Colin.
The memory of him—or maybe just the loss of him—pulls me back to reality. Old Gruder is driving like a maniac, his eyes wild with lust and abandon. My dress is hiked up to the hem of my underwear, way past where it should be.
As my vision clears, I turn my head to take in the sight of Gruder’s brother. I hate him. I hate the booze, the keg stand, the goddamn kidnapping—but worst of all, I hate the way he brought me back to that place. To the lake, the bear, the terror.
Riding this wave of uninhibited rage, I yank on the steering wheel and pull hard to the right. Old Gruder yells like a little girl. He scrambles for the wheel as the headlights swerve into the darkness, the sights and sounds of South Boston rushing past. One of the windows sinks down of its own accord, and January’s first breath hits me like a splash of cold water. I inhale, savoring the taste of freedom.
The tires skid on black ice, round and round and round, until the car simply spins itself out. It comes to rest on faded yellow lines, one of the tires jammed in a pothole. The exhaust pipe coughs once, as if to confirm the fun is over. Old Gruder peels his hands off the wheel, pitches forward, and vomits a chunky mixture of beer and Chinese food. I give the car door a healthy shove. It opens easily now, as if the outside world is finally ready to have me.
A light snow has begun to fall, melting in the folds of my hands. I walk toward a row of subdued houses, some illuminated by the eerie glow of televisions, others completely dark. A diner sits on the corner, languishing in yellow streetlights, its E burned out so it reads DINER—HOT ATS 24/7. A few old men are inside, gripping white mugs.
The peel of tires on a potholed road echoes somewhere behind me, then vanishes into the night. That, too, is already starting to feel like a memory. The keg, the almost kiss, the slam of a car door that shook my eardrums. Old Gruder’s jowly face recedes into my subconscious like a wisp of smoke.
The door jingles as I enter. A solid-bodied waitress barks a greeting and points at one of the booths along the window. The menu quickly follows.
“Whatcha want?” She pours me a cup of coffee as she asks me this.
“Um . . .” The words are blurred, but the crackling of the fryer makes the menu irrelevant. I want eggs. Maybe some pancakes.
“Well?”
“Two eggs, over medium . . .” I say from memory; diner waitresses hate when you read the menu. Not knowing what you want makes you look like an amateur. “And a short stack of pancakes.”
She stomps off, her stark black uniform contrasting with the diner’s warm interior. The red booths have that lived-in, lovingly used feel, like a grandparent’s living room. The floors are recently swept, and the silverware sparkles. The air of cleanliness and efficiency conveys a proud establishment, owned by someone who cares.
The coffee is a dream: hot and fresh, brewed by the diner gods. As I’m wrestling with both sleeves to get them over my wrists, it occurs to me why it’s such a struggle to get the thing off: I’m wearing my dad’s coat.
This realization comes to me in slow motion, like trying to put together a simple puzzle. I’m staring at the buttons when the waitress comes by again.
“This yours?” She holds up a cell phone.
“No.”
“You sure? ’Cause I found it right under your table.” Un-dah. You-ah. Her accent reminds me of every gritty mob movie ever set in this town. In a subtle yet more immediate way, it reminds me of Colin.
She puts the cell phone on the place setting across from me and continues her coffee rounds. The home screen display looks familiar—a picture of me, actually. Suntanned and smiling but caught unawares; the kind of photo that means something to someone.
I scroll through the list of contacts. Teammates, Coach, Gruder . . . there are about a hundred missed calls in the last hour alone. Odd.
I sip my coffee. The old-school clock on the wall ticks past one o’clock.
Oh no.
It’s Lee’s phone. I fumble through the missed calls—all sent from my phone. Of course. He must have my coat and, therefore, my phone. And wallet. And everything else.
Not good.
My fingers slide down a menu of hundreds of names. Girls with strange descriptors (Rita Gap Teeth, Marie Tongue Ring, Elise Religious . . .). Guys who go by their initials. Then the difficult-to-categorize: Coach Evil, Doober . . .
Shea.
