If You're Out There(50)

Everyone I see seems to be really living, and right here.

My legs take over again and I find myself climbing the bridge over Lake Shore Drive. A shortcut through the park spits me out near a gas station, and I head north for a while, until I see a familiar wall of brick draped in vines.

I catch the door as someone comes out and cut through the basketball court, a stray ball nearly taking me out within seconds. Something in the way I jolt makes me click in with where I am. All around, kids are practicing shots on top of shots. Through the window, I see senior citizens learning to belly dance in the movement studio.

It’s been years since I’ve set foot in the community center.

It’s strange to think, but I’ve finally found one—a wholly Priya-less place.

The weight room is home to its usual loners. The boxing stuff is still off to one corner. A stocky, older guy works the speed bag clumsily. It’s not quite the right height for him, and he can’t seem to find the rhythm. A part of me wants to step in and show him how, but I’m not sure he’s looking for advice.

As I walk onto the open mat, I get a waft of sweat and rubber and feel myself transported. For a second, I’m a smaller version of myself, all full of wordless fury. After Dad moved out, there was a long stretch when I loathed talking. I hated feelings. And talking about feelings. There was something in me, ready to burst and gush like a fire hydrant. If it opened, I wasn’t certain it would stop.

Reggie got it, anyway. He didn’t ask stupid questions. He just let me hit stuff. It was here—slowly—that I put myself back together. It’s a comfort to think about, actually. I did it once. Maybe I can do it again.

I walk toward a heavy red bag that dangles from a hook. I give it a push and watch it sway.

Maybe . . .

With a deep breath, I make myself complete the thought.

Maybe I have to let her go.

I kill time in Lincoln Park, winding along the nature boardwalk and up through the archway to the zoo. I’m pretty sure Mom was serious about keeping me out until sundown, and it’s as good a place as any.

I pay my respects to the snowy owl, the red panda, and a naked mole rat (who is, incredibly, just as ugly as he sounds). Inside the Ape House, the smell is pungent, an unfortunate marriage of mulch and shit. A mother nurses a baby in faraway corner, her back turned to the people straining to see.

Priya always got sad at zoos. I guess I can see why.

But none of that.

I’m letting go.

One tiny little thought at a time.

I suddenly remember the phone that’s been returned to me. I pull it out and see the screen lit up with texts. It does make me feel better. Less hermit-like. The messages are from Lacey, sent this morning.

The soccer girls are going to the movies this afternoon. Come if you want, and bring the stud muffin. Together we can stop chronic boylessness!

I laugh into the screen, though the mention of said stud muffin does sour my stomach a little. The next one comes with a photo.

Look what I found!!

We’re maybe nine in the picture, in matching soccer uniforms. My hair is messy and matted with sweat, while hers remains intact in the perfectly symmetrical French braids she always used to wear. She’s got her arm slung around me like I’m a prized possession. We’re both missing several teeth.

I write back.

Omg, so cute!

And sorry, didn’t see this. Ps. you’re ridiculous.

Lacey and I may never be soul sisters, but it wouldn’t kill me to make an effort. I follow up with another message.

Next time. ?

The crowd around me gasps, and my attention returns to the scene in front of me. The mother gorilla has set down her baby, who is now toddling this way like some adorable, bizarre near human. The reflections of gleeful spectators overlap the captives—little kids pressing noses to glass and parents wielding cameras.

Suddenly I land on a familiar face.

It takes me a minute to place him. It’s the man who spoke to me outside Priya’s gate the other day. His dark eyes widen behind glasses when they meet mine.

I jump. “Jesus!” The baby gorilla cackles through spread teeth, having smashed a handful of feces against the glass. I catch my breath as the mother lumbers over to scoop up the little rascal, and the phone in my hand buzzes—again, and then again. The texts are from Arturo.

911!!! Panicking.

You are still coming to the show, right?

RIGHT?? Starts at 4. HURRY!

“Crap,” I mutter, immediately running for the exit. I’m officially a jerk. I completely forgot about Arturo’s showcase. I weave through people, past food carts and rock candy stands, my flip-flops slapping the bottoms of my feet with every stride. If I hurry, I still might make it there in time. I head north, then west, toward another Cubs game overtaking the streets. Buses are rerouted, cars gridlocked. I run through hordes of fratty fans and kids on shoulders, a sea of matching jerseys and hats.

At five minutes to four I come stumbling into the theater and throw down money for a ticket. The place is packed with grown men dressed like college kids and hipster girls cracking jokes at the bar. There are no windows, so it feels like night. I note a general smattering of plaid throughout, just as Sam described, and there are several mustaches, possibly ironic. In the audience, a penis-adorned bachelorette party is already woo-ing, despite the empty stage.

“Pssst!” I look around. “Zan!”