Caring—really caring deep inside, where it wells up and threatens to topple you—takes a certain amount of letting go. Staying intact—not letting yourself be toppled—means guarding your heart at least a little. So where’s the balance? How do you find the precious middle ground? I think maybe you find it in the knowledge that even if you are in a safe space, there are certain things you can’t control. I think you find it by taking risks, but the kind that are calculated—designed not to throw you headlong into danger but embraced with the knowledge that you can’t live, not really live, if you’re locked inside a crystal ball. Crystal balls break.
I watch Lena carefully as we pick our way across the market. What I didn’t tell her when we talked about going home is that I’ve made a decision. When I return to Chicago, I’m going to tell my parents what happened the night of the hit-and-run. I’m going to accept the consequences. I’m still filled with a cold fear every time I think about what I’ll have to say—and how it will hurt them—but whatever happens, it’s got to be better than continuing to run from it. Living this lie has made me hate myself; and I don’t want that, no matter what it means I have to face.
As for Adam, I’m going to have to let him go. Who would want to be with me after what I’ve done comes to light? Yet for the first time, the sadness and fear I feel don’t outweigh the relief of not having to carry my lies any longer.
The market is lovely, just a series of little boats bobbing along a narrow canal. Each vessel bursts with brightly colored fruits, spices, and flowers. Lena looks at everything with the eagerness of a kid. Her eyes glow in the same way they always have. Her enthusiasm hasn’t been dampened by the day’s events. If anything, it’s grown stronger. She is the first person I’ve ever known with such an insatiable curiosity for the world and its beautiful minutiae. Half of me expected her to self-destruct when Dana told us what Charlie had said. This whole time, Lena’s been impulsive, borderline reckless. But now in addition to the way she embraces everything, she’s looking measured. Even the way she picks up the fruits and vegetables, turns over a starfruit in her palm to examine it for imperfections, demonstrates a difference in her demeanor.
We’re all mirrors to some extent, I remind myself. It’s something I read somewhere and forgot until now, mostly because until now, I’ve surrounded myself with people like me. Even Charlie was like me for a while, the me I thought I should strive to be, anyway: smart and stable and presentable. A walking résumé. Now I’m not so sure. Everything has been called into question. If we’re mirrors, I’m seeing reflections of myself in Lena and of her in me, and I’m liking what I see and how it makes me feel.
It’s the first time in my life I’ve felt an unaccustomed sort of passion bubbling beneath the surface. It’s the first time in my life I’ve felt fearless, especially in the face of so much to fear. The new intensity overwhelms me. I have to bite back all the emotions that work their way to the surface. They lie just beneath my rib cage, threatening to spill out. Every second is charged. I can sense it, feel it. The air is thick with it. A man floats by in a boat laden with bunches of yellow flowers that look almost as delicate as lace.
“Ratchaphruek,” Lena tells me. “It’s the national flower of Thailand.”
“How do you know that?” I ask her. She just shrugs.
“I like beautiful things.”
Among the ratchaphruek, I recognize orchids in all their firm, solid extravagance. It’s growing dark quickly, and some of the boats are alight with candles, though others pull aside and shut down for the day. Lena waves to one woman whose signage trumpets coconut pancakes, and I realize it’s been hours since we’ve eaten. Lena uses what little cash we have left to buy two pancakes and a small paper basket of grilled shrimp. We sit in silence along the edge of the canal, eating our modest dinner as the market vendors close up shop. I glance at my watch.
“How long?” Lena asks softly.
“It’s just after nine,” I tell her. “I’d say we have until about two, two thirty, to amuse ourselves before we leave for the airport. What’s up next?” I want the night to be everything she wants it to be. I’m surprised to find that I don’t want it to end. The dreaded eight-eighteen—the date Charlie hinted at on his fake suicide note—lies unspoken between us, its import too dreadful to discuss.
“I’m up,” she says. “My turn to ask.” She polishes off her pancake, wrapping the last bit of shrimp inside it like a taco. “I’m waiting.”
“For . . . ?”