If You're Out There(63)

He was holding that ridiculous gun.

Me: Dude. This is a mistake.

Him: I wish we could trust each other, but I don’t see how. You’re too angry with me.

Me: Of course I am, but—

Him: It won’t be that bad. I’ll pick up whatever you want. Books? Snacks? You name it.

When I looked up, the man I knew had gone somewhere else.

So I steadied myself. I took a breath.

And then I asked for blueberries.

(Priya Principle #305: Always have a plan.)





Ten


Friday, September 21

At the front of the room, Se?ora O’Connell holds up a DVD. “Everyone! Today we’re watching Almodóvar’s Mujeres al borde de un ataque de nervios, aka Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown, aka the story of my life.”

Despite my mood, I catch her eye across the classroom and crack a smile. She found me the other day and apologized again for what she said about Logan. She referred to herself as a “work in progress.” Said she’s learning to trust the good instincts. To not always assume the worst.

I’ve been somewhere else all day. Exhausted. Sleepless. I keep feeling like I should be doing something.

I wish I knew what.

I’m already lost with this movie. An old guy is narrating into a vintage microphone in black and white. A chicken flaps its wings.

I’ve seen an Almodóvar film once, when we chose movies to review for Spanish sophomore year. I remember picking it because it had a bullfighter in it. In the end it confused the hell out of me and was also pretty gross. Priya watched it with me in my living room, frowning for long stretches. Afterward she declared that anyone claiming to understand-slash-enjoy a scene where a tiny man jumps inside a woman’s vagina was lying to sound smart. At the time, this seemed too specific to be a principle, but now I wonder if I should have put it down.

God, she was funny. Is.

Ugh.

All I want is to talk to her. Because I’m worried. Because I miss her. Because new things are happening. Good things, even. I know I have to have a life, and it doesn’t mean I’m giving up. But there’s so much I want to tell her.

Like how Logan stayed up late on Tuesday, drawing portraits of me in his room, an extension of our date at the museum—when he broke down everything from Degas’s dancers to massive modern canvases splashed in single nonsensical colors. When he talked, he had this light in his eyes that filled my entire heart. I want to tell her how my whole house is scattered with Whit’s things now, and Mom is always humming. How Arturo is making strides in winning over the Yun family, and Lacey is a surprisingly good lunch buddy. I want to tell her that Nick is so not over her, if she wants him back. Oh—and that I punched a guy! That Dad and I had another good, meaty dinner after we played soccer last night. That Harr still asks about her.

I want to find her. If she wants to be found.

But the thoughts always seem to devolve into the same old soupy mess. One fact in particular keeps changing shape inside my head—flipping backward and forward, mirrored and upside down. Ben is lying. Or Priya is. Both, maybe. Ben and/or Priya are lying.

I could call Ben again. I keep coming close. I’ll hold the phone in my hand with his number on the screen and stare and stare. But something keeps telling me not to.

Se?ora O’Connell walks through the aisles, returning a quiz I must have missed on Monday. She stops at Logan’s desk and I see his paper.

94

“Hey,” she whispers to him as she passes. “Good job.”

A yawn engulfs my face as I attempt to focus in the dark room. Even when the days are good, it’s still so hard to sleep. I was Googling Ben’s name when the sun came up this morning. He has no real online presence anymore. Just an old, out-of-date LinkedIn account. Some articles came up about his role at GRETA. Money begets money, he said in an interview a few years ago. My late wife understood that. And she put that simple concept to good use.

I searched Ben Grissom plus every bank. Plus finance and hedge fund. Plus mergers and acquisitions. I searched until I ran out of bank words. There was no trace of a job in California or anywhere else. Nothing since Chicago.

When I finally gave in and closed my computer this morning, I got up and passed Mom’s open door. She was upright against a pillow in bed, cloaked in sunlight, reading while Whit slept. For a minute I watched her, kneading her bottom lip the way she does when something fascinates her. I almost wanted to try again, to make her see what I could. But I knew she’d only try to talk me down. I wouldn’t make any sense. And the whole thing would go round and round.

Everywhere I go, Priya seems to pop up. A sound, a smell, a memory. Like she’s getting through. I feel her in the walls, in my pulse, peering back at me when I close my eyes. I can feel it—her. Like she’s reaching through the universe.

“Alejandra?” I jolt at my desk, one cheek pressed to my knuckles. The backs of my hands are wet from tears. The lights are on, and everyone is getting up.

Even Eddy looks worried. “Hey,” he says, disconcertingly genuine. “Are you okay, Zan?”

“Yeah.” I wipe my eyes and sniff, straightening up at my desk. “I’m fine. Thanks, Eddy.” He looks unconvinced as he walks off, while Logan and Se?ora O’Connell stay standing over me.

“Sorry,” I say, looking up at them. I try to smile, but my eyes spill over again.