“But I never cleaned the apartment.”
“Well, no, but still. I got them. Vonnegut, Carver, Austen. Kind of a random selection. I didn’t know what you liked.”
I looked at the pile. He brought you books. Still think he likes Paris? Idiot. That wasn’t the voice, that was just me. “Thanks,” I said. “Really.”
“You don’t have to take them now. If you don’t want to carry them. I can bring them to your—”
“No,” I said. “Better not. That’s kind of why I never cleaned the apartment. My dad doesn’t want me … um, hanging out with you.” I reached out and took the books.
Looked away.
A long moment.
Looked back and you were watching me. A small smile on your face. Like: intrigued, and amused. “Star-crossed!” you said. “A dramatic turn.” In my defense it was not always obvious that you liked me. You had a habit of making everything into a joke, if it turned too serious. I know it’s hypocritical of me to say that.
“It’s not funny,” I said, and it came out harder than I meant.
Your face sank. “Oh. Yeah, of course. Your dad’s strict?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Bummer.”
“Yeah.”
Silence.
“Um, well, then. I guess, ’bye,” you said.
“Um, yeah, ’bye.”
→ OUR ROMANCE, STILL SCRIPTED BY SHAKESPEARE ←
You pulled yourself easily into the cab, kind of swung yourself. I …
Okay, I’ve been sitting here at Dad’s PC in the study trying to think of how to describe you, the way you moved then, the way you always move. And I think I have it, finally. It’s …
So, you have to start by thinking of the word “fitness.” I mean, thinking of what it really means. We use it all the time—that person is fit, that person isn’t fit, he’s doing fitness training, whatever. But think about the root word. Fit. To fit. To be fit or apt for a purpose.
That’s you. You’re fit, yeah, in the obvious sense that you’re healthy and have a slow resting heart rate, and all that stuff. From all the swimming. But you also fit, your movements fit with the world, you interlock elegantly with it.
You fit into the world like a key in a lock.
Anyway.
So you swung yourself into the cab like your body was meant to fit into that sweep of air, that motion, at precisely that moment, and then you started the engine and drove off, waving.
I thought: I wonder if life gets any better than this. The voice has no power over me and he moves like that and …
I don’t know. I was happy. I reached into my pocket and took out my phone to check the time; I had left my watch at home. That was when I saw that I had a missed call, and a message. I hadn’t looked at my phone in the morning. I mean, I know people do that, but I’m not people; I’m someone used to having no friends. All of which is to say that I had not looked at the thing until I saw on the screen:
Paris. MISSED. 1:24 a.m.
I dialed the number for my messages, and put the phone to my ear. There was a beep, then a click, then a hiss.
“Kccccchhhhhhh … Kccccchhhhhhh …—” And then a scream.
And then:
Click.
I held out the phone, held it far from my body, like it was contaminated.
Fear flooded through me; freezing water. I had been in the ocean and now the ocean was in me; rushing, merciless.
Cold.
2.
THE PART AFTER
As I walked home I dialed Paris’s number.
No answer.
I dialed again.
No answer.
Come on Paris, come on Paris. Answer your phone.
But nothing.
It was eleven thirty. I paced up and down in the kitchen until twelve thirty, and then I nearly ran to the theater where Toy Story was showing. There were a few people waiting outside—a handful of hipsters, some parents with young kids. The theater was old, art deco, like the motels. There were old posters pasted on the walls—Back to the Future; American Gigolo. The facade was dirty, the posters peeling. It was fading, rotting, in need of investment—but with beautiful architectural lines underneath. A microcosm of the town.
I stood there for twenty minutes, hoping. The hipsters and the kids went in. A couple of old people I figured were just looking for an air-conditioned place to spend the hottest part of the day. The sun was high in the sky and sweat was trickling down the back of my neck, pooling in the small of my back.
I looked at my watch: 1:10.
No Paris.
In my mind’s eye, terrible scenarios played out. A john slitting her throat, letting her bleed out. Then dumping her body at sea. Someone cutting her up in a shed. Submerging her in an acid bath. I couldn’t see the man’s face in my imaginings. But it was always a man.