“But”—sobs are still erupting out of me at short intervals—“if she—were here—we never would—have met.”
He hums and I pry my face away from my legs far enough to see him studying a photo of Penny with braces, circa seventh grade. “You keep forgetting we already had.”
I let the meaning of his comment go unexamined. I am too tired. I let Ringo’s hand go too, though I’m thankful that it had been there to lead me away. With Penny and Will, I didn’t need anyone else. Ringo couldn’t understand that. The three of us were different. Special. At least I thought so. After a time, I push myself upright. I can feel the tears already crusting on my skin. I take soft footsteps into Penny’s room, like I’m walking onto holy ground. It still smells of incense, and the longing in me presses out against the borders of my skin, throbbing.
Carefully, I touch her belongings. Seashell necklace. Moroccan scarf. Honey lip balm. Penny. I try to imagine the words she’d say if all this were over and she found me at the cliff. She’d look at me and know what I’d been through, sucking the week’s worry in like she could take it all back from me. Together we’d talk about Will every day. She’d weave a basket out of palm fronds or something and we’d send parts of his memory out into the ocean and she’d know exactly the right words to say.
My fingertips land on a well-worn spiral notebook. I hesitate before flipping through it. I’m flooded with thousands of Penny’s words all gathered up like an answer to a prayer. I hesitate, checking over my shoulder to see Ringo squinting at a framed picture of Will, Penny, and me with our tongues out, all dyed red from cherry slushies. I slide the notebook into my purse along with the lip balm and zip it closed. Finally, it feels like I have a piece of Penny to carry around. I relax for the first time since I entered the Hightowers’ house.
“Over here, Ringo.” I cross the thin rug to the window, wedge my fingers under the the edge of it, and jiggle open the frame. I turn to gesture for Ringo to follow.
“Look, I know you’re going through a rough time, but jumping? Not the answer.” His head is cocked to the side like a bemused dog, so I can tell he doesn’t think I’m actually suicidal. But he still doesn’t appear to be keen on following me out an open second-story window. Sensible. I can respect that.
So I demonstrate by hoisting one leg through the opening, then the other, and soon he can see that I’m crouching comfortably on the roof. It takes only another moment’s hesitation before he joins me.
“Welcome,” I say, taking a seat on the sandpapery shingles. “This was our spot. Mine and Penny’s.” The view is of the backyard and of overflow parking of the attendees from the Hightowers’ synagogue. Weird. Never in my worst nightmares did I dream of coming out here and looking down at…this.
“It’s, uh, cozy.” Ringo’s hip is pressed against mine. We’re hemmed in by the slope of the roof beside us and the edge below. “So what exactly are we doing up here?”
“There’s oxygen up here,” I say, somberly.
Ringo shakes his head. “You really should get some help with that oxygen addiction of yours.”
I nudge him with my elbow. “Penny and I used to sunbathe out here. Or sometimes when I slept over, we’d sneak out the window and fall asleep. I know, I know, it sounds dangerous, but we’d hold hands so that if one of us began to roll off, the other one would wake up to save her.” Ringo pulls one eyebrow up. “Okay, so, it wasn’t, like, a foolproof plan. But no one died, right?” We both go silent.
I chew the inside of my cheek, searching and thinking—for what, I’m not quite sure. In the end, I start weighing whether or not to tell him this next thing and then find a strange compulsion to do it. “We tried pot up here. Just once,” I add hurriedly. “It was dumb. Penny got this joint from some guy in her yoga class.” I rest my chin on my bent knees, embarrassed now that I’ve begun. “I’m not even really sure it worked. We felt, like, a little, I don’t know, fuzzy. Penny said she hated it. I thought she was just being dramatic.” I turn my cheek to my knee and peer at Ringo. “You ever tried it?”
Ringo snorts softly. “I’m more of a ‘Just say no’ guy.”
I remember how mad Will had been when he found out we’d tried it without him. I wanted to explain to him how, once we were dating, I owed Penny her own special things so that she stayed mine too. I needed them both. Will and Penny, Penny and Will. The universe demands balance, as Penny would say.
“Okay, then.” I bump my shoulder into his. “You tell me something.”
“Like what?”
“A secret.” I bob my head to add a silent Duh. “I told you one and now you have to tell me something. That’s the way it works.”
“Excuse me? Referee?” He mimes looking around. “I believe I’ve been entered into the game against my will.”
“Well?”
He sighs and runs his fingers through his hair. I realize that I really like his hair. Or at least I notice it a lot. Ringo has nice hair. Why am I thinking about his hair? This has to be the most anyone has ever thought about hair in a thirty-second period. Lake…
“My real name’s…Christian.” This snaps me out of my hair haze.
“Christian?” I roll the name over my tongue. “Christian…as in feeding the multitudes with loaves and fishes, walking on water, resurrecting on the third day Christian?”
“At least one of those fits.”
I form my fingers into a makeshift picture frame, squint one eye closed, and view him through the diamond-shape opening. “Nope.” I frown. “Doesn’t fit. Christian? Are you sure?”
“Pretty sure.”
“That’s a lame confession anyway. Your name? Try again, please.” I lift my chin in defiance. At eye level, a group of palm fronds rustles in the wind.
“One for one,” he says. “Those are the rules.”
“And here I thought I was in charge of the game.” Below us, a few mourners trail off to their Mazda Miatas and Mitsubishis. Two women clasp each other in a long hug. “Okay, fine.” I take a deep breath and watch Ringo out of the side of one eye. “But I have to warn you. After this one, I’ll have taken a decisive lead on the scoreboard.” He nods once for me to continue. “Okay.” I take a deep breath. “Sometimes,” I say, “I hate my brother. Like really hate him. I think he’s a jerk. More than a jerk. A world-class villain. An asshole.”
“And you called my confession lame?”