Maya looked at me from across the table at Flask’s, concern on her face that didn’t seem to match her purple and pink hair. She pushed aside her blended coffee drink—pumpkin spice. It was the last week of August, but apparently, as far as Flask’s was concerned, that meant it was fall. “How are you doing?” she asked, leaning toward me.
“I’m fine,” I said automatically, taking a drink of my iced latte, since this was just what I said now.
It was what I told my dad when I passed him in the kitchen or the hallway. We weren’t doing our Sundays in the study with movies anymore, and we hadn’t had a dinner, just the two of us, since Peter had appeared in the kitchen. My dad was busier now, but he was still suggesting places we could eat and threatening to make me watch more Westerns. But I had a feeling he was just going through the motions. And even though he kept telling me he hadn’t decided if he was running again, I could read the writing on the wall. So I found a way out of everything he proposed. I told him I was busy, that I had plans with my friends, that I had to work. I didn’t want to fall back into the habit of spending time with him like he was going to be around, when clearly he had one foot out the door.
It had been two weeks since my friends and I had imploded, two weeks since Clark and I had broken up, and it felt more like months. For the first few days I was texting everyone—both on our group thread and individually—but when the silence became deafening, I stopped. The silence of my phone just underscored how alone I was now. I could sometimes get Tom to text me back, but never for very long. He was clearly worried he was being disloyal to Palmer and quickly told me he had to go. I’d gone to the opening night of Bug Juice alone, sitting by myself in the back row, looking around for my friends but not seeing them, barely paying attention to the play as I scanned the theater for Clark, sure I saw him dozens of times before the guy would turn his head and I’d realize it wasn’t him—and then feeling like an idiot for thinking it could have been. But the whole show had run smoothly, and I’d been so proud of Palmer, sitting in the sound booth, pulling it off without a hitch.
I’d told Maya I had to stop walking Bertie, and to make up for it—and to distract myself from my friendless state—I’d been taking on as many clients as she could give me. I was out of the house every morning early, with extra leashes and plastic bags and treats, and didn’t return until early evening, tired and sunburned. And then at night I’d work my way through my organic chemistry textbook, trying not to notice how little I was interested in it any longer, telling myself firmly that this was normal, that nobody liked organic chemistry.
“Really?” Maya asked, her brows knitting together. “Because I’m worried you’ve taken on too much. I can take over some of these walks, or Dave can. It’s summer, after all. You should be out having fun with your friends.”
I had to bite my lip to keep from wincing. “Right,” I said hollowly. “My friends.” I busied myself with carefully folding the Flask’s paper napkin into a perfect square.
“Well,” she said with a shrug, leaning back in her chair, “make sure you go have fun tonight. Dave and I are doing payroll, which is a blast. So have a good time before you have to worry about things like that.”
Maya and I headed our separate ways shortly after that, but what she’d said kept returning to me throughout the evening, while I ate my take-out dinner alone and then tried (without success) to get through a chapter in my O-chem study guide.
And it was Maya’s words, coupled with severe boredom and loneliness, that led me to reach for my phone and scroll through my contacts until I got to Topher.
ME
Hey. You around?
TOPHER
It’s about time.
? ? ?