61

“That was not me this morning,” I said to Abigail later that night. It was cool, almost chilly, and we were both in sweatshirts. Mine was an old blue Detroit Tigers thing. Hers was white and said South Haven HS Volleyball in purple and yellow. She had spread her blanket a few yards back from the water to watch the sunset. I saw her from my balcony and wandered out.

“Looked like you,” she said.

“No, I mean— Never mind.”

She tipped her head toward her blanket, and I sat next to her, close enough to notice that she smelled like soap. Fancy soap—heavy on the perfume—like the decorative soaps Grandma Ruth had in her half bath and got mad at me for using.

Abigail’s and my shoulders nearly touched a couple times. She seemed to be aware of that—very aware of the space she occupied—and expertly avoided contact with me the few times I tried to make it happen.

“Tired of your thoughts today?” I asked.

“I won’t be if we talk about something interesting,” she said.

“Where’ve you been lately? I haven’t seen you around.”

“That’s not interesting.”

“It is to me.”

“I’ve been here.”

“Not here, specifically,” I said, pointing down. “I’d have noticed.”

“A, creepy much? And B, you want an accounting of every place I’ve been in the last few days?”

“Yeah,” I said in the same tone I hoped would get Grandma Ruth to loosen up. “I do.”

“Well, you’re not getting one.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s not interesting. I’ve been around. Just because you haven’t seen me doesn’t mean I wasn’t here,” she said, sounding just a little icy.

“You might’ve been out of town,” I said.

“Might’ve been,” she said. “Wasn’t, though.”

“Jury duty?”

“No,” she said, warming up.

“Some weird church thing?”

“No.”

“Locked in the basement?”

“I figured out how to escape after last time,” she said, and, see, this was what I wanted Grandma Ruth to do just once. Just play a little.

“Is it a secret?” I asked.

“There’s no secret. I wasn’t gone just because you didn’t see me. I mean, I could ask you the same thing. Where’ve you been the last few days?”

“Oh, I’ve been places. Been to another funeral,” I said, like, Lucky me.

“Whose?”

“Dorothy D. Webb’s. I have no idea what the D stands for.”

“Another mystery,” she said, and looked almost like she was about to smile. “How was it?”

“The funeral? It was a funeral.”

She looked at the lake when she said, “I don’t mind funerals.”

“What?”

“I don’t.”

“You and Mrs. B.,” I said. “But I guess when you’ve lost as many friends as she has, you kind of get used to them.”

“I doubt anyone gets used to losing friends.”

“So that’s another thing. Mrs. B. doesn’t even consider it losing friends. She said so.”

“Hmm,” Abigail said. “For me, funerals seem like they’re going to be impossible to get through. Like the sadness and the heartache will replace everything I’ve ever felt or will ever be able to feel.”

“But you don’t mind them?”

“Yeah, but then I get there, and I find that there is sadness, and there is heartache, but there are other feelings too. Good ones. Love. Respect.” The faint trace of a smile appeared on her lips. “And a little contempt for the guy who plays with his phone during the service.”

“Am I ever going to live that down?”

“Not here,” she said. “Anyway, funerals are never really as morose as I think they’re going to be.”

“Morose?”

“It’s a word.”

“Yeah, I know.” I nearly laughed and tried to bump her shoulder. “It’s just not one I hear that often. Outside of school.”

“People at your school say morose a lot?” she asked, leaning just beyond bumping range.

“No. I mean it sounds like something I’d learn for a test. And then never use again.”

“So you’re the kind of guy who just wants the A,” she said.

“I want an A, yeah. I don’t think that’s a bad thing. My grades got me a full scholarship to U of M. And what’s this ‘kind of guy’ thing? You keep saying it like I’m one particular kind of guy.”

“No,” she said plainly. “Not one kind but a kind.”

“And what kind is that?”

“Right now I’d say the kind who works hard to get ahead. For the sake of getting ahead.”

“Something wrong with that?”

“Nothing at all,” she said unconvincingly. “If that’s what you want.”

“Please do not give me the ‘money isn’t everything’ spiel while you’re sitting in front of a million-dollar house.”

