I KEEP PICTURING EVIE IN THE HOSPITAL, LYING IN ONE OF those beds she hated, alone and scared. No matter how hard I try to think of something else, I keep seeing her there, I keep seeing myself with her, and everything in my body wants to be there, to wrap her up and take her away, and the impossibility of it all makes me crazy. She’s on the other side of town, locked up in a tower that I can’t climb, guarded by people who won’t let me see her, by parents who think I’m the reason she’s in there. But I’m the one who saved her. I’m the one who wants to save her still.
It does no good wondering about the past, wishing I could change it. But I can’t help hating myself for not noticing the signs that she was in trouble. Those far-off looks she’d get. How she’d disappear sometimes when she was sitting right next to me. How she kept wanting to get higher and higher, how she was never high enough. I keep thinking I should have loved her better somehow. I should have said something sooner. Maybe there was a way I could have saved her from this.
I can’t do anything about the past, but I can do something about now. I can find my way back to her. I can save us.
I am on my way to the coffee shop where we met for our first date. I remember being so nervous I changed my outfit five times before I got in my car to meet her. She was unlike any girl I had ever met—so real, so authentic—I didn’t want her to think I was just another high school idiot. I wanted her to think I was cool enough, smart, funny. I wanted her to think I was worthy.
Before Evie, I had made a habit of not getting close to anyone. It was my code. Don’t get close and no one can hurt you. They can’t use you. They can’t let you down. They can’t leave. But something about Evie made me go against my code. Something about her convinced me she was worth the risk.
So now here I am, standing in the same spot where a few short weeks ago I tried not to stutter as I attempted witty banter with Evie. Here are all the hip people sitting around, poking at computers, and eating overpriced toast. I take a deep breath as I step up to the counter. The short, androgynous guy at the counter looks at me with confused recognition and pauses a moment before smiling and saying, “What can I get you?” For a moment, I consider running.
“Hi,” I say, and it comes out sounding like a frog croaking.
“Hi,” he says, his smile wavering. Maybe he thinks I’m going to steal the tip jar.
“I don’t know if you remember me,” I begin. “You probably don’t. I came here a few weeks ago with Evie Whinsett.” His smile immediately fades into a look of pure sadness. “Um . . . she’s kind of in trouble right now and I can’t get a hold of her, and I guess I figured you know her, so I wanted to talk to you to, you know, see if you could help me or, I don’t know. Shit, I’m sorry. I’m probably not making any sense.”
“It’s okay,” he says with a small smile. “I’m off in half an hour. Can you wait until then?”
“Yes, of course. Thank you.”
I wander around Telegraph Avenue for the next thirty minutes, trying to busy my mind with window-shopping so I don’t have to think about Evie, but she breaks through everything. Here’s the yoga studio (“Fifteen dollars to do some stretching for an hour?” Evie would say. “Ridiculous”). Here’s the tattoo shop (I wonder what kind of tattoo Evie would get. Something pretty and botanical, I bet. But not predictable. A weed, maybe. A dandelion). Here’s the Burmese restaurant (Evie’s favorite). Here’s the organic ice cream shop with the weird flavors (another of Evie’s favorites). She’s everywhere, in everything.
The half hour is excruciating. When I get back to the coffee shop, Evie’s friend is counting the money out of the tip jar. I catch his eye and he smiles, and I remember the first time I saw him, how he looked so happy to see Evie, but she seemed almost scared, how she went outside to talk to him in private and returned, shaken, desperate to leave the café. She told me nothing and I didn’t push it. I was so wrapped up in my insecurities and expectations, I didn’t even notice how weird it was.
“Let’s get a doughnut,” he says, and I follow him out the door.
“I’m Cole,” he says as we walk down Telegraph and into the alley full of tiny, expensive boutiques. A window displays a red flannel shirt for $250 (“Try it on!” Evie would say, and we’d laugh about how the five-dollar thrift store flannel I’m already wearing looks so much better).
