnes texting when they know I’m away? I pray that they’re writing to tell me that Liam came to his senses and he and Gem are back together, not because they’re mad. It’s strange that Wood Valley has seeped all the way here, halfway across the country.