Hanry and I only dated for a few weeks. I should be able to shake off the way I’m missing him, but I can’t do it. Ican’t.
Why did he have to be part of Salem’s paranormal community? If only he could’ve been a guy with regular ambitions who would’veconsidered moving with me to New York. I know it was just a handful of weeks, but… maybe we could’ve compromised, with him keeping dogs instead of squirrels. Would he have ever considered replacing his love of salsa dancing with an interest in Broadway shows?
I wonder what he’s doing right now. I imagine him curled up on the sofa, cozy under his wool blanket, a mug of once-hot cider tipped over on the floor. The top buttons of denim shirt undone, exposing his collarbone, a sliver of his chest…
It’s a nice image. It would be nicer if I could see it up close, if he were dozing here with me. If I were wrapped in his arms, sated and warm.
I wonder why he hasn’t texted me yet. Has he met someone else at his salsa class? I hope not. I want him to miss me. To be wistfully knitting his brows as he works on yet another wreath, eating cold pizza by himself.
And Mandy. Is all the wedding prep going okay? Is she struggling to do the work by herself in the shop? Does she ever feel like the space is cavernous without me and Bulan?
If it weren’t for Bulan and the endless client returns I’m stuck reviewing, I wonder if I’d be lonely too.
I don’t get the chance to wonder for long.
About two weeks after I’ve started at EFG, I wake up and find a very strangely worded note on an empty takeout bag near my bed:
MY nemezis has track t me
Im of f wi th the b I r dz
Hab f u n!
It can’t be from Jane. Her handwritten script is blocky, neat, and lacks Bulan’s undercurrent of hasty enthusiasm. Also, as far as I know, Jane doesn’t have birds in her friend group. Or a nemesis. Since when did Bulan? I think maybe he’s lying to soften the blow.
I stare out the window and the brick wall it faces, wistful. I hear no telltale crow squawks, just traffic and distant sirens. If I strain, I can hear the idea of pigeons.
Obviously, Bulan fit in as terribly in New York as I’d thought he would. But he decided to leave his life in Salem to join me here, and I can’t think of a good reason he would’ve jumped ship, unless he’d grown unhappy. And not just regular unhappy, butdeeplyunhappy.
Miserable, even.
He would’ve written a longer note if he’d really planned to leave for good, though. Right? This life may not be up to par with his usual sense of adventure, but I’m not in a suburb—yet. New York has plenty of weird people in it; I’ve seen them on the streets, in the patchwork fabric of the city’s throngs. Can’t we talk this out? Give it another go?
I fight back waves of disappointment when Bulan isn’t back by the evening.
Or the next.
On the Friday night before Thanksgiving week—more than a week after Bulan left to hang out with the crows, who are more fun and interesting than me—I’m packing away my exam notes when Jane knocks on the door to my room. She’s pulled on a pair of polished derbies instead of her typical sneakers. This is a sign she’s going somewhere cool. But nottoocool. In New York, this is a critical distinction.
“I’m heading out,” she says predictably.
“Where to?”
“Drinks with Erin and some of the others in our class,” says Jane. “Sammy, you should come!”
Yes.YES. My whole being sings at the idea of it. At the thought of noise, of energy, of people. Friendship. Friendship withwork people. The opportunity to meet a fellow accountant who’ll help me achieve my dream of suburban bliss, and make me forget Hanry—who I really maintain should have checked in on me by now.
I slam my laptop shut.
“Let me get ready,” I say.
As I dress, I prod Jane for details about the party. She doesn’t say much except that we’re going to an apartment, rather than a bar. Apparently, some of our coworkers are trying to go FIRE, meaning that they’re on a stringent, money-saving early-retirement plan. I’d probably be doing that too, if I weren’t throwing my money into paying back Grandma’s debts in order to cover house-selling legal fees. Anyway, the party at Erin’s apartment is just a few blocks away. Which is fine—I wouldn’t want to go somewhere too fancy or noteworthy, anyway.
It turns out that Erin’s apartment is fancy in its own way. It has epic skyline views. Sure, it’s a crowded studio of about the same size as Grandma Rose’s living room, including the kitchenette and bathroom, and it’s clearly not meant to host the thirty twentysomethings who have gathered in it. Not to mention all the booze. Theamplequantities of booze. In the corner, there’s a kegger; somewhat paradoxically, the counter has been commandeered by a spectacle of bottled wine. Pretty much everyone seems to be arriving with a bottle in their right hand, then replacing said bottle with poured wine in a stemless cup. A few embarrassing people hold their cups in their left hands. Obviously, I am not among them.
In the dense throng, I lose track of Jane almost immediately. Part of this is because the room’s female contingent have unanimously decided to wear black halter tops and light-blue-washed, wide-legged cargo pants, and I can’t tell anyone apart from behind. The nonbinary and male percentages are all wearing a blend of patterned dress shirts and slacks and starter-pack beer guts. The effect would make even aWhere’s Waldo?tournament-winner quail.
“—it’s a simple formula,” I overhear a guy near me saying. “DtimesAequalsXdivided by one hundred.Dfor dependability,Afor amiability.”