“I’m Marcus,” I say.
“Are you Evie’s new boyfriend?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say. “Wait. New boyfriend? Is there an old boyfriend?”
He looks at me with kindness in his eyes that borders too close to pity.
“Let’s go in here,” he says, and leads me into a tiny shop displaying four flavors of crème-filled artisanal doughnuts. Cole orders a chocolate-hazelnut and a vanilla-persimmon flavored one, and I order a raspberry one even though I am in no mood to eat.
“She had a lot of secrets,” I say, like an apology. Cole nods as we sit on a bench outside.
“So what’s up?” he says as he bites into a doughnut. “How’s Evie?”
“She’s in the hospital.”
He swallows. “Shit,” he says, shaking his head. “The cancer’s back?”
“No, she had an accident. Swimming.”
“Is she okay?”
“She was in a coma for a day. But she’s awake now. At least that’s what I’ve been told. I haven’t seen her. It’s a long story, but her parents aren’t my biggest fans.”
“So you’re contacting me to see if I can help you see her.”
“Yeah. Yes. I guess that’s what I’m doing.”
“I’m sorry,” he says, looking genuinely sorry. “I wish I could help you, but I don’t really have any idea how to contact her. We weren’t close. I just met her once, actually.” He’s quiet for a moment as he stares at his doughnut. He’s gone somewhere far away. “She was my girlfriend’s friend. My ex-girlfriend. Fuck,” he says, setting the doughnut down on his lap. “What do you call it when your girlfriend dies?”
“I don’t know,” I say, but it is a stupid thing to say. Cole wasn’t asking for an answer.
“Stella loved Evie like crazy,” he says. “I was a little jealous, actually. Stella liked girls, too, and Evie was beautiful. But you already knew that.”
I’m not sure if I nod. I’m not sure what any part of my body is doing.
“But it wasn’t like that,” Cole continues. “I think what Stella loved was Evie’s sweetness. Her innocence, you know? How she was this little blond cheerleader with the football player boyfriend and perfect family, but she wasn’t stuck up about it or anything. She was so generous with her love. So open.”
My head is spinning. The ground has been pulled out from under me and I am falling through space and there is nothing and no one to catch me. Who the hell is he talking about? Not Evie. Not the Evie I know.
He seems to sense my shock. “You’re surprised by some of this?”
“Yeah. Pretty much all of it, to be honest.”
“I guess she changed a lot after she got out of the hospital.”
“That would be an understatement.”
“Makes sense, really. She went through a lot. She almost died, then didn’t. Then her really close friend died. That’ll change anyone.”
We sit there in silence for a while. Cole picks up his doughnut and continues eating.
“She was a cheerleader?” It’s the only thing I can think of saying.
Cole laughs, which loosens the vise grip on my heart. He looks me up and down, at my boots and ripped jeans, my faded thrift store T-shirt and short dreadlocks. “Not quite your usual type?”
“Not really.”
“Yeah, not Stella’s either. But Evie was special, I guess.”
“Is special. She is special.”
“Sorry.”
“It’s okay.”
“I have to go to class,” Cole says, standing up. “Been working since eight this morning—now I have to go to three hours of night class. Good times.”
“Thanks for talking to me,” I say.
“Sorry I couldn’t be more helpful. I probably made it worse, huh?”
I look up at him and try to smile. “Yeah, kind of.”
He reaches out his hand and we shake. “Take care of yourself,” Cole says, and walks away.
I sit there for a few minutes, trying to imagine the tough girl I know as a cheerleader, in one of those ridiculous outfits they wear, jumping around with pom-poms, squealing for a football game, or parading through the halls of her high school on the arm of a dumb jock. I can’t help but laugh, and it’s the laughter that saves me, even as I attract a few strange looks, even as a couple people scoot a little farther away from me on the bench. It’s the laughter that keeps me from screaming.