THE GUY CATCHES THE GIRL WITH A GENTLE GRAB AT her elbow.
“Go home,” she says to him, her voice softer now. “This is over.”
I wonder what’s over. This conversation? Their relationship? There’s something about her that reminds me so much of Eliza. I don’t know this couple but my gut says they do this a lot. It’s part of their dynamic. Regular steps in their dance. I’ve done a version of that dance myself.
Now the girl starts crying.
There’s a handful of other people at the bus stop. A man with a guitar is standing closest to the girl. He steps forward. He’s about to do something. Offer the girl help, or tell the dude to back off. Good. He should. He’s bigger than me and could defend himself, if things get real.
Except now the guitar man is stepping back. For some reason, my feet feel glued to my spot on the pavement.
The guy reaches one arm around the girl’s middle and tugs her closer.
“Fuck you, no!” she yells, and struggles to pry his arm away.
I start forming words in my mouth: Hey what’s going on is everything okay here.
But in the next instant, she’s free of him. She’s spinning into the street.
And in the next half instant, the horn of a bus. Then, the worst sound ever. Like a thud, crossed with a crunch, crossed with brakes screeching.
Now there’s a scream, but it’s coming from someone on the sidewalk.
“Oh my God,” says another someone, whooshing past me.
It’s Jamie. Carrying a bouquet of flowers that flap as he moves. He rushes into the street and kneels at the front of the stopped bus. Drops the flowers and they land at the girl’s feet, which is all I can see of her.
I step backward, stumbling as I go. Holy shit. Shit, shit, shit.
Jamie isn’t the only one at the girl’s side. There are others, appearing from different directions as if they were all waiting in the wings of a stage. People are on their phones. Hopefully at least a few are dialing 911 and not simply taking a video.
This is when it occurs to me to look for the guy. The girl’s guy.
He’s gone.
But I do see Kendall, hovering behind the bus shelter, her face in her hands. I go over to her.
“No, no, no, no, no,” she’s whispering to herself.
“Kendall,” is all I can say. My tongue feels huge and dry in my mouth. Now I realize I’m shaking.
“That didn’t happen,” she adds, and breaks down in tears.
Now there are sirens.
Look alive, Max. Don’t be completely useless. “Come on,” I say, pressing my hand lightly on Kendall’s back. “In here.”
I guide her into a sandwich shop, where others are gathered in the window to watch what’s going on. I pull out a stool for her, and she sits.
“You should call someone,” I say. Keeping my voice calm is helping the rest of me be calm. Or at least, faking it.
Kendall nods and takes out her phone. Tears still winding their way down her cheeks. She talks to someone named Emerson, her voice wobbly, catching on every other word. When she starts telling him what we saw, I move back over to the window. I’m not ready to hear this become a story so quickly.
The ambulance is pulling away. Jamie’s standing on the corner, looking for us. I indicate to Kendall that I’m going back outside and she nods, continues talking.
“Tell me,” I say to Jamie when I reach him. “Dead?”
Jamie’s a pale guy, but right now he looks vampire-drained. “I don’t know. They packed her up and whisked her away.”
A police officer approaches me. “Did either of you boys see what happened?”
Jamie shakes his head and swallows hard. But I say, “Yes.”
The cop takes out a pad of paper. “Go on.”
So I do. I try to summarize what I saw and heard, without letting myself think about it. Just the facts, sir. By the time I’m done talking and the cop turns to another witness, I see Jamie putting Kendall into a cab. After it pulls away, he steps into the street to pick up the crumpled flowers. Stares blankly at them for a moment. Then tosses them in a trash can.
I look around. My bags of food have vanished. I don’t even remember putting them down.
“Come on,” I say, tugging Jamie away from the trash. Be useful, I say to myself. “Let’s get out of here.”
When we reach the awning of my grandfather’s building, Jamie pauses and looks up at its Park Avenue facade. It has actual stone gargoyles at the top. He takes out his phone and snaps some photos.
