As her words cut off and I look up, her free hand goes to her braid end, combing it with her fingers in a stress-tell I know well. My mind rewinds her last few sentences.
“Hold on. ‘We’ who?” I ask.
“Oh, just… everyone. Me and Naomi, the whole town! Everyone knows how well you’ve done.” Her fingers comb faster and she pours out more words. “Liza at the post office told me yesterday how much she loves those YouChannel videos you do—”
“YouTube.” My eyes narrow. “Are you hiding something?”
“Well, listen to you,” Minnie drawls in the deadpan delivery that means I’m trying her patience. “Got your reporter hat on, thinking everything’s a secret to bust open.” Her focus darts up to the chicken-shaped clock I know is on the kitchen wall. “I’ve gotta go, Natty. I’ll run late for quilting with the gals if I dillydally.”
It doesn’t escape my notice, as we sign off, that she hasn’tanswered my question. In the back of my mind, a warning beacon thrusts one beam through the fog:
Does the “we” she’s talking about include Jason and Sherri?
In the absence of information, I’ve made up multiple explanations for their disappearance over the past twenty-seven years—everything from a child’s fairy-tale whimsy to a teen’s Shakespearean tragedy. With the sometimes-morbid perspective of adulthood, I occasionally wonder if they died, under circumstances owing to the same reckless decision-making that propelled them out of my life in the first place.
I’ve never let myself look them up online, though I’ve been tempted many times. The idea of doing so feels like letting them win. I refuse to care about them more than they ever cared about me. They walked away and didn’t look back.
Or…didthey look back?
7
SPAIN
TWO WEEKS LATER
NATALIA
Crappy non-apologies—the kind that pretend to be hat-in-hand but hide a hatpin that sinks into my knuckles when I reach to accept it—are Phaedra’s MO. And I’ve always let her get away with it, not wanting to embarrass her.
Well, this time I refuse to laugh it off and sweep it under the rug, I tell myself.
Six days after the blowup in Shanghai, I got a text:
I shouldn’t have said the things I did, but I don’t know if it’s fair of you to say I’m “judgmental” when I’m trying to be helpful. Can we hang out in Baku? Snacks and trash TV?
Not an apology.
Then, nine days later:
If I say you win, does this go away? The silent treatment is silly. I’ll do the bullshit “talking about our feelings” if it’s what you’re holding out for, Princess, haha. Call me.
This Monday morning in Barcelona, four weeks after our argument, I got the most annoying text yet from her—the maddening???universally understood to signifyWhy are you being a stubborn jerk and not replying?
How can she fail to take a clue? All I want is a non-qualified, non-backhanded “I’m sorry.” Part of me is tempted to tell her that, but it doesn’t count if I have to spell it out. Do I need to write a script?
Once again, I wonder about the unexpected sacrifices I’ve had to make for this “dream” job withARJ. Has proximity dealt a death blow to my friendship with Phae? One minute I miss her horribly… but then she’ll go and send me another clueless text and I think,No, it’s not the job—it’s us. We’re incompatible, and it’s time to accept it.
I’m ranting under my breath about her stupid passive-aggressive question marks, reassuring myself again that I’m right and she’s wrong, one finger hovering overContacts > Phaedra > Edit > Deletewhen a message comes through.
Charcoal Suit:Are you still in Barcelona?
Me:I’m here. Why?
Charcoal Suit:I’ve canceled plans for lunch on Jakob’s boat because I’d rather see you.
Charcoal Suit:I oughtn’t assume you’re available. But if you are, I have something I’d like to show you.
Me:I’m intrigued.
