“Maybe you didn’t even know that, because I’ve never mentioned it.”
“I’ve seen you doodling in that little tablet of yours,” I say. “Not doodling,” I amend as Aubrey winces. “Just. Whatever. You know.”
“It’s okay,” she continues. “That’s not my point. My point is that there’s this one artist I love. Like, really love. She’s smart and profound and emotional but unsentimental, and everything she does makes me cry. And she has this theory, this test. The test is this: In a book or a film, when there are two girls talking . . . do they ever have a conversation that isn’t about a guy?”
“Uh-huh,” I say distractedly, still not sure where this is headed.
“Lena.” Aubrey’s voice is serious, and it causes me to look up. “I’m like ninety-nine percent sure this is the first conversation we’ve had since we met that didn’t revolve around Charlie.” She stops, letting this sink in, and finally I understand.
“We failed the test until now.”
Aubrey nods. “I liked it,” she says quietly. “Not talking about him, I mean. I kind of wish . . .”
“We’d do it more often?” I finish for her.
“Exactly.”
“Done,” I say, and she grins. She’s totally right. I feel like I’ve been more me in the last forty-five minutes than I’ve been on this whole trip, or since Charlie died, for that matter. And sometimes I feel close to Aubrey. Almost as if I’m starting to trust her. It’s enough to make me hopeful.
“And, um,” she says, “let’s go ahead and finish this thing. But if we find out that Charlie’s alive, fuck him, Lena. Charlie is a fucking asshole. And it’s time we owned the truth that he treated us like garbage. So let’s be angry. Promise me you’ll stay angry.”
My mouth drops open, not just because she’s swearing up a storm, but because I’ve literally never witnessed her this fiery. Aubrey’s stronger than I thought, and she’s right. We’ve been consumed by Charlie for too long. Especially me. My heart aches at the admission. But she’s right.
“Let’s finish this,” I say, in agreement.
21
Aubrey
I think at first it’s going to be tricky to find Dane. The bar is big and sprawling—really a collection of bars, almost like a marketplace—and I’m tipsy from the one and a half beers I downed as Lena and I talked. But it turns out to be easy—almost too easy. The first person we approach knows him.
“Dana?” the man asks. “Dana Price.” I assume at first it’s his accent that twists the name into its feminine version, or that we got the name wrong—“Dana” is a guy’s name too, in some circles. But Lena’s eyes darken and narrow, and I can tell she thinks different. She nods carefully, her posture tense and poised, like she doesn’t know what to expect. It hits me that if Dane is bad news, we could be in more serious trouble than we already are. “Yes, Dana,” the barback tells us, his manner relaxed. “Everybody know. Dana go onstage tonight. She . . .” He trails off, seeming to search for words. “She in house, wear lipstick.” I feel my eyebrows shoot up. Lena looks unfazed.
“She onstage, wear lipstick,” the man clarifies. I’m still baffled, but Lena nods.
“She’s getting ready,” she says to him. “For tonight?” The man nods. “Can you tell us where?” she asks, smiling and leaning toward the man in a friendly, ingratiating manner. Like they’ve known each other for years. The old paranoia hits me, the kind I’ve fought to move past in recent days. How well do I know Lena? What does she know that I don’t? But I push it aside. I’d rather have no room between us not to trust.
“Yes,” he agrees, smiling back. His smile is less toothy than Lena’s. There are gaps where teeth have rotted out. But he’s affable and seems totally unconcerned about why we’re asking. “Go down road, take left. Then after four buildings you turn down alley. That house of Dana.”
“Are there any details that might help us recognize it?” Lena asks. “Paint color, or . . . ?” The man squishes up his eyebrows like he doesn’t understand. “Color,” Lena clarifies. “Red house, green house?” She points at a grease-streaked placemat sitting on the bar. “Red,” she repeats, as she might for a toddler. “Brown?” She points to the bar. The man’s face clears and he nods again.
“Yellow house,” he says, pointing to a container of mustard.