There’s another MP4 labeledShoe.
He’s sitting up in bed again, resting against several pillows. “Hey. I took a Theraflu to make me sleep, but it’s not working. I’m watchingThe Red Shoes. I remember watching you and watching…watching you…watch it…when you were younger.” He pauses to cough. “You’d do the dance steps, and it was so cute. But…” He has a sneezing fit and pauses the recording. It starts again. He’s looking at the TV screen and holding the phone in his lap, facing up. “Shit. This Lermontov guy is such an asshole. He treats her like an algorithm he’s trying to perfect. Not a person he cares about. Am I like that? Is that what I’ve been doing?”
Another jump cut to: “And this Julian guy?Julian?! Seriously? The composer’s name is Julian?Eww. Lermontov is trying to control Vicky’s art. Julian is trying to control Vicky’s life. But nobody’s asking what Vicky wants!”
Jump cut. And he’s sobbing. I guess Vicky just died. “I’m sorry we never let you watch those dance competitions! Olivia! I’m sorry! Ahhhhh, I need you to forgive me! Oliviaaaaaaahhhhh!”
Wow. He really is a mess.
I’m not sure why he didn’t justtextthese videos to me. But I guess this is less of an overperformance than, say, projecting the videos onto the night sky. The briefcase deliverywasa nice touch.
I cannot get to him fast enough.
For real.
I order an Uber, and the closest one is…twenty minutes away? I have never had to wait that long for a car here. I can see how having a driver’s license and a car right now would be helpful.
I text Callie to let her know where I’m going. I text John so he knows I’m coming. I don’t hear back from him. I have the driverwait for me at a Whole Foods while I buy ingredients for my mom’s special soup.
When I get to John’s house, I ring the doorbell in case Gracia or any of his other employees are there. I knock three times, the way Johnny always did when he came to our house. No answer.
I am so glad I still have his house key. And then I pause before pressing down on the thumbpiece of the door handle, because the voice of reason in my brain is all:Wait, girl, just wait! What if this is all some kind of ruse to get you to come to his house? What if some surprise grand gesture is waiting for you behind that door? Take a breath, get your shit together, and make sure you look hot and lovable when you enter.
Okay, thanks, brain—I’ll do that.
I take a deep breath and open the door.
I am not met with a surprise grand gesture.
I am met with a series of very sophisticated-sounding beeps.
The security system.
I drop my shopping bag and go to the security keypad. I guess now we’ll know if John really remembered my birth date. I punch in a six-digit code, plus the Off button.
The system turns off.
He got my birth date right.
“John?”
A few table lamps are on in the living room and foyer, and the kitchen lights are set to dim. The house is eerily quiet.
The door to his bedroom is closed. I knock on it quietly before opening. “John?”
It’s dark. The room is lit only by the TV. An image is paused on the screen. A bearded Ryan Gosling in the rain.
I hear a grunt from the bed.
He’s alive.
I go over to the side of the bed and kneel on the floor. He’s sleeping on his stomach. He looks like an infant, so soundasleep. I place my hand on his forehead, and the shock of my cool skin against his hot skin wakes him.
“Johnny. You’re burning up.”
“You’re here.” He holds my hand with a weak grip.
“I’m here. You’re sick.”
