“And before that . . . what was his moving history? We met just before he started his first year there, the summer beforehand in New York.”
I sigh, wrinkling my forehead. Charlie’s life was hard to keep track of, even when he and I were talking every day. He forgot to tell me he was moving to India at all, and then bam, all of a sudden he calls from Mumbai. “He spent most of his time in the U.K.,” I say, thinking back. “But when he was a kid, he lived in Paris. Let me think.” I rack my brain, piecing together everything Charlie ever told me about his personal history. “Okay, yeah, he was in Paris pretty much exclusively until he finished middle school. Then he spent his freshman year in Bangkok. Then I guess that didn’t work out, so his mom moved him to London for his sophomore and junior years. That’s where I met him, the summer before his junior year.”
“I guess summer’s when he had the most game,” Aubrey says, and I laugh. The comment is unexpected coming from her, especially because she sounds so sincere about it. “So then what?” she prods. “Senior year in Mumbai?”
I nod slowly. “Yeah . . . and you know the rest. New York for the summer just before he started Oxford.” I pause, thinking hard. “I guess he did start acting pretty weird toward the end of the school year,” I offer. I’d never thought much of it—had just assumed Oxford’s exam season was heinous.
“What’s weirdest is that he never told either of us he was going on the trip to Mumbai,” Aubrey points out. I flush, but she’s right.
“I mean, his parents were fighting a lot then. Maybe that’s why?” My heart thuds a little.
Then I shrug, trying not to read too much into it. “Like I said, he traveled all the time. It wasn’t a big deal to him.”
“The journal in that photo,” Aubrey breaks in. She’s looking at the ground, the stoplights, anything but my face. “It’s my journal. The one I’ve been looking for. My dad gave it to me for my birthday and . . . it’s the same one. I’m sure of it. If he lost it there, it might still be there. Z didn’t say he went back for it. Only that he talked about it.” Her eyes are trained on mine, and we’re thinking the same thing.
“Bombay is far away,” I say. “And expensive to get to.”
“I need that journal, Lena. I have to have it. We need to go there right away.”
I’m surprised by the force of her words. Bombay is a big trip. I’d considered it, but for it to be our next stop is a big deal. “I’d thought maybe we’d continue in London, or go back to Paris, depending on what we find here.”
“Z said Charlie was always writing in the journal,” Aubrey reminds me. “And he mentioned Adam. Maybe Adam knows something. Maybe something in the journal will give us insight into what he was thinking. Why continue in London when we know we have a lead in Mumbai?”
It’s a long shot. I know it, and I know she knows it. But this journal seems to mean so much to her. And really, she’s right. While tenuous, this is the best lead we got from Z. If Charlie was writing in that journal just a few months ago . . . it could definitely shed some light on what he was thinking.
“Please.” I can tell by the way she says it that she’s not used to asking for things. “I need this.”
“Okay,” I tell her. “Bombay it is. I’m on board.” In an instant she’s moving to her feet, the gold fabric of her dress—my dress—catching on the jagged bricks at her back. She pulls me into a hug, and I feel the force of her gratitude. It makes me happy, doing this for her. I can’t explain it, but I want her to be happy.
“My parents are going to be just thrilled,” she says wryly, smiling.
“I thought you don’t do stuff like this,” I tease. “Who knew you’d be the one pushing for another continent?”
“Maybe I’m discovering my secret jet-setting identity,” she says. “And,” she adds, trying to sound brave, “it’s not like I don’t have a credit card for emergencies. This probably qualifies. But don’t we need visas or something?”
I almost laugh at how worried she looks under the bravado, but I bite my lip. “Pssh. All it takes is a quick trip to the American embassy. NBD. And don’t worry,” I add just in case. “I’m footing the bill.” Shit, I guess I am, I think as I say it. She doesn’t say anything, just looks at me. “Trust fund,” I explain. “I only stay in hostels because I want it to last forever. Plus I like an authentic experience.”
She shakes her head. “That’s too much,” she says. “I can’t accept it.”
“I can’t go unless you accept it,” I threaten. She stares at me for a long moment, disbelieving. Then she throws her arms around me again.
“Thank you,” she whispers. “No one’s ever—”