“Obviously you don’t need to stay for the showcase,” Greer says—or blurts, rather, almost as soon as we’re out of the front door of the building. The sun feels blinding, overwarm. A weather-directed mockery of my shock.
I said I’d stay for amonth.
“The point is,” she continues, walking briskly ahead, tugging a pair of huge, tortoiseshell sunglasses out of her purse and sliding them on, “now I’ve got a foot in the door. I’ll do the class and—well. I’m a really good student. He’ll write the letter. I’ll say you got called away. Breaking news somewhere. That’s obviously not a stretch for anyone to believe. He’ll be disappointed, but—”
“Greer.” I say it not because I have anything to offer, certainly not a reassuring word to tell her that it’s fine, that one month is no problem. I say it because I imagine that for Greer—Greer who chooses her words carefully, Greer who often chooses not to say any words at all—talking so much means she’s maybe feeling as shocked as I am. I say it because I like the sound of her name. I say it because maybe she needs a minute too.
Amonth.
This morning, even before the sun had been up, I’d woken in a cold sweat, and that had been new—a panic attack coming out of sleep. It’d mostly been the same as the others—racing heart, waves of nausea, a whole body and brain restlessness that had made me roll from the bed to stand. I’d set my hands low on my hips and stared at the polished wood floors of Kit’s guest room, feeling trapped and stuck, trying to catch my breath and knowing already that I’d made a mistake, telling my sister I’d stay for acouple of days.
The day had stretched out in front of me, long and formless, and while it’s true that the panic attacks have started coming during shoots, taking a real break from work—time off—means that all the ways I generally keep from getting too trapped in my head are unavailable to me. Out there, I’m either shooting or scouting places to shoot, and if I have free time, it’s the kind of free time spent doing the shit you have to do to figure out your life in a brand-new place—finding a decent shop to get food or buy clean drinking water, working out where you can get a good internet connection, preferably close to a place where you can get your clothes washed. If I’m on my own in a hotel, I may stay up late, sorting through and editing images, writing captions from the notes I have scribbled in my Moleskine, sending emails to editors who have hired me. If I’m staying in a group house with other journalists, I may defer to the collective schedule—still up late, but probably trading stories and tips, sometimes casting a paternal eye on newcomers who are flush with adrenaline and too much alcohol, often looking for bad-idea hookups with colleagues that are as likely to fuck up their professional cred as they are to provide relief from homesickness or fear or the sometimes crushing, painful fatigue.
But in Kit’s house? In Kit’s house, everything is easy, her fridge stocked with food she sent Ben to get—even in the midst of honeymoon packing—once she’d known I’d be staying, her water sources plentiful in the way I sometimes forget is possible when I’ve been away for a long time, her internet fast and her washer and dryer brand new. The rooms are quiet—too full and cozy to have an echo, too set back from the street to have muchtraffic noise.
It’s exactly the life I wanted for her, and exactly the one that isn’t for me.
I’d looked at my phone on the nightstand and known with certainty that at some point today, I’d check my news feeds and book a flight out of here, Jae’s approval or not, Kit’s disappointment or not. All I needed to do first was help Greer. One afternoon, that’s what she’d asked me for, and I’d wanted to help. I just hadn’t known I’d offer quite this muchof it.A month.
So, yeah—I need a minute. A minute to think through how I’ll keep my sanity and this promise to Greer. How I’ll keep her from looking like she had when I’d stood in the doorway of the professor’s office—young and small in an aggressively uncomfortable-looking chair, her shoulder bag a sullen lump on her lap and her pale hands clutched together in tense pleading on top. Her blue eyes had looked to mine with such desperate, imploring hope that for a second I thought it wouldn’t be the panic attacks that’d end my career; it’d be the murder of the person making herlook that way.
“I’m so sorry,” she says now, one of her hands clenched around the strap of her bag, something she’s done on and off since I first saw her today, standing by that statue in a prim hipster dress, a tiny line between her eyebrows as she stood, as quiet and still and thoughtful as the bronze man looming over her. “I thought it would only be the donation, but he kept…I mean, I’m surprised he didn’t ask for a selfie. He’s probably making you a friendship bracelet right now,” she mutters, a bit under her breath.
“A what?”
“Oh,” she says, turning her face toward me. In those sunglasses she looks like a movie star, or like the superspy you wouldn’t see coming. James Bond to my Moneypenny, or the other way around, whichever.
“You know, one of those woven bracelets you make for your friends?” She takes in my expression, which I’m guessing reflects the curiosity I always feel around her, at the secret liveliness that seems to hide within her. “Never mind. The point is, I’ll fix this. If you donate the photo, and maybe consider doing theguest lecture—”
“Let’s sit for a minute.” I gesture to a bench that’s tucked beneath a huge, leafy maple off the path. We’ve transitioned into a more photo-ready part of the campus, well-manicured and obviously well-funded, with big, red brick and white columned buildings that probably look good in a brochure. Across the quad there’s a small group of students playing Frisbee, laughing and shouting. It’s a place I can’t picture staying in, but right now, watching Greer and hearing the nervous thread to her speech, I also can’t picture leaving.
“I’ll take a look at what he’s given you there.” I nod my head toward the paperwork she clutches in one hand, and though she heads to the bench and sits, she clings tightly to the stack of papers.
After a tense minute of us both staring blankly at the group in the distance, she speaks. “I think I’ll pass. On showing youthe paperwork.”
“It’ll help me get a sense of what you missed the first—”
“No,” she interrupts, her voice as firm as I’ve ever heard it. “What I mean is—the course, the showcase. I’ll handle that myself. You really, really don’thave to stay.”
A warm breeze rustles through the canopy above us, and a split second later I catch a smell of something pleasantly sharp. An herby, flowery camphor. Lavender, I think. “Isaid I would.”
She shifts, turns her knees my way, keeping her ankles crossed tidily, and uses the hand that’s not death-gripping her paperwork to push her sunglasses up into her hair. Right now, she doesn’t look any kind of young and small. She looks like she’s aboutto lay into me.
“This,” she says, holding up the papers and shaking them slightly, “is important to me. I need to graduate. It’s better if Professor Hiltunen doesn’t have the idea in mind that you’ll be here for his showcase whenwe both know—”
“We both know what?”
She takes a deep breath, closes her eyes briefly before opening them again, her gaze softer this time. The sympathy is worse, honestly.
“Alex.” Her voice is quiet, as though she’s worried someone will overhear. She leans forward slightly, and I know the lavender smell comes from her. “I meant what I said on Saturday. If you’re doing this—making yourself…obligatedto me—as some kind of test for yourself, foryour problem—”
“I’m not. I’m doing it because I want to help you.” I’ve said it with all the conviction I didn’t feel this morning, standing in that guest bedroom, thinking about my way out.
Her mouth sets into a line, firm and unforgiving. “I don’t believe you.”
The sigh I let out is gusty, frustrated. I lower my head, run a hand through my hair, and feel a disquieting sense of familiarity settle at the back of my neck. I look over at her, and find her as still and self-contained as ever, and for a few seconds we simply stare at each other, until I remember what that familiar feeling is.
“You said thatto me before.”