I’m thinking, kind of a weird thing to do after watching someone get maybe-killed. Then again, a totally normal thing to do if you’re in shock. Am I in shock, too?
“Hey, August,” I say to the doorman. He’s wearing a long overcoat with tassels on the shoulders. The guy’s worked here since I was a little kid.
“Mr. Levine,” says August, pushing the elevator call button for us.
“Mr. Levine!” cackles Jamie, then doubles over laughing.
“We just had a really intense experience,” I explain to August, clapping Jamie protectively on the shoulder. By focusing on Jamie, I don’t have to deal with how freaked out I probably am.
“What’s intense is this lobby,” Jamie says. He’s looking at the mosaic tile walls, the chandelier, the overstuffed leather couches I never see anyone, anyone sitting on.
“It’s a different world, for sure,” I say.
Jamie seems equally impressed with the elevator, which is only a standard elevator, but perhaps he doesn’t get out much. He takes at least three pictures of its interior during the short ride to the third floor.
I hand Jamie our bags of replacement food, purchased from another deli two blocks out of the way. This lets me concentrate on sliding the apartment key into the lock as quietly as possible. I’m not sure why I feel the need to be so quiet. We can hear the TV on full volume through the wall.
Inside, Big E is out cold in his chair. Small mercies.
After we put my grandfather’s groceries away, I lead Jamie down the hall to my aunt’s room. I’m about to open the door when I find myself turning to Jamie, pointing to the other door. My father’s old door.
“This is going to sound weird,” I say, “but do you want to sleep in my room with me? There’s already an air mattress. I think maybe you shouldn’t be alone.”
“Because I’m completely wigged out?” he asks, with a sad smile. “Yeah, an old-school slumber party is a good idea.”
We put Jamie’s backpack in my room, then settle into the den with sandwiches.
“Want to watch something?” I ask, grabbing the remote. This one looks pristine, living blissfully far from Big E’s quick-tempered fingers.
“Sure,” says Jamie as he slides onto the couch.
I flip through the channels, hoping one will offer what we need. A buddy cop movie, or anything with animals that talk. But my eyes glaze over and all I see on each channel is the bus stop, and different versions of what could have happened.
In one version, the guy with the guitar steps between the couple, as I’d expected him to do. Click. The woman with the stroller asks the girl if she needs anything. Click. The older couple yell at both of them to take their drama elsewhere. Click. Then there’s me. Not standing frozen to the sidewalk.
I tell the guy to leave her alone, that she’s made her wishes clear to him. Or I simply tell him to back off and give her space. He gets so upset, he runs away. He’s the one who dashes into the street and gets mowed down. No, if we’re going to reimagine this, let’s cut out the tragedy and go all the way. The guy takes off, disappearing forever, and the girl realizes she deserves so much more. The next day, she meets someone who’s perfect for her and they live happily ever after.
“You’re thinking about her, aren’t you?” asks Jamie.
“Her name was Luna,” I reply. “Or at least, that’s what the guy she was fighting with called her. You thinking about her, too?”
“Dude, her blood is on my sneaker.”
I look at his sneaker. She is 300 percent more present in the room now.
“Maxie?” yells Big E.
“Coming!” I shout, jumping up and hurrying into the living room.
“I’m starving,” he says.
I defrost a casserole and pour him milk from the deli. Jamie peeks his head out of the den.
“Who is that?” asks Big E when he sees him.
“My friend Jamie. Remember? I told you. He’s staying the night.”
I motion for Jamie to come join us. His face says please don’t make me but he does it anyway.
“You look a lot like my son when he was your age,” says Big E to Jamie. And you’d think that would be a compliment, but after he says it, my grandfather scrunches up his face. So, maybe not.
“Do you need a blanket, Big E?” I ask him.
He shrugs. I know he does. He’s just pissed that someone has to put it on him.
After I’ve covered him up and refilled his sports water bottle and retrieved the remote from where it fell on the floor, Jamie and I go back down the hall.
“It’s good you’re here, man,” he says.
This could mean so many things. I’d be happy if even one of them were true.