“It’s a promise.”
Hours later, our delivery person sported a T-shirt emblazoned with I’M A SOUL MAN. We devoured pastrami sandwiches seated cross-legged on my floor. The sunset bled through the windows, lighting my apartment with a copper glow. “Okay,” he said, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “Definitely could’ve used sub delivery for Oregon Trail.”
He wasn’t referring to the computer game. It was our imaginary one we’d played that involved hiding in the shade of trees, drinking from hoses, and riding bikes from one hidingplace to another. I had quit playing after I readBridge to Terabithia, worried one of us would accidentally die. “Like that afternoon where your mother gave us a baggie of almonds and two bottles of Dasani to make it all the way through our adventure,” I said, stretching my legs. One ached painfully, the other pleasantly: Evidence of my body at work.
Caleb leaned over and traced the scar on my knee. An unexpected jolt zipped along my nerve endings when his hand met my skin. “How did this turn so light?” he asked. “I remember it being so angry-looking.”
I inhaled against my quickening pulse. Inexplicably, I found myself trying not to think about the spot I missed shaving, even though I used to rub my leg against him in a pool so my spiky stubble would scratch him. “It was.”
“Yet another side effect of time?”
I swallowed. “One of my old roommates became an aesthetician. I let her practice doing this laser thing on the scar.” I ran my fingertip along it now, a hard, thin, two-inch line below my knee. “It worked better than I thought it would.”
“Some things do,” he said, his voice gruff. He sat upright, his hand hesitant, heavy against my shinbone. Then he slowly retreated. He cleared his throat. “All set for our trip home?”
“Can’t wait,” I said. It was so strange to have him here. In my space. I jumped up. “Water,” I said. “Need some?”
“Sure.”
I retrieved two glasses from the open shelf and poured from the fridge pitcher. “I looked for you,” I blurted. “Online. Before all this.”
He nodded. “I looked for you before this, too.”
I frowned. “I was searchable.”
He rubbed his scruff. It made a scritchy sound in my apartment. “You were.”
“Then why didn’t you reach out?” My pours were shaky, uneven. I slipped water from my glass to his, staring at thecurved lip of liquid against the glass’s side. The meniscus, that fluid ring was called, the surface tension of water against its container. It was also the name of the cartilage in my knee I’d torn beside my ACL so long ago. I handed him his glass.Be cool, Adler.
He trailed his glance down, then back at me. “Sad people do sad things,” he said finally.
Twenty
In the Per Diem network lobby, I used my elbow to hit the elevator button. Holding a sweating iced tea away from the fabric of one of Natalie’s silk dresses, I tried to fan my armpits. My leather-ish flats squeezed the arches of my feet, but were kind to my knee. A trade.
Last night, my mind played a game of seesaw. Sunday scaries on steroids. I’d replayed my body’s reaction to Caleb’s finger along my scar, trying to figure out if it meant anything beyond being attracted to an objectively handsome human. It wasn’t like it was against the law for me to resurrectsomekind of feeling for him. He was good vibes personified. I was single. So was he. I already knew his nooks and crannies. Our history was complicated, but my brain equated him with safety.
I wouldn’t bring it up to him right away, but if this kept going, I’d have to. If there was one thing I couldn’t stand, it was misunderstanding by way of miscommunication. The worst trope. I felt mildly victimized by it in real life as it was. If Caleb and I had just overridden his mother’s meddling and found a way to meet up, then I wouldn’t have missed out on his friendship for the last decade and a half.
Now, when the elevator door opened, I jolted. Inside, Phoebe leaned against the gilded wall, her eyes closed. Her pose mimicked an iconic one of hers from the cover ofVogueroughly ten years ago, her crossed arms reportedly toned by Madonna’s former trainer. I remembered reading the article,wondering how a person could muster so much enthusiasm for a diet of boiled chicken and celery. Phoebe was part of the “self-care behind closed doors” guard, the ones who get their under-eye PRP injections in secret instead of live with reviews and recommendations on TikTok.
“Are you okay?” I ventured, stepping into the elevator.
She cracked open an eye. “Oh. Shit. Wrong button. Here to film your special?” Her voice was syrup-sweet onyourandspecial. Phoebe pressed the top floor button with a click of her nail.
I lifted my chin. “I am.”
It went unsaid: before Soulmail, before me, this would have been her gig. Part of me was edged by a feeling that resembled guilt. The court jester usurping the queen. Where I’d spent years bingeing documentaries, watching everything from National Geographic to human interest profiles until four in the morning, Phoebe had built an entire career around becoming the person she was today, a recognizable icon who draped her expertly-exercised body in curated European brands.
I hesitated. I hated thinking that I was part of another person’s misfortune. “Do you want to join me?” I asked suddenly.
“What? No.” Phoebe gave her head a startled shake, her hair swishing like it starred in a shampoo commercial. “Are you serious?”
“Of course. Why not?” I scratched the back of one calf with my foot.
Phoebe’s expression should’ve been trademarked. It was sculpted, beautiful, the perplexed one she wore when she wanted the audience to know she simply can’t believe what she’s hearing. “Don’t do that.”
“What?”
