Jack
Wednesday, June 23, 1:22 p.m.
I spend the first two weeks of summer mostly hanging out with Ajay, playing video games, applying for a handful of minimum-wage jobs, and watching a lot of shows on Netflix.
Still, two weeks out from shooting off an apologetic email to my supervisor at the internship I won’t be taking and another to Columbia University’s admissions department to inquire about deferring, I’m not as relieved as I might have expected. I’m guessing it will take a while to sink in.
Today, I’m taking a break from organizing my bookshelf alphabetically to go the mall with Ajay. He needs to get some new clothes for his upcoming trip to Europe where he’s spending the summer with his cousins in Paris, and I’m that bored that I’ve offered to tag along. Ajay thumbs through stacks of identical-looking tan shorts at five different chain stores until he finally settles on some and buys three identical pairs. We linger in GameStop for a while chatting up the guy behind the counter about Nintendo’s Breath of the Wild sequel and then head to the Starbucks kiosk for rejuvenation.
“So, have you talked to Natasha?” he asks as we loop around the turnstile and enter the queue.
“Nope. Should I have?”
“No, it’s just—you guys went out for a long time, and then it ended kind of weird. I don’t know where that leaves me exactly. I mean—I’m friends with both of you.”
“Has she asked about me?” I ask.
“I haven’t actually talked to her since the day after Carly’s party, when she was having a meltdown.”
“Nobody’s expecting you to choose sides. We broke up with each other, not you. We can be mature. We’re all adults here.”
“That’s a terrifying thought,” he jokes.
“Seriously, it’s fine. I’m fine. Things could not be finer. I am the King of Fineland.” We order, and Ajay doesn’t even make a move for his wallet. He’s distracted by something, and there’s someone waiting behind us, so I pay. “No problem, I’ll get it.”
“Cool—so—if your paths crossed suddenly and without warning, you’d be totally chill?” he asks, his gaze remaining fixed somewhere over my shoulder.
I let out a single laugh. “Yeah, totally.”
“Excellent, because she’s standing at the counter right there waiting for her drink.”
For a single beat, I wonder if Ajay is trying to prank me, but it’s not his style to twist the knife. He’s more about trying to embarrass me in public. And then I hear the barista yell out, “Triple venti, half-sweet, nonfat, caramel macchiato, extra hot!”
I’d recognize that high-maintenance drink order anywhere.
I scan the faces arcing out around the pickup area at the end of the bar and spot her copper curls, piled on her head in an intentionally sloppy bun. Our eyes lock as she reaches for her beverage. She’s caught off guard, and the sight of me so clearly unsettles her that she knocks into not one but two people behind her as she steps back from the counter. Her face is as white as if she’s seeing a ghost. In a way, she is.
We exchange awkward smiles, and I raise my hand in hello. For a millisecond, I feel a twinge of something I used to when I looked at her, but then I realize it’s more of a conditioned response, like Pavlov’s dogs. The truth is, I haven’t thought much about her these last few weeks.
“Iced coffee for Cade!” the barista calls out, and my attention is now drawn to the guy standing to her left that I hadn’t noticed at first. It takes me a minute to recognize him as he approaches the counter because he’s wearing sunglasses and a wool beanie even though it’s hot as Hades out. As he comes to stand alongside her, I realize it’s Cade fucking Krentzman. The same Cade Krentzman from grad night.
“Hey, what are you guys doing here?” Natasha asks. Her smile looks pasted on.
“Well, it’s the mall. Doing some shopping,” I deadpan.
Cade takes a sip of his drink and nearly spits it out. He approaches the barista and says rudely, “Excuse me, I ordered this sweetened.” The barista quickly apologizes and offers to remake it.
I can’t help but look at Natasha and smile. She knows how I feel about people who sweeten black coffee and people who speak rudely to service workers. It’s so many kinds of wrong. Her face is frozen, staring at me.
