“You got a good-bye.”
At some point, we had moved closer together, maybe a foot apart. The drop in temperature had made the room chilly, but I didn’t want to get up to shut the window.
“Is that what that is?”
Daniel frowned.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I know I shouldn’t be jealous. It’s petty. And I’m not proud.”
“I get it,” I said.
Then I sat up.
“Why don’t you write yourself one,” I said.
“What do you mean?” he said.
“What’s the point of your stupid app otherwise?”
With my free hand, I clicked on the Twitter tab and Post-Life flashed back on the screen. Daniel looked at the screen in front of him. He slowly brought his hands to the keyboard. But he didn’t type anything.
Looking at Jonah’s picture, it was possible, for a moment, to pretend that he was really still out there somewhere,sending back updates from the unknown. But it didn’t last long, that feeling of contact. It was just another trick, some digital sleight of hand. Daniel closed the laptop.
I expected him to get up and wander back downstairs. But he stayed where he was. And instead of moving farther away, he reached out his hand across the bed. I watched it there in the dark.
“I liked them,” I said. “The things you wrote to me.”
“Thanks,” he said.
“It kind of complicates things, though.”
“I know,” he said.
“I thought they were coming from him.”
“I know.”
The rain outside was picking up, pinging against the screen. I moved my hand across the bed and set it on top of his.
27
The next morning I woke up in an empty bed.
The sun was up and Daniel was gone. And when I got up to pee, the whole house was quiet. I’ll admit I panicked a little. Maybe, I thought, as I sat on the coldest toilet seat in human history, Daniel had gotten what he came for. We talked through a few things and that was all he needed. When I finished in the bathroom, I pulled on some pajama pants and went downstairs.
The couch was empty.
His computer was gone too.
I stepped through the quiet hallway of the house until I reached the kitchen and let out a deep breath.
There was Daniel at the kitchen table. A neglected bowl of cereal sat in front of him, along with a cup of my dad’s burnt coffee. He was fully dressed, for once, in a pair of well-fitting jeans and a light blue button-down. His hair was combed in a loose part.
I hardly recognized him. He looked older and younger at the same time. He was looking over a bunch of documents and brochures. When I stepped closer, I saw they were materials from my dad’s business.
“Your dad is a seriously weird guy,” he said. “A science fiction dog funeral? Holy shit.”
I wanted to tell him I was glad he was still here. What I said instead was: “Why are you dressed like a host at the Olive Garden?”
