If You're Out There(27)

“Sure,” says Dad. “But I’m putting down a towel.” I don’t know what possessed Dad to buy a white couch, but at least it’s cheerful looking. Almost everything in here is new—the rug, the chairs, the dishes. There’s an old-fashioned globe at the end of a high shelf full of books. Below is a row of framed pictures, and one is of me, as a roly-poly baby. In the kitchen, there are drawings from Harrison all over the refrigerator.

“So.” Dad returns to his seat once Harr is set up. “How, uh . . . How are you?”

I look at him. Frown. “I’m . . . good?”

He blinks, staring at me as if I might detonate at any moment. “I don’t want to pry here.” He clears his throat. “But uh . . . Your mom called me before you guys came over. And she asked if I might try to . . .” He winces. “Well, she says you’ve been acting”—oh no, cue the eye roll—“depressed?”

“It’s not depression when something bad happens,” I spit back. “Then it’s just regular old sadness. Mom of all people should know that.”

His hands are up. “Of course she does. But I think she’s . . . worried. And she’s not the only one.” He scratches his head, thinking, and I can feel him winding up for a Talk. We don’t do this. I don’t know why he thinks we do this. “Believe it or not, I’ve been where you are before. I’ve lost a best friend. And so has Mom.”

“Mom lost her best friend to a car accident. To life being shitty and unfair. She didn’t lose Sita to, I don’t know, a choice! To a completely unexplained thing that makes no sense.”

He nods, calm, thoughtful. “That’s true.”

“Priya is choosing not to be my friend, Dad. I’m not saying it’s worse. I’m saying it’s different.”

“And I’m sure that’s hard. But it doesn’t make it any healthier to pick the scab.”

I swallow. “Who says I’m picking a scab?”

He hesitates. “Mom . . . She says you still check up on Priya sometimes. Online.”

I drop my fork onto my plate. “So now she’s spying on me?!”

Harrison looks up from his show and I smile like everything’s fine. “What the hell, Dad?” I whisper.

“Hey. No one’s spying on anyone.”

“Then how would she know that?”

I glance over at the couch, where my brother has returned to his TV-induced trance. Dad’s eyes fall to the table. “She said you’ve left Priya’s Instagram account up on your laptop a couple times. It was just there—she wasn’t checking. But she says this has been going on for months, and, I mean I hate to say this, but I think maybe it’s about time you say to yourself, I don’t know, Message received!”

“Well, I can’t.” I can feel the heat rising to my face. “And honestly, I’m getting less and less sad, and more and more pissed off.” Dad hasn’t touched his food. He’s just listening, waiting. “Her posts are so . . .” I’m fighting tears again. “It’s like she decided to be this new, bouncy, California chick who wants nothing to do with me. And I just want to know what it is!”

Dad’s eyes flit up to search mine. “What what is?”

I shrug. “What’s wrong with me. Why I wasn’t worth keeping in her life. Why I’m so . . .” I look at my lap. “Easy to leave.” I clear my throat. “You should see the posts, Dad. It’s like she hates the people we used to be.” I take out my phone and scroll through her captions, narrating in my best Valley girl voice. “‘I kinda miss the changing leaves, but who could argue with forever summer?’” I throw my hands up. “Do you see what I’m talking about? Priya knows perfectly well that forever is a noun, not an adjective!”

“Well, technically . . .” He frowns. “Wait, is it an adverb?”

“I don’t care, Dad. Listen to the caption on this photo.” I hold up an arty shot of color-boosted blueberries in a bowl. “‘Berries, not chips! Getting healthy, woo hoo!’” I let out an exasperated groan. “She’s so, like, chipper! And she’s always writing cheesy crap now. Like, how you have to ‘look through rain to see the rainbow,’ or whatever.” I stare at him, still baffled. “Who has she become? I want her to call me. Or better yet, to come back home and look me in the face. And then I want to scream at her.” I meet his worried eyes. “So I’m not depressed. Okay, Dad? I’m furious.” I shove some naan into my mouth. “Are we done?”

“Sure,” he says.

I chew in silence for a moment, feeling a little like I briefly left my own skin. This isn’t me. I don’t bare my soul and fight off tears. Especially not here, with Dad.

He gets up to grab the water pitcher from the fridge, and I watch from across the kitchen as he pours two glasses, plus a plastic cup for Harr.

“Who did you lose?” I ask suddenly.

“Hm?” he says, settling back into his chair.

“You said you lost a best friend, too.” Dad glances over at me before lifting his fork, and for a second I’m reminded of all the things I don’t quite know about him. “Who was it?”

He smiles, almost. “Your mom.”