Brush-Off
Ivy: Still nothing?
Me: Nothing.
Ivy: Did he read it?
Me: I don’t know. It just says delivered.
Hours have passed since I texted Noah.
The car rounds a bend, blinding me with the setting sun and making my head spin. I swing the visor down and watch the road. I’m doubting the sanity of driving straight through. When we decided to go for it, it sounded like an adventure. Three young, healthy adults to share eighteen hours of driving? Easy.
Except now I’m ready to be anywhere but in a car.
Regardless, Marcus has to work tomorrow morning. Devin and I are just along to facilitate his safe arrival.
Slap!
When I look toward the sound, Devin is leaning into the steering wheel, glassy eyes blinking rapidly, a red mark that looks like fingers surfacing on his cheek.
“Hey, Dev,” I say, “how about you find a nice turnout and I’ll drive?”
“Oh good. I’m dying here,” he says, coming to an abrupt stop in what is more a slight widening of the two-lane road than an actual turnout.
Marcus, formerly asleep in the back seat, pops up with a curse. “What?”
“Devin’s sleepy,” I explain, climbing across the middle as Dev runs around the front of Marcus’s aged Jeep Cherokee. I buckle into the driver’s seat and check my mirrors, praying no crazies come whipping up behind us before Dev gets in and I can get us back on the road.
Marcus rubs at his eyes. “Dude!” he says when Devin slams the door and I stomp on the gas. “You gotta be nicer to Cher. She’s old.”
“Sorry.” Devin yawns, leaning against the passenger window.
In the rearview mirror I see Marcus frown. “You okay to drive?”
My assent encourages him to lie back down, leaving me alone with my thoughts and the rural highway for company. The road is far too quiet to shut out the worry, so I get Devin to start an audiobook for me and cross my fingers that the plot will be intense enough to override my worry.
My phone buzzes a few times, but when the road is straight enough to hazard a glance, I can see that all the texts are from Ivy. Hours pass, Marcus takes over driving, and still there is nothing from Noah. I haul myself into bed sometime after one in the morning, convinced he won’t be texting back.
I leave my ringer on, just in case.
I don’t think I even move until I wake up a little after ten to Mom’s ringtone and the sun in my eyes. There are several older notifications from her below the one that woke me up—probably because I forgot to text her when I got home—and one from Ivy in the mix, but when I see the banner at the bottom, I nearly drop my phone.
It’s a text from Noah.
My fumbling fingers get the code wrong twice before my phone finally unlocks. Crossing my fingers that the news is good, I take a deep breath, open the message, and read.
He’s out of the coma and doing better. Thanks for asking.
A wave of relief flows over me. Noah’s brother is recovering. I send a prayer of thanks heavenward and read the message again, thumbs ready to reply, but something about the tone stops me.
Thanks for asking.
What does that mean?
Hours later, I’m still trying to figure it out.
“It’s clearly a brush-off,” I say as I position an address label on a thick envelope and hand it off to Ivy from my place at the kitchen table.
“I don’t know,” Ivy says, sliding an announcement into the envelope. “I don’t usually take the time to text a brush-off from my brother’s hospital room at three in the morning.”
Dave—leg three of our triangular Wedding Announcement Assembly Circuit and Crisis Support Group—agrees as he takes the envelope, wets the adhesive with a sponge, and seals the flap shut. “It’s not a brush-off. He’s a guy. If he responded, he’s interested. If he wanted to get rid of you, he’d ghost you.”
“Ghosting sucks,” I say, thumping my fist down on the current label.
Dave stops what he’s doing and catches Ivy’s eye. “Do you think this activity might be contributing to Grace’s negativity, or is it just trip-lag?”
Ivy chuckles. “Definitely not this. Nothing’s more fun than marrying off another roommate.”
“There is nothing about either of you that I like,” I say. I don’t mean it. They’ll disappear into the Newlywed Abyss in less than a month, and then I’ll have no one to hang out with.
Again.
For the moment, I’m embracing my role as wedding assistant and glorified third wheel.
“What I meant,” Dave says, ignoring my salt, “is that you asked him something, and he answered it. Bare minimum, yes, but he gave you what you asked for. Maybe he doesn’t like texting.”
“But ‘Thanks for asking’? That’s a total brush-off!”
“What makes that a brush-off instead of an actual thank-you?” he asks.
I roll my eyes. “Seriously? You have to ask?”
“She has a point,” Ivy says. “The way it’s worded kind of sounds like he’s over and out.”
“So how should he have responded, if he wanted to keep it going?” Dave punctuates his question by slapping a finished envelope onto the growing pile.
“I don’t know,” Ivy says. “Maybe ask about her drive home? How the rest of the trip went?”
Dave huffs. “He’s at the hospital with his critically injured brother. Not to mention it was three in the morning.”
“True, but considering their history . . .”
“He’s a math guy, right?” Dave asks me.
“Accountant.”
He smiles as if that proves his point. “Notoriously bad with words.”
“Valid,” Ivy says.
“Stereotype.” I shake my head at her flip-flopping. “Which side are you arguing? I can’t keep track.”
“I’m exploring all options. Besides, you know he doesn’t like to talk, especially about himself.”
Dave can’t help but throw in another two cents. “I still say you’re expecting too much from someone in his situation. What about his apology? That doesn’t sound like someone who wants to avoid you at all costs.”
“Guilt,” I say. “He was mending fences.”
“See?” Ivy says. “Good fences make good neighbors. He wants to be friends, at least.”
I disagree. “Good fences keep people out.” As much as I’ve told Ivy about Noah—and that’s most of it—she still doesn’t comprehend how closed-off he is. “Trust me. He doesn’t want people climbing his fence or even looking through. I’m not texting back,” I say.
“But—” Ivy starts.
I hold up one hand to stop them both. “Look, I reached out. I let him know I was worried about him, and he responded in a way that says, clearly, ‘Nice of you to ask. My brother’s going to be fine. Peace out.’ I have to respect that boundary.”
Especially because I don’t want to.