Page 68 of The Last to Let Go
“Okay,” I whisper to myself, hunched over my calculator and pad of paper, chewing on the end of my pen. It’s possible to keep this going for at least the next month.
I have to squint to see what I’m doing, and then I realize that’s because it’s getting dark outside already. I’ve been at this for hours. And even thoughthisis shit, somehow I feel invigorated. Because here’s a problem that has anactualsolution. Whether I’ll be able to solve it is another question entirely, but at least I know, as of right now, what has to be done.
Unlike those other problems. People problems. Mom. Aaron. Callie. Dani. Those are trickier to fix, maybe impossible. School problems are another thing, but in a different class of trouble. I make myself a grilled cheese for dinner and eat it on the couch, watching the snow fall down outside the window.
FREEZING
I PLANNED ON TALKINGto Dani first thing, but she wasn’t in class this morning. So I’m sure to make it to chem lab early. Tyler walks through the door right before the bell and slides into the seat next to me. Without looking at me, he says, “Oh good, you are here. I thought you might have suffered a stroke last night, or something.”
“What?”
He pinches the bridge of his nose and squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, a gesture of exasperation I’ve noticed he sometimes does. “Okay, you know I love you girls, but this kind of drama is exactly why I don’tloveyou girls.”
“Um. Okay,” I say, trying to act casual as I set up our beakers and test tubes, adjusting the ring stand for our experiment, double-checking to make sure the Bunsen burner is turned off.
“I’ll have you know I did some of my best work on her. She was this close”—he brings his thumb and index finger together so they’re barely touching—“to forgiving you. Why the hell didn’t you call her? Now she’s mad all over again, and I don’t know if I can go through this another time. I don’t do stress, as a policy. But dammit, this is giving me heart palpitations.”
Looking at the strained expression on his face, which is usually so placid and smooth, I cave in. “I’m sorry, really. I was planning on it, but—”
“Listen. Don’t make excuses. She hates them. And I’m not so fond of them either.”
I’m sure I flinch at his tone, the way he interrupted me—he’s serious. Which means Dani is too, which means I’ve really messed this whole thing up.
“I’m giving you tough love, all right?” he explains. “Don’t screw her over. And don’t make me choose sides, because I’ll choose hers, and that’ll blow because I happen to like you. That’s all I have to say.” He sets the Erlenmeyer flask in between us, as if that officially marks the end of this conversation. “Except do your hair like that more often.” He flips my loose hair over my shoulder.
When I get home from school, I go straight to my room and call Dani. Except, listening to the ringing on the other end, I feel like a different person than I was only a few nights ago, when I was safe in Dani’s bedroom, her arms around me, her wanting to know me—and me wanting her to. With each unanswered ring I feel myself being swept farther and farther away from her. So much has changed I don’t know how I’ll ever get us back to where we were. I know I probably don’t have a right to be mad, but I am. I don’t have the time or the energy to be dealing with this. Everyone’s shutting me out—Mom, Aaron, Callie, now Dani—and I’m starting to think maybe it’s better that way.
I hang up without leaving a message.
I’m a mess at work. Dropping things and screwing up orders. It’s just me and Owen. Jackie’s not here—she’s been here less and less lately, which, I guess, is one of the perks of being your own boss. I haven’t seen her since before Aaron left, haven’t talked to her since that night on the phone. She called me this afternoon, but I didn’t answer and she didn’t leave a message.
I keep thinking any minute she’s going to drag us out of our apartment, but as each day passes, I have a feeling Aaron didn’t tell her that he left. I’ve called him about a thousand times, but no answer.
I’m only half here tonight, I can’t concentrate, I’m not paying attention. The line is suddenly out the door. People are impatient. I feel like I’m moving in slow motion. I’m supposed to be taking orders, manning the register, and Owen is supposed to be in the back, doing prep and dishes and whatever else needs to be done in the back. Weak spots in my head start to crackle, those old fault lines buckling under the weight of my thoughts.
Owen must hear people complaining and making a fuss. That must be why he comes out of the kitchen, why he’s standing next to me now. “Chill,” I hear him tell me quietly, his voice smooth and cool. He reaches out and places his hand over mine. We both look down. My hands are trembling. “It’s okay. Just chill,” he repeats.
He starts joking with the customers, turning on theO—O—Ohhhcharm, getting drinks and to-go orders lined up, diffusing all the tension, somehow, in a matter of seconds. We don’t have to discuss it, it works—he takes care of the angry people, and all I have to do is focus on taking their money, no small talk, no chitchat, just business.
Some of them got so pissed at how slow I was going that they left. And then a bunch of them leave their cash on the counter the second Owen gets their stuff, not willing to wait around any longer for me to ring them up. I have four different pockets in the front of my apron, and so I stuff four different piles of abandoned money into the separate pockets and try as best as I can to make a mental note of their corresponding orders.
It seems like we get that whole line of people taken care of in no time at all. And when it’s just us again, he looks at me for too long, like he’s waiting for an explanation. When I don’t offer one, he says simply, “You good?”
I say “Yes” even though I feel my head moving back and forth, not up and down.
“So, what—is this about that punk-rock chick who came in here last night?”
“Punk-rock chick,” I repeat, my stomach sinking slowly. “What punk-rock chick?”
“Some girl. She asked for you. I told her you weren’t here. Then she asked if yourmomwas here.”
“Oh my God,” I whisper. “What did you tell her?”
“Nothing.” He shrugs. “Didn’t get a chance. Jackie came up and started talking to her—seemed like they knew each other. They sat over there”—he points with his chin toward the table in the corner by the windows—“and talked for a long time.”
“Oh my God,” I repeat, my hand flying to my mouth. That’s why Jackie called—not to bust me, but to ask me why Dani thinks,or thought, she was my mom. Maybe that’s why she didn’t come to school today. Why she didn’t pick up when I called her.
After work I take my time getting home. I cut through the park, which I know is probably not a great idea after dark, but I don’t even care. Under the trees it’s so still and quiet, everything sparkling under a fresh layer of snow. As I walk along the riverbank, I realize it’s actually too quiet. When I look down, it’s more like a picture of the river than the real thing—an image on pause. It’s finally frozen over. The whole world is in suspended animation. Maybe now I’ll have a chance to catch up.
