“You never mentioned it,” she says.
“Why would I?” I shift awkwardly on my stool, sipping the beer the bartender has placed in front of me. I get emotional talking about it. I don’t know why.
“It sounds pretty fascinating.” Aubrey looks thoughtful. She grips the side of her own glass, and condensation decorates her fingers and drips down the side of the glass onto the countertop. “It’s funny—I feel like none of that stuff ever comes up, where I’m from. I’m picturing you and your family around the dinner table and it sounds a lot more interesting than our tuna-noodle-casserole convos.”
I laugh. “What does the food have to do with it?”
“Not the food . . . I mean, yeah, the food. But, like, tuna noodle casserole is the metaphor. Our dinners are pretty much, ‘How was school, how’s your essay, what’s the latest blockbuster at the local theater, how did cheer tryouts go, what’s the football team ranked?’ There’s none of this . . . exoticism.” Aubrey gestures at the room we’re in. “I kind of wish there were. I wish I hadn’t had to be eighteen, here with you on this random trip I never would have taken without you, to hear about it.”
“You should watch the movie Beautiful Boxer,” I say, getting braver in response to her enthusiasm. “It’s about this famous ladyboy, Nong Toom. She’s, like, gorgeous. She’s a model and an actress and she was a boxer. And a monk.”
“A monk?” Aubrey nearly chokes on her beer, giggling a little.
“Yeah. Probably, you know, to suppress her nature or whatever. Religion. It sucks for that. Everyone’s always turning to religion when there’s something to squash down that they’re ashamed of.” Aubrey’s quiet. Shit. For a second I’m worried I’ve offended her. I don’t even know if Aubrey’s religious. Sometimes I just assume everyone’s atheist, like my family.
“Sorry,” I say. “A lot of people are into religion. That’s cool too.” My words sound ridiculous, and I can’t help laughing. “I mean,” I say, “shit. I’m sorry. Are you religious?”
“Not particularly,” Aubrey says. “I’m Presbyterian, and we go to church and stuff. I can see what you’re saying, for sure. But the way I was brought up, it was about tolerance and respect and being nice. Good Midwestern values and all that,” she jokes, mocking the phrase with air quotes.
“Don’t make fun of it,” I tell her. “If that’s what you believe, it’s cool. I mean, I don’t believe in God. At least, I don’t think so. But sometimes when stuff happens—stuff that feels bigger . . .” I pause, wondering if I should continue. Then I think, Fuck it, and go on: “Like being here with you on this strange mission to find Charlie. Getting robbed. Living life. Opening up to experiences. Saying yes wherever possible because it feels like if you ride the ride, it’ll pay off. This kind of thing, and the fact that it wasn’t even in our heads two months ago, makes me feel small. But in a good way—like there’s something more out there. That’s religion to me. That’s why I get why people want to buy into spirituality.”
Aubrey laughs. “It’s a little more than that . . . at least for my parents,” she says. “But I get what you’re saying. Maybe you’re spiritual, just not religious.”
“I’m into people believing and doing whatever the hell they want,” I say, my words building momentum, “as long as it doesn’t hurt other people. It’s the same principle as ladyboys. Live and let live. Do what makes you happy. Don’t tamp it down, don’t be embarrassed. Just don’t be an asshole.” Even as I say it, I realize how long I’ve been suppressing these words, these thoughts. Oh, the irony.
“Hear, hear,” says the bartender, winking at me. She puts two fresh beers in front of us, and I feel myself blushing again. I didn’t realize how loud I was being. “On the house,” she says, wiping her eyes on the bar rag and sauntering off.
“Holy shit, I’m tipsy,” Aubrey says. I laugh because she only really swears when we’re drinking . . . another fun fact I’ve discovered about her lately.
“Oh my god,” I tell her. “It’s been a half hour. We so didn’t come here for this.” I start to stand, craning my neck. I’m wondering who we should ask first. Does Dane use the same last name as Charlie? Will he look like Charlie?
“Lena.” Aubrey’s hand is on my arm, even as I begin to stand. “Hold on a sec.”
“What?” I ask. “Don’t you want to get this over with?”
“I do,” Aubrey says slowly, nodding. “In a second.” She stops, like she’s thinking, and I drum my fingers against the bar impatiently. Aubrey only speaks when she’s ready, though. So I wait. “I’m into comic books,” she says finally. “Graphic novels, if you will.”
“Uh-huh,” I say, wondering where this is going.