If You're Out There(28)

And there it is. “Oh.”

“Look.” He studies me for a beat, clearly questioning his decision to keep talking. “I know this is hard. And it sucks. But eventually, you will get past this. And . . .” He braces himself. “I know this is a fairly sacrilegious thing to say to a teenage girl, but I think the first step is probably to put down the phone.” I laugh as I scroll past another nauseating photo Priya posted this weekend (Saturday Selfie! Love you, Cali). She’s tilting her head to one side with a mock model face, the blue water stretching out behind her. “Think we could try that?” he asks, reaching across the table to gently pry the phone from my hands.

I sigh with resignation, before my fingers clamp back down around the phone. I study the picture again. Priya’s hair is swept back in a ponytail, revealing a pair of chandelier earrings. Jhumke in Hindi, she told me once. These are gold with little teal beads—the ones I gave her for her birthday.

My breath catches.

Holy shit.

“Boop?” I don’t register Dad’s voice at first. He hasn’t called me that in years. “Hey. You okay?”

“Can I borrow your car?” I ask.

I interpret his flummoxed expression as a yes. “I’ll be right back!” I say, swiping his keys from the kitchen counter and doubling back for another piece of naan.

“Wait . . .” Dad stands as I run around the apartment searching for shoes. “Your food will get cold.”

I smash my feet into my sneakers until they’re halfway on and make a beeline for the door. “I just need twenty minutes, half an hour tops.”

I’m already halfway down the corridor when Dad’s voice rings out behind me. “Okay, well . . . Permission granted! But be careful!”

I find the Subaru in the garage beneath the building, wedged into Dad’s corner spot near a beam on the passenger side. I press hard on the accelerator and lurch out of the space with a solid inch to spare. Soon I’m barreling down North Avenue, cursing every light and crosswalk.

At the next red light, I have a standoff with my phone on the passenger seat. I bite my lip. I was horrible. I know. But I really want to talk to Logan.

“Come on . . .”

His phone goes straight to voice mail, and I’m surprised by how disappointed I feel. I hit another stoplight and send him a text.

Hey so. . . . If you keep hanging around me you will probably pick up on how much I suck at feelings. I’m sorry about before. Would you call me? Seriously—911!

My phone chirps as I pull onto my street, but it’s only Dad, probably worrying about his daughter’s questionable mental state. I take the porch steps two by two, and soon I’m hoofing it up to my room.

Mom calls out from the first floor. “Hello?”

“It’s me!” I shout. “Forgot a couple things!”

I shut my door and run over to my dresser. There are four small jewelry boxes stacked against the wall, hidden behind books and laundry.

I grab the first one. Mom brought it back from a trip to Denmark years ago. It’s shaped like a treasure chest, carved like it’s covered with vines. I swipe the dresser clear, sending clothes in all directions. I open the lid and spot the jangly bracelets Priya and I both got as presents from Anushka after one of her trips, back when she still traveled a lot to and from Mumbai, before GRETA hired someone local and the gifts stopped.

I turn the little chest upside down and spread knotted necklaces and mismatched earrings onto the wood surface.

“Dammit.”

The next two boxes are less sentimental, the kind that come with cheap jewelry already inside. They yield nothing but some long-retired anklets and a few pairs of hoop earrings that look completely ridiculous on me.

I hold the last box in my hands. It was a handmade gift from Priya, upholstered in silk and bedazzled to the max. Priya always had a thing for bedazzling—posters, picture frames, her cell phone case. My thoughts keep veering off, buying time, and for a lingering moment I’m completely still. Like maybe I don’t want to know.

But I do know. I’ve known from the moment I recognized the picture.

I set the box in front of me on the dresser and lift the lid. A little jolt courses through me and I step back. Because there, atop a heap of tangled chains, are Priya’s teal beaded jhumke from that goddamned Saturday Selfie.

I don’t fully remember driving back to Dad’s. Some other part of my brain took over and got me there. It even helped me wedge the car back into the parking spot. Harr was still watching his show when I walked in, while Dad scrubbed at the bright white table with a Lysol wipe. He might have asked if I wanted my food reheated, but I think I mumbled “Maybe later” before slipping into my room.

I sink onto the edge of the bed, resting the earrings beside me on the comforter, and check the photo on my screen to compare for the millionth time. There’s no mistaking it—they have the same intricate gold base, the same teal beads on chains that form a perfect V.

The more I stare, the more certain I become. That isn’t the ocean in the background. It’s Lake Michigan. It was that day on the beach on Mom’s ratty yoga blanket. The week of Priya’s birthday. When our to-go cups watched the sun go down.

I gave her the earrings early, because they were so her I couldn’t wait. Then she left them at my house, sleeping over one night, and forgot to take them back.