If You're Out There(59)

Same as moving day.

I pulled up Priya’s Instagram and scrolled until I landed on a sun-streaked photo of her vine-wrapped home here in Chicago. On June 30, she wrote:

I will miss my beautiful life here, and all the beautiful people in it. But I have to believe that this place, and these people, will stay with me wherever I go.

I was probably halfway to soccer camp by then.

She didn’t post again for over a week.

It was hard to pull myself away from my Post-it notes and go to work, but Mom and Harr were due back home by three thirty, and I didn’t really want to bail on Arturo.

Before I left, I printed the email from the Northwestern day with Nick:

Sorry Zan. I can’t. Maybe it’s time to move on.

I printed all the photos, the statuses, the comments, since the move. I printed the ZZ email:

ZZWelcome way in/d.344itspdfiiiihauhlep.

I made a photocopy of the Found you note and added all the GRETA emails and documents. I three-hole-punched everything and replaced the contents of a binder meant for school.

I brought the binder with me to the restaurant and stashed it with the rest of my things in the corner by the salad bar. Now that I’m here, I realize I should have bailed. I’m flailing. I can’t seem to come out of this fog.

“Hey.” Logan comes by with a tall stack of salad bins from the fridge. “You okay?”

I’m just standing in the center of the kitchen. “Not really,” I say, floating over to my bag. I pull out the book of clues. Maybe if I stare some more, something will appear.

Logan slides bins of olives and chickpeas into their slots before brushing his hands on his apron. He leans into the counter beside me and nods to the binder. “Let me see?”

I hand it over and he rifles through, stopping on the ZZ email. “Why ‘welcome,’ I wonder.” He keeps flipping through as I begin to space out. I’m only half listening. I want my binder back. “And what’s up with Priya and blueberries?”

I look at him, his words hitting on a delay. “What did you say?”

“I was noticing it earlier,” says Logan. “They keep coming up.” He leafs through the printed posts. “A blueberry tart at the beach . . . Blueberries as a diet tip . . . And then—yeah.” He points. “They’re here in the shot where she’s talking about her favorite study snacks. It’s kinda weird. Girl really likes blueberries.” My heart lurches and he tilts his head. “What?”

“Holy . . .” I take the binder and look, my mouth gaping open.

“What is it?”

“Uh . . .” I’m struggling to form words. “‘Blueberry’ was sort of our . . .” How to put this? “Safe word? When we were younger? We used it whenever we needed rescuing from an uncomfortable situation.” I can almost hear the echo of Priya’s voice from the night of the bar mitzvah kiss with Eddy Hays. We need a system moving forward. Like a code word for Get me the heck out of this! My pulse has begun to race. “I can’t believe I didn’t notice that.”

“So . . .” Logan blinks, confused. “What would that mean? The posts are coming from her, but they’re like, coded?”

I look at the ceiling and groan. “What would the point of that be?” I straighten up. “She doesn’t mention rhinoceroses, does she?”

“Huh?”

“Never mind.” I take a few deep breaths as Logan goes to the dishwasher to grab clean ladles for all the salad dressings. “Tell me something good, Logan. I swear to God I’m about to have a panic attack right here.”

“Hey.” He comes over, drying his hands on his apron before placing them on my shoulders. “You’re okay.”

“Something good,” I say. “Now.”

He thinks a moment. “Oh, well, actually I do have one thing. I was going to surprise you after school with a ride to work, but then you skipped. I should clarify,” he says, smiling. “A ride with four wheels and an engine, as you once put it.”

I perk up. “Wait, seriously? No more lady bike?”

He nods, triumphant. “My aunt got herself an upgrade over the weekend and gave me her old car. For good behavior.” He teeters one hand. “Ish. I’m still happy to have this job, though. The paycheck can go toward gas. Or school, hopefully.” My stomach drops. “What?”

“Paycheck,” I mutter. “Why didn’t I—” I call out, “Hey, Sam?” She’s studying in one corner of the kitchen. “Mind if I interrupt for a second?”

“Sure,” she says, slamming a giant book shut and walking over. “I think I’ve had enough with fucking torts for a little while.”

Logan grins. “You really do spread sunshine wherever you go.”

Sam shoots him a reluctant smirk. “What’s up?”

I take a breath. “Do you know if Arturo ever got Priya’s last paycheck to her?”

“Uh . . .” I see a familiar gleam of pity in her eyes. It’s sad. Everyone here loved Priya. Now they never bring her up because of me. “Actually, no. He gave up. Honestly, it’s on her at this point.”

Arturo pops in through the double doors then. “Zan, you’ve got tables.”

“Sorry,” I say, my thoughts swirling. Why hadn’t I followed up with Arturo? Or checked the address myself? Suddenly I’m wondering. Did Priya and Ben change apartments? Did they not make it? Did Priya lie?