“Oh, hi, hi.” He laughed. “Your voice is deeper than I imagined. Why are you calling me here? It’s not bad. I’m surprised.”
“Oh, just… I haven’t heard from you.”
He pulled in a breath. “Oh, right! I’m sorry. I was with my grandparents this summer, the internet is really bad, but then when I returned my email had been hacked! With all that, I forgot to message you. You were worried about me?”
“Uh, yeah.” I laughed.
His laugh slid over mine, a bit too loud. “Ah, ok. I’m fine. Sorry to worry you.”
There was a pause. I didn’t know why I was so nervous. I was the one who called him. The doorbell rang downstairs. I ignored it, assuming it was someone trying to sell me knives.
“How have you been otherwise?” I asked.
“Eh, just trying to make it through my schoolwork.”
“Yeah.”
“My class is starting now, actually,” he said.
“Oh, okay. Have fun!”
“Have fun? In class? That’s not happening.”
I laughed.
“What a crazy laugh,” he said. “Okay, well, you have WhatsApp now? Add me. We can talk later. I can tell you everything about being hacked.”
“Before you go, can I ask you something?”
“Okay.”
“Why did you start emailing me?”
He didn’t hesitate. “I’m an open, social person. If we’re all going to die someday, why not know as many people as we can?”
He gave me his number, and I hung up, slightly dizzy.
The doorbell rang again. I scrambled to my bedroom window, slightly panicked. Who rang the doorbell anymore?
My eyes caught the curly top of someone’s head. Slowly rising from my crouch, I went downstairs, tousling my hair in the tiny entryway mirror. Pausing, I inhaled and opened the door.
Tristan was bent down, tying his shoes.
“Hi,” I said.
He looked up. A paper bag rustled on his wrist as he stood. “Hey.”
I twisted the doorknob just to touch something. It broke off in my hand. “Fuck, my dad’s gonna kill me.”
“Do you have a screwdriver?” he asked.
“I’m sure we do somewhere.”
He stood on the porch pretending to look at the neighbor’s sunflowers while I searched for one. I told him to come out of the heat. He followed me into the kitchen.
Eventually I found a screwdriver and handed it to him. I watched from the kitchen archway as he twirled the tool in his fingers. When he was done, he checked the knob. We stood awkwardly on opposite ends of the hallway until I said, “What’s in the bag?”
“Oh.” He’d left it on the table, so we went into the kitchen. His hand trembled when he reached inside, pulling out a chocolate cake from Bread Furst. “Happy birthday.”
