If You're Out There(57)

“How’s a kid supposed to get over something like that?” When I meet his eyes, I realize that he’s really asking.

“I don’t know,” I say. “But having you must help.”

He lets my hand slip away. “I think I knew something was coming. There was this voice telling me . . . But I was too scared to listen.” I nod, calm despite the swelling in my chest. I think I know exactly what he means.

“Hey,” I say, pulling myself together. “I’m really sorry about before. I shouldn’t have doubted you like that.”

“Stop,” he says. “I was a jerk.”

“No you weren’t.” I smile. “Okay, maybe a little. But so was I.”

A long silence swallows us up, more comfortable than not. When I shiver, he gestures to the space beside him, and I wedge myself in close. For a few long moments, I can feel two sets of lungs breathing. Still, but fiercely alive. “Hey,” he says, his jaw grazing the top of my head. “Did you mean what you said about Priya earlier? Are you really giving up?”

I look at him and realize I don’t have an answer. When I close my eyes, I can almost see her knowing stare pouring into me. We can never, EVER, give up on each other. K ZanaBanana?

“All I have is this . . . feeling,” I say after a minute. “Like you said. Like a voice, telling me it can’t be her. This doesn’t feel like her. Maybe I’ve got no solid proof to go on, but I’m still scared of what will happen if I don’t listen.”

Logan nods, taking this in, as another lonely car comes whirring past—loud to soft to silent, lights bright to faded to nothing at all. With a sigh, I lean into Logan’s side once more—giving my weight, eyes on the street, searching for fireflies in the dark.



Guten Morgen! . . . Afternoon, actually. I just can’t remember how to say that.

Today’s Amanda Jam is “Here Comes the Sun,” which—okay, I’m kind of into. (Yes, posterity that is not supposed to read this, I am super original and “discovered” the Beatles when I was twelve.) Not much new here. Although! My German textbook has a delightful little section on vocabulary words without direct English translations. For example, Fisselig: Being flustered to the point of incompetence. (Omg. Someone in Germany has met my stepdad.) Or, Backpfeifengesicht: A face in need of a punch. (Okay, staaawp. Was Ben like, THERE, when they made German? And why don’t we have words like this in English??) I’m a lifelong fan of these types of words, actually—even the ones with less relevance to my life. Like age-otori, the Japanese term for when you look worse after a haircut. Or my fave, gattara, the Italian word for old women who devote themselves to stray cats. (I mean come on, how sweet is that?) Jugaad is sort of like that, too. It’s an Indian word with different meanings, but it’s sort of like a hack, arrived at despite limited resources. (So maybe that one has some relevance.) Everything is so surreal right now. There are times I find myself tempted to administer one of those theatrical self-face-slaps you see people do in movies. (Omigod! In a way, I guess that means I almost have a Backpfeifengesicht!) And now! A new segment I’d like call, ACTUAL CONVERSATIONS WITH BEN!

Me: You’re such an asshole. (If I were German I’d have a cooler word than that.) Him: I know.

Me: How long till things go back to normal? Or can they even?

Him: He’ll kill us, Pri. Right now, I’m just trying not to get killed.

Me: You own a gun? Who on EARTH let you own a gun?

Him: Second Amendment, baby. I’m just kidding. Our nation’s gun laws are a joke.

Me: Can you move your head? You’re blocking the TV.

Him: Oh, sorry. Popcorn?

Sometimes I think of us careening across I-70, Ben checking his rearview mirror the day we moved. There was a moment when he lost control of the wheel and I had to reach across and take it. “We’re in some deep shit, huh?” he said. And I said, “WE?!?”

It’s funny how some things don’t change. And how everything does. (Well, not funny, I guess.) The memory won’t leave me—the worst day of my life (and yes, it’s still the worst, the worst by a mile). Yaz and Anushka took turns holding me. For hours until I fell asleep. Ben flew back on the first flight to New York. I remember the moment he walked into Yaz’s room, at the foot of that enormous bed.

We were shattered, both of us, but we were also strangers.

I must have stayed at Yasmine’s for a week, at least. No one pushed me. No one pushed him, either. I think they knew it was too much for us. I think they knew he was in over his head.

Somehow, we found routines. There were Girl Scout badges and dance classes, and drop-offs at the dry cleaners. But sometimes, when he would pour my cereal in the morning, or shut off my lamp at night, I’d catch these little flashes of terror in his eyes. So, I don’t know. Maybe that’s why I’m not scared right now. He’s got that same look.

He’s in way over his head.

(Priya Principle #304: Some faces could really use that punch.)





Nine


Monday, September 17

I look toward the window—neither at it nor through. When I break away, a husband and wife in matching visors and fanny packs are staring up at me from a booth. They may as well have TOURISTS stamped across their foreheads. “So you really don’t have Reubens?” The man holds a menu at a distance from his squinting eyes.