Cade looks at me over the top of his sunglasses, trying to place me. “Do I know you? You look familiar.”
“We went to Madison together for the last four years.”
I still clearly don’t register. “Oh, okay. Right.”
If Cade realizes Natasha and I used to date, it’s lost on him. Or he’s so cocky, he simply doesn’t care.
“How come you’re not in New York?” she asks me, visibly flustered.
“Change of plans. Change of heart. You know how that goes,” I tell her.
Her cheeks flush. “So, you’re not going to New York?”
“Not at this point. I’m taking a gap year, working, traveling, figuring stuff out.”
“What about Columbia?”
“What about it?”
“You’re not going?” She’s looking at me in disbelief, her words dripping with judgment.
“I don’t know. Probably not.”
“Why?”
“The fact that you’re even asking that question shows how little we know each other,” I tell her and render her speechless. I’m not trying to be a jerk; I’m simply stating a fact.
“We should get going. The movie’s gonna start,” Cade tells her.
“What are you guys going to see?” Ajay asks.
“Psycho in the Cellar,” Cade offers as the barista hands him his new drink. “It’s supposed to be killer. Every pun intended.”
He cracks up at his own joke, another pet peeve of mine. Natasha is turning absolutely scarlet. It’s kind of fantastic. “Interesting. I thought you hated horror movies, thus further proving my point,” I tell her. “Well, it was great to see you guys. Have a good summer!”
“You too.” Cade presses Natasha’s hand to his arm to steer her away, but she stays rooted in place.
“Maybe we could meet for coffee sometime and talk,” she offers as an olive branch of sorts.
“Sure.” It’s the kind of vague thing you say to end a conversation even though we both know it probably won’t happen. I’m ready to move on. Clearly, she is too, even if it is with Cade Krentzman.
On our way back to the car, I notice the mannequins in every store window display, and it makes me think of my night with Hallie. I tell Ajay the story on the drive home. I take the long way, which routes us by the Pancake Shack, which I do every day, hoping to steal a glance of her through the window as I pass, some sign she’s okay. I’m still wearing her bracelet every day so I don’t lose it.
“If you’re so hung up on this girl, I don’t understand why you don’t go talk to her.”
“I can’t. I told you—she doesn’t want contact until we meet up in six months.”
He shakes his head. “And you’re okay with that? I, personally, don’t get the whole six months deal. This is real life, Jack, not the climax scene of a Hallmark movie. She wouldn’t make some elaborate future meetup plan with you if she weren’t interested, which lends itself to the strong possibility she’s been regretting that decision ever since.”
We reach the stoplight across the intersection from the Pancake Shack. The car is deafeningly quiet, both of us staring at it, and then Ajay says, “Seriously, my friend, I think you just need to go in.”
“I think you just want hash browns,” I tell him.
“I wouldn’t complain.”
“If I’m doing this, you’re coming with me.”
“Only if you buy me hash browns.”
“I mean—it’s reasonable to expect I’d be concerned that she’s okay after what she told me, right?”
“This is what I’m saying. You’re just checking in, and then when she sees you again, she’ll be reminded of your irresistible charm and change her mind. In fact, she’s probably waiting for you to storm the restaurant looking for her, so you can tell her to lay down her pancake batter ladle, set aside her apron, and sweep her off her feet right now.”
“Yes, I’m sure that’s exactly how it will go. Who’s Hallmark Channeling now?”
The light changes. The car behind me honks because I idle a second too long.
“You just gotta get it over with. It’ll be like ripping off a Band-Aid,” Ajay assures me.
We sit in my car in the parking lot for a full ten minutes before I work up the courage to go in. There’s a HELP WANTED sign taped to the front door, which is ironic because the place is quiet as a graveyard.
My eyes immediately dart to the far-back booth where I saw Hallie sitting before, but she’s not there. No one is. The place is empty.
“This is a bad idea. Let’s go,” I tell Ajay as I jam my hands in my pockets and am about to turn around and leave, but he’s having none of it.
