Lena laughs a little, lightening the atmosphere. “I know what you mean. That weird gargling noise.”
“I hated that he always said he wanted a soda, and bought himself a soda and took two sips and threw it away, instead of just drinking a couple sips of my soda. I always offered. I hated that he looked at me weird when I laughed too loudly. I hate that he knew how to hack, and thought it was hilarious to spam my email account with fake messages from unfunny names like ‘Hank E. Panky.’ I hated that he didn’t see street art on the sidewalks even when it was right in front of his face. I hated that every fight we had, he wanted to hold me immediately after to make it all better. I hated that at restaurants, if there was even a tiny speck of an olive, he’d make them take the whole plate back.” I’m building steam. I’m on a roll. I have this heady euphoric feeling, the same feeling I get when I hit mile six when I’m running. Like I can keep on going and going, an object in motion staying in motion.
“Wait.” Lena cuts me off. “What are you talking about? He loves olives.”
“Charlie hates olives more than anything,” I correct her. He wouldn’t even let me keep them in his mini fridge. And I love them. I eat them with egg salad, PB&J, you name it.
“No, no, no,” Lena says, sitting bolt upright in bed. “You’re wrong. You’re thinking of someone else. He adores them. He literally used to bring them into bed and eat them in front of me. It was gross. He wouldn’t brush his teeth afterward and his breath reeked. That was the one time I wouldn’t have minded the gargling.”
“You’re sure they were olives? And not, like, figs?” I’m trying to ignore the icky feeling bring them into bed thrusts at me. My parents are so strict that Charlie and I only got overnight time during the nights I stole with him here and there in random cities in between lies I told.
“Jesus. I know the difference between an olive and a fig.”
I look, expecting to find her face twisted in scorn, but instead she looks worried. Her blond brows are wrinkled up so tight that they’re joined in the middle. She kind of looks . . . I squint.
“Are you about to cry?” I ask.
“No!” she says in the unmistakable tone of a person about to cry. “You’re just wrong. Your whole list was wrong. And I don’t want to sit here and listen to it. It’s like you’re trying to manipulate me. Are you trying to mess with me? Why would you want me to think I don’t know my own boyfriend? I was with him for three years.” Now she’s definitely crying. “God, I don’t want him to be dead,” she says quietly when her tears begin to subside. “It’s too hard.”
“Lena,” I start. Her feelings for him—her desperation for him to be alive—make her look like a drowning girl. I’m not here on this trip to find Charlie, like she is. I’m here to find what he stole from me.
“Forget it,” she says, sniffling. “Let’s go to sleep.” The way she says it, there’s no choice. So I lean over and pull on the grimy string attached to the single light bulb that hangs from the cracked, splotchy ceiling. I lie awake for an hour. I keep thinking about the olives thing. I had been serious about it. That really was one of the things I hated most. It was embarrassing, and weird, and psychological. The Charlie I knew—this is the important thing to clarify—the one I knew hated olives. He couldn’t stand the sight of them. He was forever digging them out of things and putting them on the side of my plate. Lena’s Charlie, from the sound of it, loved olives. She had no reason to lie about that and I don’t think she’s a good enough actress for her tears to have been a show. So who was the real Charlie?
Until right now, I didn’t realize that maybe Charlie gave us each a different version of himself. What does it mean? Was Lena’s Charlie the real one, because it’s easier to deny oneself pleasures than to force displeasure? Or if Charlie tailored himself to what he thought we’d each want, why had he always scoffed at my preference for graphic novels over classic literature and my interest in maybe one day attending school for illustration? What was he hoping to achieve? That was the last thought I remember having before I drifted off, pulling the towel edges around me as far as they’d reach.
My watch reads one o’clock when Lena shakes me awake; and for a second, I’m confused, because it’s still dark as night out. Then I realize: it is night. There’s movement from behind Lena, and a guy in a black hoodie moves toward me, his head barely clearing the top bunk, so I see only eyes and a tuft of brown hair peeking from beneath the hood. I scream. Lena clamps her hand over my mouth.
“Get up,” she whispers. “We’re going out.”
“Out where?” I don’t want to go out. I don’t trust this person; I can only see his eyes, but usually all you need are the eyes in order to trust. I can’t read them, no matter how hard I try.