I wake up to a relentless ray of sunshine pounding me right in the eyes. It’s aggressive! And I’m delirious. For a few seconds, I’m even blissfully clueless about my current set of circumstances. Am I hungover because Luke and I downed too many Bud Lights in his buddy’s dorm room last night? Or did Mom and I drain a magnum of Luna di Luna at home?
I slowly absorb my surroundings — I’m all the way up on Marco’s loft, the lake-view window sprawled out below me — and it all comes rushing back. The breakup, the fire, the lake. Shayla, Will, the wagon. Oh, God — the wagon.
There’s a shuffling sound downstairs.
“Joey?” Marco’s voice from below startles me. “How you feeling, bud?”
“I’m… not sure yet.”
“Fresh coffee down here if you want it.”
“Yes,” I croak, “please.”
Marco holds the ladder in place while my shaky hands and feet climb down like a slow monkey with arthritis. He’s got two Advil waiting for me at the kitchen table. I’ve never been so happy to see a couple of little brown pills.
“I guess I shouldn’t be surprised.” Marco’s fresh stubble makes way for a smirk. It’s almost like he grew a literal beard overnight. Between that and his flannel pajama pants, he’s really committed to this whole lumberjack-in-the-woods motif. “Gia and her wine. You didn’t stand a chance.”
“Ha,” I mumble. “Yeah.”
“Pretty crazy to see you all grown up.” Marco clearly hasn’t been told about the havoc I wreaked at his neighbor’s house last night. So that’s a (very mild) relief. “Up until yesterday I still pictured you as a chubby little kid.”
“Please don’t remind me.” I cringe. “Well. You haven’t changed at all.” I take a sip of coffee and imagine it traveling up into my brain rather than down into my stomach. My brain needs it more. “I mean” — I gesture around the room — “except for all this.”
“Not bad, huh? I love it. Even if sometimes I do get a little stir-crazy.” He shifts in his seat and runs his hand through his hair. I wonder if what he really means is lonely. “I’m glad you and your mom surprised me.”
“Thanks again for letting us crash.”
I’m about to ask him for some details about how the hell I found my way to his loft (and up that ladder) last night, but I’m interrupted by the creaking open of his bedroom door across from us. Mom tiptoes out of it, draped all the way down to her knees in one of Marco’s oversized shirts. “Bedhead” doesn’t even begin to describe her current hair situation. She shoots me a half-surprised-half-guilty look, as if she has no idea how she ended up in there but also totally knows how she ended up in there. I knew she was full of shit when she said she didn’t feel anything for him!
“Oh, my God. Ew!” I shift my eyes back and forth from her to Marco. “I… really don’t wanna know.”
“What?” Mom’s voice sounds way too Jersey for our current setting.
Marco just laughs. “Morning, Sunshine.” He pops the Advil back open and grabs her a bottle of water from the fridge. “Here.” There’s a very long, very awkward pause until Marco finally breaks the silence and says, “Okay. I gotta jump on a conference call and then get some work done this morning. You guys can feel free to hang around, though.”
“How about a walk?” Mom asks me.
“There’s an awesome trail starting about a quarter-mile up the road,” Marco suggests. “If you make it to the top you’ll see some incredible views.”
“Let’s do it.” I’d much rather zipper my eyes shut until this hangover wears off, but I feel like Mom and I have some major catching up to do. And maybe the mountain-slash-lake air will be healing.
I climb back up to the loft to change clothes and check my phone before we go. Jesus. I have five missed calls. Two from Nonna and… three from… ugh. Luke. Why won’t he go away? He’s also sent a bunch of texts.
LUKE: Open the door Joey
LUKE: I’m at your apartment
LUKE: Come on, I told you I just want to talk
LUKE: I know you’re here, I’m looking right at your mom’s car
Seriously? Showing up unannounced at eight o’clock on a Wednesday morning? Who does that?
ME: What are you even doing???
ME: I told you I wasn’t mad anymore
ME: her car is broken
ME: Please leave immediately
These are the first texts I’ve sent in more than twenty-four hours and it feels wrong. Like I’m betraying the whole “off the grid” ethos of the lake. But I also feel like I can’t just sit around while Luke bangs down our front door like a delusional psychopath.
He starts typing and then stops. I have no idea what his deal is. If he wanted to talk so badly, why didn’t he call or text me yesterday? If he was pissed off enough about his car to drive all the way to Bayonne to confront me in person, it seems weird that he’d wait more than twenty-four hours to do it. Then again, maybe that’s how long it took for the car to be operational again.
Bzzz. Luke’s replies come in all at once. It must have taken them extra-long to make the journey out here to Bumblefuck. Bzzz.
LUKE: I’m really sorry, ok?
LUKE: I don’t even care about my car anymore
LUKE: I miss you
LUKE: you’ve never ignored me like this
LUKE: I hate it
LUKE: Joshua and I don’t do that shit anymore, I swear
I guess he’s right. I’ve never ignored him like this. Fleeing the state in a post-crime panic has really been great at forcing closure! Otherwise I’m sure I would’ve had at least one conversation with him by now. If only to bite his head off and/or interrogate him on the extent of his sexual history with Joshua. It must be killing him to think I didn’t even care enough to bother. Good. He deserves to miss me.
Oh, my God. Wait.
What if he doesn’t miss me at all? What if he’s just trying to throw me off guard? What if this is all just a tightly organized sting operation? Luke saw the news, connected the dots to the GPS signal I sent him, and is now serving as the prosecution’s key witness in the arson investigation. What if the cops are hiding out in an unmarked van across the street from our apartment, just waiting for Luke to utter the secret code word into the wire that’s taped to his chest? What if his phone is totally bugged?
No.
That’s silly! Even if he did report us for the crime, that’s not how it would play out at all. He wouldn’t just text me. They wouldn’t do a sting operation. This might be New Jersey we’re talking about, but it’s not the Sopranos. The cops would show up themselves to arrest us. And I’m sure Mom’s phone would be blowing up just as much — if not more — than mine.
Shit. Has she even looked at her phone since last night?
I’m jolted out of my thoughts by the sound of her voice from downstairs.
“Joey? You ready?” she calls out. Does she sound nervous and frantic? Fuck. She sounds nervous and frantic. “Let’s go!”