Selecting the number opens up a text message. It all seems very benign—a blank screen, nothing else, with no anxious waiting period or awkward silences. Much less personal than a phone call, but more casual than an e-mail. Plus I’m drunk, so everything feels like a good idea right now. I ignore the forty-eight missed calls and type in a message.
Are you awake?
I hit send. No hesitation—not even a blip of nerves. It comes naturally, like something I’ve done a hundred times before.
The waitress returns bearing a steaming plate of food, which she practically hurls onto the tabletop. At first, I think she’s angry with me, but no, this is just her style. The clatter of plates is this place’s elevator music.
“Thanks.”
She grunts in response and turns back toward the kitchen. I look down at the phone. The light is blinking with a new message.
Is this Avery?
I sent three little words from Lee’s phone—How could Colin possibly know it was me? Maybe guys don’t ask each other if they’re awake on New Year’s. Or maybe they do. I don’t know.
I’m at the diner on
I actually have no idea where I am. I flip open a spare menu perched between the saltshakers. The Wheelhouse. I delete the previous message and type in its place:
I’m at the Wheelhouse.
Send.
Ten seconds pass.
Are you okay?
I ignore the purple bruises marring my forearm and push the thought away. I’m so tired of people asking me that question: Are you okay? Are you sure?
I send a reply: I’m fine.
Nothing for a while. Then:
Okay.
The phone rings two more times—both from “Aves”—before I can type in a reply. I dismiss both of them and stare at the blinking cursor.
Come?
Send.
A shorter pause.
Be there in ten.
I close my eyes, processing what I’ve just done. Colin is coming. In ten minutes. Because I asked him to.
I could undo it. I could call him and tell him never to text me, talk to me, or interact with me in any way ever again. And he would honor those requests because he respects the choices I’ve made, no matter how selfish or ill-informed.
I pound out a second message, this one to “Aves”/Lee:
I’m fine. Crashing at a friend’s house.
Two more missed calls. The little blue light on the display blinks with a new message:
PICK UP THE PHONE.
Another missed call. I’m tempted to turn it off, but Lee’s next call will probably be to the Boston PD. I hit the callback number and wait for his diatribe. After a single ring, he picks up—but it isn’t rage I hear on the other line. It’s fear.
“Aves!” He exhales like he’s been holding his breath for hours. “Where the hell are you?”
“At a friend’s house.”
“Which friend?”
“Uh . . .”
He cuts me off. “Someone saw you leave with Gruder’s creepy-ass brother. Are you sure you’re okay? I got a real bad read on him—”
“Yeah. I ditched him. Don’t worry about it.”
I hear Gruder’s muffled voice, then Lee telling him to shut up. His voice is quieter when he comes back on the line, as if all his bluster has suddenly left him. “You can’t just say that to me, Aves.” His next breath catches in his throat. “You can’t.”
“Lee, I’m sorry. I’m okay. I swear to you.”
I hear him sit down, and the rest is easy to visualize: one hand rubbing his neck, the other gripping the phone like a lifeline. Before the crash, our relationship was so breezy—the good times were great and the bad times were nonexistent. Our biggest fights were about which cafeteria to go to for lunch, or which party to hit up first on a Saturday night. We’re both products of charmed childhoods. Two-parent families. Stable incomes. No real tragedies except the death of the family pet.
But things are different now. The process of putting things back together when the pieces don’t fit anymore is becoming a reality not just for me but also for him. For us. He talks to me like I’m encased in glass. He holds my hand as if it might, at any moment, disintegrate. When he looks at me, he seems to be searching for my very soul.
“Lee?”
He sighs, letting the distant sound of music float through the silence. “I need to know you’re okay. That’s all I’m asking.”
“I am. I promise.”
“Put your friend on the line.”
“My friend?” My voice is a squeak.
“The one you’re staying with. Put her on.”
The front door’s jingling bell alerts me to the entry of a new customer. It all feels so preordained, in a way. The timing of a question, the jingling of a bell. The seat assignment on an airplane. The failure of an engine that had worked a thousand times before, only to give out while we were flying over some of the most savage terrain in the United States. These are all things that brought me here, to this moment, like a scripted play. These are the moments that make the world turn on its axis. This is why I’m here. Alive.
Colin.
He found me.