“Well then,” you say. She’s not wholly at ease and won’t be until she’s convinced you’re a good guy. “Why don’t you at least use my wifi”—you say it “wee-fee,” because that’s how they say it in Paris and you forget; she smiles, and it’s an accidental mark in your favor—“for booking flights or whatever? And you can borrow my cell to call your parents. Seriously. Take your time.” Without waiting for her reply, you stand up from the table and grab a book from the shelf that was already there and stocked when you moved in. The Unbearable Lightness of Being. It’s the right book; you know it by the way her eyes light up. You knew she’d be a book girl, a Kundera girl. You’ve known other girls like her. Still, she doesn’t say anything. She’s not giving in so easily.
An hour goes by and she types on your computer and breathes into your phone and you pretend to read The Unbearable Lightness of Being. Finally when you’re so bored and hungry you think you’re going out of your mind—images of cheese naan and chicken korma are playing dodge ball through your head—she gets up from the table and sits near you on the foldout futon you’re using as a bed. Just perches on the edge like she doesn’t want to get too close. Clasps her hands in her lap, even.
“Thank you,” she says in a sweet, quiet voice. She still can’t look you in the eye.
“It’s no big deal,” you say.
“No, really.” She lifts her head and you see her wet, shiny eyes. “I didn’t know what I was going to do. I didn’t have any plan. I wish I could take you out to dinner or something. My flight doesn’t leave until nine. But I’m flat broke. I’m so embarrassed.”
“So I’ll take you out to dinner,” you tell her. “My parents still give me an allowance. You can thank me next time.” She wiggles an eyebrow at you.
“When’s next time?” she wants to know, all disbelieving.
“When you visit me. Now that we’re dating.” You crack a cocky, mischievous grin so she knows you’re messing with her and not crazy (you are crazy); and in that second you know you’ve got her. Then you two go out for the best Indian food you’ve had outside of Bombay. Halfway through the meal, your phone lights up. It says, Lena. And for a second you’re shocked because you really believed, for the space of maybe an hour, that you had made Lena up. Digital technology says you didn’t.
Guilt rolls over you. It’s so strong it activates your gag reflex. But then you put everything back in order in your brain. Lena on one side—she’s not in front of you, so she must be a fantasy—and Aubrey on the other. Aubrey’s in front of you, so she’s real. (At least for right now.) You don’t know what’ll happen when she gets on that plane tonight and disappears. All of a sudden you’re deeply afraid. You put down your fork and watch the piece of chicken you speared slide back into its creamy, almond-flavored sauce.
7
Lena
The club’s bumping; it’s hard for me not to wiggle my hips like I’m here just to party. Rushmore and Cid Rim are tag teaming, spinning a good mix. I feel that old familiar thrill when I take Z’s arm and he leads us downstairs, through the hidden entrance, past all the girls waiting and glaring. We’re prettier, more powerful, we know someone. It never gets old. I just want to dance, dance, dance, and the feeling’s shooting through every part of my body, until I’m filled up with sensation.
But that’s not why we’re here. One look at Aubrey reminds me of that. The girl is practically a depressant in and of herself, like I could roll her up into a little white pill and pop her and pass out. I need her anyway—I need her for answers, I need her for unraveling this messy Charlie nest.
She looks like she’s never been to a club in her life, and for a second I pity her a little. Aubrey’s sheltered like no one I’ve met before. More sheltered than that girl Rachel from Iowa City, who came out to summer enrichment and couldn’t hack it. She went home on the earliest flight, her face all screwed up in a snotty red mess, when they caught us smoking weed. It was her first time. We all laughed and she cried, and then she was gone, and the rest of us stuck it out all summer and got our precollege credits. Aubrey, though, she makes me cry. I’d never tell her this but sometimes when I look her way, it’s all I can do to fight against the tears welling up behind my eyelids. I don’t even know why. It’s messed up.