“Or is about to move out,” I say.
Evan picks up Professor Cox’s shivering dog in his arms. He takes the dog to the kitchen, where he pours out some food and water. “He already went on the floor,” he calls. “Poor guy. We’ll need to take him out.”
“Does he have a name?”
“His dog tag says ‘Peyton Manning.’ Never would have taken Professor Cox for a Broncos fan.” The dog takes a break from drinking his water to lick Evan’s hand. “But he’s cute.”
I walk around the apartment and try to figure out what it is, exactly, we’re searching for. On the walls are a few of his paintings and some framed photos of Professor Cox posing with his dog, and I have to admit, it’s really sweet, but also really sad. There are no photos of him with anyone else. I wonder who the photographer was.
Sammie runs to the closet. “Let’s look for the bathing suits!”
“How about we just take care of his dog,” I say. “And then let’s get out of here?”
“Found them!” Sammie’s standing at the open closet, and there they are: a few dozen bathing suits, each on a hanger.
“Unbelievable.” I turn to Evan. “What, exactly, are we supposed to be looking for?”
He shrugs. “Honestly, I’m not sure. Something he’s worried about the police finding? Anything that looks weird or suspicious, I guess?”
“All I see are clothes. And shoes. And bathing suits. Lots and lots of bathing suits.”
The dog emerges from the kitchen and runs straight to Evan. Evan picks him up and takes him over to the desk. “What have we got here, boy?” Evan shuffles through a stack of postcards. “Oh no … take a look at this.”
Sammie and I walk over and each of us picks up a batch to skim through. They’re notes, postmarked and sent via USPS. All addressed to Professor Cox, from Petyon Manning—the Chihuahua, not the football player.
“I didn’t realize it was so bad,” Evan says. Some are notes, little philosophical musings about “idealism” and “materialism,” which are vaguely familiar to me from my history classes, and then other notes on “reflexivity” and “agency,” which I’ve never heard of before. Then there are the orders, written from his dog, telling him to do things. They’re harmless reminders to pay the electric bill and do the laundry, but there are quite possibly hundreds of these postcards. It doesn’t seem like it’s something that was done for fun.
“This doesn’t prove or disprove anything, really,” I say.
Sammie heads toward the balcony. “Maybe it’s something in his paintings. I’ll check out here.”
“I’ll check the bathroom,” I say.
“Good idea,” Evan says. The dog barks, and Evan picks him up. “Come on, boy.”
I did not mean for him to follow me, but it’s done. I walk into the bathroom, Evan behind me, that silly dog panting in his arms.
Evan closes the door partway and puts the dog down. I open the cabinet door and find it near empty, a toothbrush and toothpaste, deodorant, and Tylenol. “Nothing here,” I say.
Evan puts his hand on my shoulder, and I turn toward him. “Can I kiss you?” He whispers this. “I’d like to kiss you again.”
I want to say no. First of all, Sammie’s in the other room. Plus, this is all so weird and complicated, standing in some man’s apartment, searching for something—I don’t even know what.
But then I don’t say no. I don’t say anything. Instead, I stand there, silent and still. And I lean up to him. And we kiss.
Again.
“Viviana!” It’s Sammie, calling from the other room. “Viviana, I think—I think you need to come here.”
“Oh, no.” I step back away from him.
“What’s wrong?”
Sammie calls out to me again. “Vivi, quick!”
“I’m sorry.” I shake my head. “I can’t do this.”
I leave Evan in the bathroom and I want to run out of the apartment, but Sammie’s calling for me to come to the window.
“What’s going on?”
“Vivi, it’s—” She points outside. “It’s your dad.”
“What are you talking about? My dad’s in Singapore.”
Sammie shakes her head. “He’s right there. On your balcony.”
I look up out the window toward my apartment, and she’s right. It is my dad. Not in Singapore. He’s here. He’s home.
Why is he home?
I head toward the balcony. I’m too excited. I’m not sure if he’ll be able to hear me, but I’ll call for him. Maybe he’s going to surprise us.
As I step out on the balcony, I’m hit by a warm gust of air—it’s early morning, but it’s warming up already. I can’t help but think that my dad should change out of his suit, that he’s going to be too hot today.
I’m about to call out to him, but he’s on the phone.
His words float down to me before I can call out to him.
“No, honey … I’m sorry.… I love you, too.… Yes, Paige, I told you I’d be home this week, but they need me here longer.… When I get back, I’ll take you out.… I promise.… Paige, listen—”
Paige? Who’s Paige?
“Yes, a special date, just you and me … like we used to.… Yes, in the beginning.”