“Band-Aid,” he says like it’s some code word between us.
He smiles at someone over my shoulder. I turn to face an older version of Hallie, except this woman’s hair is brown and tied back in a ponytail. They even have the same smile. I’m guessing it’s her mom.
“Table for two?” she asks pleasantly.
“Hi, um—yes, please,” I tell her and awkwardly follow her to a booth where she slides menus in front of us. Up close she looks tired, like she’s been through a lot, and from what Hallie’s told me, she has. My eyes scan every inch of the restaurant looking for signs of Hallie, but as far as I can see, there’s only her mom and a line cook in the kitchen.
“You know what you want, or you need a minute?” she asks.
“Uh—I’ll have some buttermilk pancakes please. And a cup of coffee—black, no room.”
“Triple order of hash browns, please,” Ajay says as he closes his menu and wiggles his thick, black eyebrows at me.
“You got it,” she says and walks off to put in my order. An elderly couple comes in, and Mrs. Baskin acknowledges them by name and seats them at a booth a few down from us. Must be regulars.
“I’m pretty sure that’s her mom,” I tell Ajay.
“Do you see Hallie?” he asks.
“No.”
Mrs. Baskin returns with two mugs of coffee and puts them in front of us. “Food should be up in a minute.”
“Why didn’t you ask her if she’s here?” Ajay says.
“I’m working up to it,” I say.
At least, I’m trying to. Who knows what she’s told her parents about me, if anything? Something about being here feels wrong, like I’m trespassing. Hallie had been very clear and certain about not wanting to see each other right now. I’m being selfish to walk in here unannounced and uninvited and steamroll over that in the hopes she’s changed her mind. And if she does, she’s smart and just as capable of tracking me down.
Most likely, she knew what might be ahead and she didn’t want me to see her like that, which is completely her right. It’s about as personal as it gets and not necessarily the kind of thing you’d be comfortable sharing with someone you’ve only first started getting to know. I can respect that.
In the aftermath of my dad’s death, all I wanted was space. I didn’t want to put on a happy face or be on display. For a long time, the first thing anyone asked about was how I was doing, and then after some time had gone by, people stopped asking, and that was hard too. As if they expected that by a certain point, I’d be over it. Healing—emotionally and physically—happens at its own pace, not necessarily the one everyone else is moving at. It’s not the sort of thing that can be rushed. There’s something in allowing yourself to be exactly where you need to be, whether other people understand it or not, that is essential to the process.
But I do understand it, and that’s why I realize I need to leave.
“This is a mistake. We should go,” I tell Ajay as I pull out my wallet to throw money on the table for the bill before it even arrives.
“Hold on—we just ordered! What about my hash browns?” Ajay looks like a two-year-old whose balloon popped.
“Seriously?”
“Dude, you need to relax. Just be cool.”
Mrs. Baskin brings coffee to the elderly couple, and I can’t help but overhear their conversation. The older woman asks Mrs. Baskin, “How is your daughter doing, dear?”
My ears perk up. They’re obviously asking her about Hallie. Mrs. Baskin sighs and rests the coffeepot on the table.
“You’re so sweet to ask. The surgery went well, but then she developed an infection in the incision site, so they’ve had to treat that with antibiotics and wait for it to clear up before she can come home. They’re saying hopefully by the end of next week. And when she does, she has a long road ahead of her. She’ll get tired easily and won’t be able to handle much activity for several months. The biggest challenge will be keeping her from pushing herself harder than she should prematurely.”
“No, you mustn’t rush that sort of thing. Everything in its own time,” the older man says.
“Exactly. My Hallie is the most strong-willed girl I’ve ever met, so if she gets an idea in her head, you can bet she’s not going to let go of it. I’ll have to tie her down.”
