If You're Out There(39)

The bike slows as I point to the house. “This is it.”

It’s somehow bigger than I remembered—one of the few ornate wooden homes you find sprinkled in with all the brick and brownstone. Being here feels both foreign and familiar, and as I take in the sight—the porch lanterns, the yard, the blossoming vines climbing up wood—I’m barraged with memories wrapped up in a place I realize no longer exists.

“So they’re rich,” says Logan, steadying the bike. “What’s the stepdad do for work?”

“I don’t really know,” I say. “Numbers? Money?” I press myself up from the basket and hop down. “He used to work on Wall Street before they moved here. My mom says his expense account back then was bigger than her salary.”

Logan drops the bike in a patch of grass and follows me to the gate. “Sounds nice.”

“Yes and no. Priya said they practically had a staff when it was just the two of them because he had to work so much. Housekeeper, nanny, tutor. She never liked having all those people fuss over her.”

“Huh,” says Logan.

“Anyway, all that ended when they moved here. Priya was older, and she had my mom to do the fussing instead.” I stop. “Did I tell you our moms were best friends?”

“You didn’t.”

My heart speeds up as I pull the latch to the black iron gate. The last time I walked this path was to say goodbye. I would have stayed until the second they drove off, but I was supposed to be leaving for soccer camp that day. My mom kept texting me. I was going to miss my bus.

Somehow I was the collected one in those final moments together. Priya cried and threw her arms around my neck, and as she pulled away she said, “Don’t you dare forget about me.” The night before, we’d gorged ourselves on cookies and numbed the pain with old episodes of Will & Grace in the attic. I remember thinking I was Will, because I’m grumpy. And she was Grace because she sparkled.

After a few more hugs, I unlatched this gate, and we said we’d visit at Christmas. We said we’d write. We said we’d count the days until summer, until India. And in that moment, it wasn’t so much a thought as it was a fact. We would always be friends. Because some love can’t dissolve, or fall apart, or get complicated.

Some love just is.

In the side yard, Logan makes binoculars with his hands to peek into a pane of the downstairs bay window. “They left a couch.”

I snap out of it. “I thought they were taking everything.”

“An armchair too. Bunch of stuff.” I march up the porch steps to see the mailbox completely stuffed. I scan the street for onlookers before digging through. “Anything good?” calls Logan.

My arms filled with envelopes, I lower myself to sit cross-legged against the front door. The pile is massive. “Menswear catalog . . . Trader Joe’s newsletter . . . Something from the cable company . . . Credit card promotion . . .” I glance up as Logan joins me on the porch. “This looks like a bill.” I dig for more. “Another bill. Another bill. Another bill. Jesus, did Ben not forward anything? He can be such a disaster. Once he forgot to pay the electric bill and they were stuck in the dark for like three days. Priya made him automate all the utility payments after that.”

“You gonna open one?” asks Logan.

“Uh, no,” I say, scandalized. “Tampering with mail is a felony.” I stand and stuff the envelopes back into the box. A thought strikes me.

“What?” says Logan.

“I wonder if the garage is open. We could get into the house through there.”

“Because opening someone’s mail would be reckless but breaking and entering is totally reasonable.”

I lift my chin. “I’m nothing if not unpredictable.”

I leave him there and make my way to the narrow strip of grass that leads to the back. After a moment he calls out behind me, “Are you sure you want to—”

“Yep!” I trudge ahead and he follows until we’re spit out into the alleyway, where garages meet in neat rows and trash bins soak up sun.

I rest my fingertips against the garage door.

“This is illegal, too,” says Logan. When I glance back, he’s standing in the center of the alley, a good distance away. “You know, if that was something you were worried about.”

“Details,” I say. And then, to myself, “Here goes.” I push up on the door. And like a tiny miracle, it slides. The garage is filled with boxes. We weave through and find the back door open.

Jackpot.

The whole first floor is scattered with stray furniture. Upstairs, Priya’s room is almost bare except for the bed, stripped down to the mattress, and the wooden desk she hardly ever used. In Ben’s room, the closet is empty, the men’s products cleared from his bathroom. There are no running shoes strewn on the floor or earbuds resting on the dresser.

I tug at the tightly wedged door that leads to the attic. I steady myself on the railing, suddenly hit with a transporting, indescribable smell. Is it pine? Laundry detergent? Whatever it is, it reminds me of Priya—the girl, not the mystery. There was a time when this place meant study sessions and laughing fits and epic discussions over cold leftovers from the restaurant. I used to race these steps without a second thought, careful only to avoid bumping my head at the top. The attic was a bubble, far away from my mother’s well-intentioned checkins and just out of Ben’s willing-to-travel radius.