“Maybe you should marry John and I’ll marry Katie.”
“You stay away from my woman,” he says. “I know I’ve always been protective of you—you’re my little sister, and I don’t want you to get hurt. But I think you’re beingoverprotective of yourself right now. I asked him to check on you, and that’s what started all of this. Now, I’m asking you to go check on him. As a friend. He sounded so…vulnerable.”
I don’t need to hear another word. We hang up, but before I have a chance to get dressed and order an Uber, the front door buzzes with a delivery. For me. It’s a leather briefcase with handles that have been gnawed on by a puppy. Johnny’s briefcase.
Inside, there’s a brand-new laptop. It’s not the one I looked at in Cleveland. I pull it out and place it on the coffee table. There’s a sticky note on it with John’s handwriting that says:
Open me. But only if you’re Olivia.
Just as I’m about to open it, my phone rings. The caller ID says it’s Iris. “Hello?”
“Olivia?”
“Hi. I just got the briefcase and the laptop.”
“What briefcase and laptop?” she asks.
“Oh. You didn’t have this delivered?”
“No. Did you have the flower arrangement delivered to me just now?”
“No,” I say. “Someone sent you flowers?”
“There’s no card. Nobody knows that yellow peonies are my favorite besides my husband, and he swears they aren’t from him.”
“Well, if John heard you say it once, then he knows. He remembers, and he knows.”
“I’m so worried about him,” she says.
“Why?”
“He resigned as advisor to Brainy Biz this morning.”
“He did?”
“He sounded very sick. I’ve never heard him like that before. He said he sent everyone home, and he forbade me from going to his house.”
“I’m on my way there, Iris,” I tell her. “I’m going to his house.”
“Okay. Let me know that he’s okay. If you remember to.”
I open the laptop and wake up the computer. The wallpaper is the first photo John took of us at that restaurant on our double date. The one he posted on Instagram. There’s a document open. It says:Please open the folder and watch the videos. Thank you. —John.
There’s only one folder on the desktop, and it’s filled with MP4s. I click on the one that’s labeledTime.
The video opens. It’s not well lit. The camera is shaky, and then Johnny’s unshaven face fills the frame. At least, I think it’s Johnny’s face. It’s more like if you fed a photo of John Brandt and the weird old guy fromBack to the Futureand had AI morph them together with the specific instruction to make sure he still looks hot. He is disheveled. He looks tired. He looks sad. He keeps sniffling and coughing. But he still looks really, impossibly handsome.
“Ohhh,” he moans. “Ohhh-livia. I can’t sleep without you. I watchedHot Tub Time Machine 2again because it reminds me of you. Because I miss you. And I fucked up. But not as much astheyfucked up, because where the fuck is John Cusack?!” He waves his hand in front of the camera. “Sorry. Sorry for yelling.”
That’s it. That’s the end of the video.
I click on the file labeledPlease.
Johnny’s lit by a table lamp near his bed, but he’s curled up, holding a pillow, looking like he’s in pain. I can hear Bonnie Raitt singing “I Can’t Make You Love Me” in the background. “Whyyyyy?” he sobs. “Why did they make it so sad?!” He wipes his nose with the back of his hand. “This is the saddest song I ever heard!” He lets out a plaintive wail. “Nooooooo! Please don’t leave me. Ohhhh. Oh. Olivia. I’m so tired. I can’t sleep. I’m not sick! I just can’t sleep without you.”
I open the video markedYou.
It looks like Johnny’s lying on his stomach. His face is lit by a computer screen. I can hearmyvoice in the background. “You’re soooooo pretty.” Oh God. He’s watching my YouTube videos. “You’re even pretty in real life, but you look so pretty in these videos, baby. I tried to go to sleep with the videos on, but your body’s not here.” He pouts. “I need your body here.” He has a coughing fit. “I’m just thirsty.” And that’s the end of the video.