“It’s not a million dollars.”

“It’s close,” I said, and she shrugged.

“Is money that important to you?” she asked, and there was nothing rude in her voice. It wasn’t a challenge, but I still didn’t like the question. It wasn’t interesting.

“It’s important to everyone,” I said. “And don’t tell me about priorities, because I love my parents. I’ve got good friends. I work hard, and I’m honest.” I pointed to Mrs. B.’s house. “I’m the guy you want taking care of your grandmother or whoever. I also happen to have plans for my life that include making a hell of a lot of money. Because I’d rather have it than not have it.”

“What if one of life’s big changes happens again, and you can’t do what you want to do?” she asked, tipping her head to the right when she looked at me and scrunching her eyebrows until the skin between them looked like a little accordion.

“I’ll figure out a way.”

“What if you can’t? What if you find out tomorrow that you only have six months to live?”

“That’s not going to happen.”

“Somewhere it is. Someone tomorrow is going to get that news. More than one person.”

“It’s not going to be me,” I said, laughing. “Wait. You’re not waiting for test results, are you?”

“No,” she said, smiling like she was completely amused by me.

“Did you already get them and only have six months to live?”

“No.”

“You’re not on a heart transplant list or something like that?”

“No.”

“Parents doing okay?”

“Brother and grandparents too,” she said. “They all live near Chicago, but I’m sure I’d have heard if anything happened.”

“Good,” I said as I ran my hands over my head and scratched the back of my neck. “For a minute I thought I was in one of those movies my girlfriend loves where people drop like flies.”

“You have a girlfriend?”

“Ex-girlfriend.”

“You said girlfriend.”

“Well, I meant ex.”

“The one whose mom called you a catch?”

“That’s her. Taylor.”

“Maybe you should have gone out with the mom,” she said, which made me chuckle.

“I do have a way with older women,” I said. “What about you? Got a boyfriend?”

“Ex.”

“Ben?”

“Yes,” she said, like she wasn’t surprised I figured it out, but it really wasn’t that hard.

“I got dumped,” I said.

“So did I.”

“No way.”

She nodded.

“Wait. He broke up with you? What was that guy thinking?” I asked, and she looked like she didn’t know how to respond, at first. She looked like she was about to say something. Something nice. But instead she smoothed one palm over the blanket for a couple seconds and looked down. I really wanted to reach for her hand.

“It was last summer,” she finally said. “He was going away to school and didn’t want a long-distance relationship. He said they only work if you really love someone. And we didn’t.”

“That’s harsh.”

“But honest. Which I respect.”

“So will you honestly tell me where you’ve been for a few days?”

“Well, we ruled out jury duty, church, and my basement,” she said, and we both smiled.

A few seconds passed while she looked at me like she was studying my face. Then she turned toward the lake again and drew her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them. For warmth, I guessed.

The air around us smelled like wet slate. Smelled good.

“So how come Taylor broke up with you?” she asked.

“I didn’t have enough time for her.”

“That doesn’t surprise me,” she said. “Guys like you never have enough time for relationships.”

“Again with the guys like me?”

“Yeah. Driven. Ambitious.” She sighed like she was sorry for me or something. “You tell yourself there’ll be time for relationships later when the truth is that they’re just not that important to you.”

“They are important, and there will be time later.”

“Not if you find out you only have six months left to live.”

“Okay,” I conceded. “If I find out I’m about to kick off in a few months, I promise I will get myself a girlfriend.”

She tipped her head at me again before asking, “What would you do? For real?”

“Uh . . .” I thought a second. “I don’t know.” I looked at the lake and squinted into the sun, looking like liquid itself, spilling across the water as it sank below the horizon. “Whatever I’d do I’d definitely do it here.”

“So this is the place you’d like to die?”

“This is the place I’d like to live,” I said, and a smile slowly spread across her face. She tried to keep her lips from parting but couldn’t. She turned to face the half circle of sun on the horizon, bumped her shoulder against mine, and said, “Good answer.”

A few seconds later I tried to bump her shoulder, but she moved just beyond my reach.