They all laugh. Ajay looks me square in the eye. He’s eavesdropping as well and raises his eyebrows. I imagine Hallie lying in a hospital bed with tubes coming out of her chest and a nasal cannula. I can visualize the fluorescent lights, the white square ceiling tiles, and the incessant beep and hum of machines. I feel a pull in the center of my chest. I don’t want to lose it in the middle of the restaurant.
The older woman says, “I’m sorry for the complications but glad to hear she is on the mend. Please tell her we say hello, and we’ll be praying for you all.”
“Thank you. I sure will,” Mrs. Baskin says as someone in the kitchen yells, “Order up!” On her way to the kitchen, two moms in workout gear come in with their giggly preschoolers in tow, a boy and a girl who are chanting, “Pancakes! Pancakes!” Mrs. Baskin tells them to sit anywhere they’d like as she goes to get our food.
“There you go,” Ajay whispers. “Feel better now?”
I look at him incredulously. “How could finding out she’s in the hospital with post-surgical complications make me feel better?”
“Because at least you know what’s going on. Mission accomplished.”
Mrs. Baskin returns with our breakfast. The plate has barely touched the table before Ajay dives into his tower of hash browns, no waiting. As I reach for my napkin to put it on my lap, she catches sight of Hallie’s bracelet on my wrist.
“Oh—I like your bracelet!” She lights up with a warm smile as she places my pancakes in front of me. “It reminds me of a piece of jewelry my daughter made that looks similar.”
I casually rest my arm on my leg, taking it out of view, and say, “Thanks. That’s really cool.”
“I’m always telling her that she has a beautiful eye for design. She sees a stone, but to her it’s not just a stone. She can wrap metal wire around it in an intricate design and then suddenly turn it into a work of art. She’s something.” She wedges our check between the salt and pepper shakers. “No rush. Take your time.”
No rush. Take your time.
There it is again, like the universe subtly asking me to pay attention. That’s it entirely. There’s no need to force things or rush them along at an unnatural pace. Not finishing breakfast, seeing Hallie, starting college before I feel ready, figuring out my life, getting over losing Dad, or rebuilding things with Alex—none of it. No rush, take your time.
I pay the check, and before I leave, I gently unhook Hallie’s bracelet and lay it on the table for her mother to find.
On the ride home, Ajay says, “You know what I think? I think you should come with me to Europe.”
“Europe?”
“Yeah! It’s going to be killer. My cousin Sanjeev’s apartment is right in Paris. He’s our age, totally chill. We’ll use his apartment as a base and take the train all over because the countries are so close. One day we can be taking selfies on Abbey Road and the next, eating a baguette in Paris or checking out the Van Gogh Museum in Amsterdam. Oh—and you’ll be so down for this—we can go check out the Computerspielemuseum in Berlin! It’s a whole museum of playable video games. It’ll be totally lit.”
It reminds me of the Pacific Pinball Museum. That does sound pretty amazing. It’s not like I’ve found a job yet or made any other plans. “I don’t know…”
“Dude, what could you possibly be doing that would be more about going with the flow than that? Seriously, my cousin won’t mind. His dad, my uncle Dev, is a chef, and he’s never home. We’ll take you to his restaurant in Paris. It’s awesome. C’mon, it’ll be an adventure.”
Maybe Ajay’s right. Getting lost for a month might be exactly what I need to jump-start my thinking about what’s next. I have enough in my savings to pay for my ticket, and a free crash pad makes it beyond feasible. Mom’s busy all summer focusing on promotion and working on her new book anyway, and this way she wouldn’t need to worry about me. There’s honestly nothing keeping me here.
I reach in my jeans pocket for my phone to check the calendar even though I know it’s empty. As I do, a small crumbled piece of paper dislodges from inside and tumbles onto my lap.
At first, I think it’s a piece of a straw wrapper, but it’s too wide. I unfold it and realize it’s my fortune from Oscar’s car. It’s been through the wash, and the once-black words are now worn away and a pale, bleached-out lavender, but I can still make them out.
A ship in harbor is safe, but that’s not why ships are built.
“I’m in.”