When I walk outside, Henry’s light is already out. Deflated, I sink down to the ground with my back to the railing.
I hold the walkie-talkie up. “Hello?”
I wait. One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi…
“Hello?” I ask again.
Nothing.
“Henry?”
Nothing.
“Is this place making you as nuts as it’s making me?” I ask into the void. Maybe if I just talk, he’ll hear me eventually. “It’s…It’s like being so far away from everyone and then dropped into this social blender…It, like, strips everything away, and all that’s left is the wors—”
“Cabbage Patch, is that you?” a semigroggy voice asks.
I gasp and hold the walkie-talkie to my chest as I scream in delight with my mouth closed. I press the talk button. “Cabbage Patch, over.”
“I guess I should confess that I’ve never used a walkie-talkie, and so I hadn’t really thought through any of the logistics when I handed you one.”
I grin as I maneuver around so that I’ve got a view of his guesthouse. “Ahhhh, yes. There are, apparently, channels.”
He chuckles. “Yeah, I’ve heard way too much about what yogurt does to Wes’s intestines.”
“Well, that sounds…like a personal medical issue.”
“Yeah, you and the whole crew would agree.”
It’s silent for a moment. Left as we are without chaperones, it’s hard to know where to start or what to say.
“Where are you?” he asks, his voice raspy, and I can hear the rustle of sheets in the background.
“Out on the balcony at the back of the house…I can see you, by the way. Well, I can see your guesthouse.”
The light in the distance flicks on, and something shifts—just a slight movement. “That’s better,” he says. “Now I can see you too. But whoa, you didn’t tell me it was cold out here.”
I laugh. “You’re from New York. This is not cold.”
“What do you know about my city?”
“Excuse me, but did you so quickly forget where our flight was departing from when we first met? And, oh my God, you’re the worst kind of New Yorker.”
“Well, excuse me, but your profile said you were from Los Angeles. There’s no such thing as a quintessential New Yorker.”
“My profile?” I ask. Of course, they’d give him those little questionnaires we filled out. “What else do you know about me?”
“Well, Cindy Woods, I know that you went to fashion school at my mother’s alma mater and that your favorite movie isSister Act 2and you’re terrified of ladybugs and that you believe in aliens.”
“I’ll have you know that ladybugs are very entitled, okay? And there’s no way we’re alone out here,” I tell him. “It’s just obnoxious to assume we’re the only intelligent life in the universe.”
“Honestly, as long as you’re not a flat-Earther, I can live with the rest. And I guess when you look at it like that, you sound more logical and less Roswell, New Mexico, gift shop.”
“I’ve always wanted to go to Roswell. Don’t tease me.”
“We should go,” he says, and then quickly adds, “I mean, depending on how…”
“Depending on if you pick me?” I ask. It’s so hard not to ask him outright why he’s here and if he sees himself with any of these other women. Without anyone else around, it’s hard not to feel like we’re playing by a silly set of made-up rules for no reason.
