What If It's Us(17)

They look at each other, and it’s one of those lightning-fast wordless parental debates—if you can even call it a debate. It’s more like watching a bulldozer run over a worm.

Dad pats my shoulder. “Let’s do bagels tomorrow.”

“But I don’t want to be stuck in a Lyft with pre-coffee Mom,” I whisper.

“You’ll survive.”

The Lyft pulls in front of our building, and I slide into the back seat after Mom. She smooths her skirt and sets her phone on her lap, screen down, hands clasped together. She’s regained her chill now that we’re moving, but she’s watching me intently, and I think that’s almost worse. No doubt she’s gearing up for a Chat.

She clears her throat. “So, tell me about the boy.”

“What boy?”

“Arthur!” She nudges me. “From the post office.”

I look at her sidelong. “I already told you about him.”

“Well, you just told me what happened at the post office, but I want the whole story.”

“Okay. Um. You didn’t want me to look for him, so . . . that is the whole story.”

“Sweetie, I just don’t want you on Craigslist. Did you read that article about—”

“I know. I know. Machetes and dick pics.” I shrug. “I’m not doing Craigslist. I don’t even care that much.”

“I’m sorry, Arthur. I know you were hoping to find him.”

“It’s not a big deal. He’s just a random guy.”

“Well, I just think,” Mom starts to say—but then her phone buzzes in her lap. She peeks at the screen and sighs. “I have to get this. Hold that thought.” She twists her body toward the window. “What’s up . . . yes. Okay, yes. On our way. Ten minutes, and we’re swinging through Starbucks . . . what? Oh. Oh no.” She drums on her briefcase. Then she turns to me, eyes rolling slightly, and mouths, “Work.”

Which means she’s not hanging up the phone anytime soon. So I turn to stare out my own window, mentally cataloging the restaurants and storefronts. It’s not even nine, but the sidewalks are jammed with commuters. They all look exhausted and generally underwhelmed.

Underwhelmed. By New York!

I don’t know. Sometimes I feel like New Yorkers do New York wrong. Where are the people swinging from subway poles and dancing on fire escapes and kissing in Times Square? The post office flash mob proposal was a start, but when’s the next big number? I pictured New York like West Side Story plus In the Heights plus Avenue Q—but really, it’s just construction and traffic and iPhones and humidity. They might as well write musicals about Milton, Georgia. We’d open with a ballad: “Sunday at the Mall.” And then “I Left My Heart at Target.” If Ethan were here, he’d have the whole libretto written by the time we stepped out of the car.

“Oh, I don’t think so,” Mom’s saying into the phone. “Unless Wingate filed a brief. Okay, we’re a block away.” She pauses. “No, that’s fine, I’ll send Arthur. Be right up.”

Already, she’s fishing a twenty from her purse. “Tall nonfat latte,” she mouths.

Hashtag intern life.

I text Ethan while waiting in line at Starbucks. Concept: a musical set in the Atlanta suburbs called . . . wait for it . . . Ha-Milton. Mic emoji. Down-arrow emoji. Boom.

But Ethan doesn’t text back.

Thursday, July 12

It’s radio silence until the next morning, when Ethan texts a selfie to—surprise, surprise—the group chain. It’s him and Jessie at Waffle House holding up a bottle of chocolate syrup. You’re here in spirit, my dude! he writes.

It just sucks. Any other summer, I’d be next to Jessie in that booth, eating hash browns and ranting about politics or Twitter or stage-to-screen adaptations. I’d give Ethan and Jessie the full, unabridged post office story, and we’d probably make a football-style Operation Hudson game plan in my notes app.

As opposed to here, where the girls shut down every time I say the word Hudson. I swear, they’re even worse than usual today. One of the paralegals drops off a package for Namrata, and she barely even looks at it. It’s like she can’t stop typing. For a moment, I just watch her.

“What’s that?” I ask finally.

“I don’t know.”

“Maybe you should open it.”

“I will.”

Namrata’s fingers still on the keyboard for a moment while she reads something on her screen. Then she glances at a stack of documents, back up at her screen, and starts typing again.

“When, though?”

“What?”

“When do you think you’ll open it?”

“Let me guess.” Namrata sighs so hard, it ruffles the Shumaker documents. “You’re not going to let me work until I do.”

“That’s probably true.”

“Then let’s go.” She rips the package open and peers inside of it for what feels like ten minutes—but when she finally turns back toward me, she’s smiling. “Why the fuck did you buy me five pounds of candy corn?”

“It’s actually four pounds and fourteen ounces—”

“Of candy corn.”

“In July,” adds Juliet.