“Let me get this straight,” she says, teeth clenched together, her voice a dangerous whisper. “You showed up at our damn apartment, picked up my roommate—my kind, loving, way too fucking out of your league roommate—and took her to a dinner party. Adinner party where you ‘introduced’ her to Jonathan. Freaking. Ryan.”
It’s not a question, but I offer an affirmative nod. “Apparently they already know each other?” I’m hoping the uncertainty laced throughout that statement prompts some sort of explanation about why Alis never mentioned him.
“Yeah. She knows him.”
“That’s it? That’s all you’re going to say? Your roommate, your kind, loving, and most definitely way too out of my league roommate, who also happens to be my girlfriend, comes with me to a party, gets reintroduced to someone from her past, collides with a woman on her way back from the washroom, and is suddenly so overwhelmed by spilled pinot that she sleuths out of the party and ghosts me for eight freaking days. And ‘yeah, she knows him’ is all you have to say about it?!”
“It’s not my damn story to tell, so yeah. That’s all I have to say.”
You have got to be kidding me. “You show up at my house, bang on my door, threaten to slice my tires, and that’s all you have to say. No. That’s not happening. I get that you’re mad and you want answers, but damn it, so do I. The woman I love hasn’t spoken to me in eight days, and if I hadn’t known she and Sunny were leaving for Moraine last Saturday, I probably would have thought she was dead in a ditch somewhere. Talk, woman. You owe me more than ‘yeah, she knows him.’ What the hell is going on?”
Skye crosses her arms over her chest. Her rage still present, but now it’s accompanied by worry.
“You love her?” she asks. “Truly? You love Alis.”
“Yes.”
“And does she know this?”
That’s an excellent question—one to which I do not know the answer. “If you’re asking if I’ve said the words to her, no, I have not. I had planned to tell her Friday after the party, but I never had the chance.”
“I see,” she says, drifting off into who knows where inside her head.
“Skye. Focus. What happened Saturday?”
“Right, right, right,” she continues. “So, Saturday. I left that morning around five to head toward Moraine. We had talked about riding together, but I had some things to take care of that week and didn’t want to be stuck driving my dad’s truck, plus I had to be back in Grand River for work on Monday so I went ahead and drove myself. I expected to meet Alis for drinks with Tori that night after dinner, but when she didn’t show up I texted her to where she was. She texted me back saying she was wiped from the drive and wanted to turn in early. I didn’t think anything of it. You know Alis—she needs her own space. I wanted a night hearing all about the orgasms you gave her, but I wasn’t going to push her to come out if she needed sleep. I figured staying up all night with you and then driving four hours home was a good enough reason to skip girls’ night for once.”
She pauses, and I gesture for her to continue.
“I didn’t talk to her Sunday because I was helping Tori with some stuff, and I drove back Sunday night because I had to work this week. Alis didn’t text me, which, again, isn’t out of character for her. She hasn’t been home since we moved here, and she’s close with her folks, so I assumed she was fine and went about my week. I drove back to Moraine on Wednesday after my shift and went straight to the G’s place?—”
I interrupt. “G’s place?”
Skye backtracks, waving her hand around. “The Gilmores’. Alis’s parents,” she clarifies.
“Right, so then what happened?”
“She wasn’t there,” she says, propping her hand on her hip and looking at me like I should already know she wasn’t at her parents’ house. Well, of course, I should know.
“And?” I prompt, once again signaling for her to get on with her story. “Did you find her?”
“Eventually, yes. Her parents didn’t know where she was. Sunny was at a friend’s house. Tori hadn’t heard from her, not that she would even check her phone when she’s dealing with Chase and hiscrap. I swear, sometimes I just want to walk up to that man and punch him in the throat. Who the hell does he think he is? God? The Pope? Henry Cavill?”
“Skye. You’re getting off topic.”
“Sorry, sorry. It’s been a long week, okay? Alis. I found Alis at the cemetery, talking to her sister.”
My heart sinks at this revelation. “Is that something she normally does on a Wednesday?” I ask, trying to sound more curious than upset.
“I mean, maybe? For the first year or so after Belle died, Alis spent a lot of time at her grave. We’re close—I mean, we’re best friends. Have been since we were kids. But Belle was her person, ya know?”
I nod in understanding. “She’s told me about their relationship. They were more than sisters.”
Skye snaps her fingers at me, nodding enthusiastically. “Exactly. So it wasn’t weird or anything that she’d spend time there. She slowed down over the years, and eventually only went on her birthday, Belle and Alex’s anniversary, Sunny’s birthday—you know, the important days.”
Skye has been talking for what feels like thirty minutes, and I’m still not one step closer to finding out what’s wrong with my girlfriend. “Look, Skye, I’m not trying to be an asshole, but can you please get to the point? What is going on with Alis? What happened between her and Jonathan Ryan, and why does she intentionally omit him from her personal and academic history? Don’t tell me it’s not your story to tell because right now I’m making it your story. Give me the bullet points, not the entire backstory. Where is she?”
Skye still doesn’t look convinced that I haven’t done anything wrong, but mentioning Dr. Ryan has changed the tide. “Fine,” she huffs. “Alis is at the apartment. She’s back from Moraine, but she won’t leave her room. She tried to act like nothing was wrong while we were at her parents', but I knew from the second I saw her crying her eyes out at Belle’s grave that it was more than a standard visit. She’s refusing to talk to me about it; keeps brushing things off likeshe’s fine and you guys just aren’t going to work out. Problem is, I’ve known her since we were in preschool. She has a tell?—”
