The Girl He Used to Know(13)

“Oh,” she says. “Hi, Annika. Just give me a second to put this down.” She sets the meal on the counter. “What was that for?” Her voice doesn’t sound as calm as it usually does. It’s higher pitched now.

“I feel bad that you burned your finger.”

“You’re always so sweet, but I’ll be fine. Thanks, Annika.” She grabs her lunch and leaves the room in a hurry. She must be late for a meeting or something.

It isn’t until the end of the day when I’m shutting down my computer to go home that I remember the only reason Audrey had to cover for me last week was because of an off-site meeting I attended at the request of our boss.



* * *



My headache never really went away and I’m completely worn out when I get home from work. I’m fostering a mother cat and her five kittens, and they’re currently in a cardboard box under my bed. I spend an hour lying on the floor next to it listening to their calming little meows as my headache finally fades away. For dinner, I pour a bowl of cereal, and when I finish eating, I put on my pajamas and crawl into bed with a book, even though it’s only eight thirty.

The phone rings an hour later. I don’t have caller ID because not very many people call me, and I usually let my answering machine screen the ones that do so I have time to decide if I want to talk to them. It drives my mother absolutely nuts. It drives Janice nuts, too, so she always yells, “Pick up the phone, Annika. I know you’re there and I know you want to talk to me.”

I want to hold out so the answering machine can do its thing, but then I remember that it might be Jonathan, and I snatch the handset with only seconds to spare.

“Hello?”

It is him, and I’m flooded with happiness. Plus, I’ve always found the sound of Jonathan’s voice to be very soothing. He never speaks too loud and there’s something comforting about the way he strings his words together. To me, they sound like a melody. Audrey sounds like a foghorn whenever she blows into the room, and the way she strings her words together does not sound melodious. It sounds like screaming death metal.

“I didn’t wake you, did I?” he asks.

It’s only nine thirty, but if there’s one person who’s familiar with my sleep patterns, it’s him.

“No. You didn’t wake me. I’m reading in bed.”

“I can get together on Saturday,” he says.

“That’s great!” I say it way too loud.

“Yeah, well. It’s just lunch, right?”

“That’s what I said in my message. I said it was lunch.”

“Yeah, I know. What I meant was … never mind. Lunch is fine. Lunch will be great. Do you want me to pick you up at home?”

“I’ll be at the Children’s Theatre Saturday morning. Can you pick me up there? Around noon.”

“Sure.”

“Okay. I’ll see you then.”

“Good night,” he says.

“Good night.”

We hang up, but I don’t go back to my book right away. I spend the next half hour thinking about Jonathan, replaying the highlights of our relationship like a “best of” reel, and when I wake up the next morning, he’s the first person I think about.





10


Annika


THE UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS

AT URBANA-CHAMPAIGN

1991



The sound of footsteps echoed loudly on the sidewalk, and I turned around in time to see Jonathan sprinting toward me. When I left, he’d been talking to Eric and a few of the other players, and I assumed he would be going to dinner with everyone. We had played each other again, and I’d managed to win this time. Jonathan must not have minded too much, because he said, “I like playing with you, Annika.”

A warm feeling had spread through me, because no one but Eric had ever said that to me before, and I didn’t remember it having an effect on me the way it did when Jonathan said it. It was becoming easier for me to talk to him without clamming up or stammering my reply. I’d just needed a little time to ease into it, the way I always did with new people.

“Hey,” he said when he caught up to me. “You forgot your book.” He thrust out his hand and I spotted my dog-eared copy of Sense and Sensibility nestled in his large palm.

“Thanks.”

“It’s getting dark. You should always try to walk home with someone.”

“Everyone always goes out to dinner.”

“Why don’t you?”

“I don’t want to.” I put the book in my backpack and we crossed the street. Usually I abhorred small talk, but my curiosity got the better of me. “Why don’t you go out to dinner?”

“I have to work. I bartend at the Illini Inn on Saturday and Sunday nights. Do you ever go there?”

“No.”

“You should come in some time. Like when I’m working.”

“I don’t go to bars.”

“Oh.” He hoisted his backpack higher on his shoulder, and we walked in silence for a minute.

“Have you ever thought about joining the competition team? Eric asked me to consider it, and I think I’m going to.”

“No.”

“Why not?”