“And the student becomes the teacher,” Benji whispers under his breath.
Lola turns her head to pin him with the full force of her smirk. “Be quiet, sensei, I’m Instagramming.”
We all read his profile:
Good Guy
Endlessly in search of the next adventure, great and otherwise.
He has thirty-five followers and follows ninety-nine, me now included. Lola scrolls slowly through his photos: a small cabin surrounded by snow-laden pine trees, an out-of-focus city street aglow with taillights and the signage of surrounding buildings, a sunset reflecting on the water of a lake, and a scruffy dog curled up sleeping in a patch of sunlight on a threadbare rug. No captions on any of them. No hashtags. Like me.
I smile.
Lola frowns. A real one this time. “That’s it?”
Benji takes over and attempts to scroll further, as if his technologically challenged mother has done something wrong. “That’s it,” he verifies. “First post was made two years ago, and the last one was made three months ago.”
“They’re great photos, though,” I add because I feel like I need to defend him.
Benji agrees.
Lola’s still frowning. “Where are the selfies? Why am I surrounded by the selfie-adverse?”
“Because a face is such a small piece of someone’s story?” I venture.
She takes a long pull from her cooled coffee, then props her elbow on the counter, and rests her chin in her palm, drumming her fingers on her cheek thoughtfully. “But can we really trust someone who never posts their face?” It sounds like a serious question, which is rare for Lola.
I outstretch my arms, presenting myself in lieu of answering the question.
“The jury’s still out.” Her face is serious, but her voice isn’t.
I drop my arms to my sides and tilt my head to the side in mock hurt.
She cracks a smile and whines, “But don’t you wonder what he looks like? Where he’s from?”
Benji and I look at each other and then we both do this noncommittal, wobbly nod, shoulder-shrugging thing.
Lola shakes her head. “It’s so weird when you two do that. Nineteen hours of hellish labor?—”
Benji interrupts to keep the story factual. “Fourteen hours.”
Lola corrects but doesn’t miss a beat. “Fourteen hours of hellish labor to birth you?—”
“—but you act just like her.” We all finish the sentence in unison because she quotes this so frequently we have it memorized.
“My condolences, sweet child of mine,” I say solemnly.
Benji doesn’t answer, but Lola starts humming Guns N’ Roses, before she snaps out, “Fuck, stop distracting me with Axl Rose lyrics.” She’s always been obsessed with anything from the eighties. “You seriously don’t want to know more about this guy?”
We stare at her. And then I acquiesce. “Maybe? A little?”
She shakes jazz hands at me, which is strangely endearing because it means she’s really excited, even mid-hangover. “I don’t know why that sounded questioning, but I’ll take it.Yes!” She slips into a deep southern drawl and stretches the three-letter word out for a full three seconds.
I nod, while Benji deposits his phone in the pocket of his pajama pants, puts his bowl and spoon in the dishwasher, and disappears down the hall to his room.
It’s quiet for a minute before I realize Lola is watching me make another cup of coffee. Intently. The way she does when she’s concerned. Sometimes having a sister who’s an empath is a pain in the ass. “You okay, Soph?” I know we’re not talking about social media anymore. We’re talking about Chance. About the aftermath.
Because Lola’s always been my confidant, I share. “He posted a photo last night. With her.”
