You Are Not Here (13 page)

I’m surprised.

I shouldn’t be.

I know Brian and I weren’t

boyfriend and girlfriend.

I know that he was terrible

about calling me back

and making plans.

I knew he had a life

when he wasn’t with me.

But all that dissolved

when we were together.

I wonder

who Sarah is.

I wonder

if she was at the funeral.

I wonder

if she’s the blond Marissa saw.

I wonder

what Brian liked about her.

Is she prettier than me?

Funnier, smarter, sexier?

I get a flash

of Brian having sex with her,

and it is awful.

I can’t be sure that they even had sex,

but it’s definitely a possibility.

I feel like I am going to puke.

a sign from Brian?

If so, it was cruel.

He didn’t need to do that.

He’s already gone.

He didn’t have to make it hurt more.

Or maybe it was the universe telling me?

Maybe it thought that this would help me

get over Brian.

Or was it just chance

that Peter and I were at the cemetery

at the same time?

Absolutely nothing otherworldly at work.

No greater purpose.

No sign.

Nothing.

and see a pocket of darkness.

I want to fold myself

flat and crisp,

slip inside of it

like a sheet of paper

into an envelope.

“Ethan, I should explain

about last night.”

“You don’t have to.”

“Yeah, I do.

You see,

I was sort of seeing this guy

and he died of this freak heart thing.

It only happened two months ago,

and I’m still trying

to figure everything out.”

“I know.”

“What do you mean

you
know?
”

“I know about Brian.”

I am so confused by hearing Ethan

say Brian’s name

that anger

doesn’t set in right away.

“I don’t understand.

How do you know

about Brian?”

“I heard your girlfriends talking about it

while you were in the back.

And then I remembered

reading about his death in the paper.”

He must be talking about

when Marissa and Jessica were here.

“You’ve known basically since I started

and didn’t tell me?”

“I figured you’d bring it up

when you were ready.

I don’t understand, Annaleah.

I thought it was the right thing to do.”

“You know, I knew

there was a reason

you were being so nice to me,”

I say, backing away from him.

“What?

It’s nothing like that.

I like you.

You’re interesting.”

“Interesting…right.

Like a sociology experiment?

Did you want to study

a real, live, grieving girl?”

“Annaleah—”

“I better check on my tables.”

“Annaleah, wait.”

But I don’t.

I think about my dad

calling on my last birthday.

When I pick up the phone,

he doesn’t say hello.

He just starts singing in a goofy voice.

When he’s done he asks,

“So, do you know

what your birthday wish

is going to be?”

He asks me the same thing every year.

“No. I haven’t decided yet.”

I roll over and look at my alarm clock.

“Dad, it’s really really early.”

“I know.

I just wanted to be the first person

you talked to today.”

“You’re definitely the first.”

“Okay, baby.

Go back to bed.”

“Thanks, Dad.

Love you.”

“Love you too.”

When I hang up the phone,

I pull the covers over my head,

block out the early morning light,

wrap my arms around my pillow,

and sleep

sleep

sleep.

when speaking to them is part of your job.

For the next few days,

I only speak to Ethan about pizza.

I refuse to acknowledge him

in any other way.

Instead of chatting with him

when it’s slow,

I make napkin wraps.

I fill salt and pepper shakers.

I wipe down already clean tables.

I sit in a booth

and count the tiles on the wall.

Any of these things is better

than talking to Ethan.

Nothing was happening.

There was only death.

There was only Brian.

I finally have something to say.

I call Parker.

I tell him about Sarah.

I tell him about Ethan

knowing about Brian.

“All that in twenty-four hours, Lee?

Sounds intense.”

“Yeah.”

“I have two theories.

Wanna hear them?”

“I don’t know.

Do I?”

“I’m gonna tell you anyway.

One: It’s heinous

that Brian was seeing someone else.

But you’ve got to keep it in perspective—

you weren’t officially together.”

“Thanks for the news flash.

What’s two?”

“I think you overreacted

when Ethan told you he knew about Brian.”

“But he lied,” I snap.

“He didn’t lie, Lee.

He respected your feelings.

Apparently, there are still guys

who do that.”

“But I feel

like he had ulterior motives.”

“To do what? Become your friend?

Take you to a carnival? Have fun?

How shocking!

Someone should arrest him

before he befriends someone else!”

“Not funny, Parker.

I don’t want to be someone’s friend

just because they feel bad for me.”

“Whoever said that was his reason?

Did it ever occur to you

that he might like you

just because

you’re you?”

I don’t have an answer.

“So what’s your plan, Lee?

Are you going to keep ignoring

the nice, thoughtful, cute boy?”

I know it’s time.

I know I have to do this.

As I hit
SEND
on my phone,

I feel humbled.

Like I am slinking back

after having done something

terribly wrong.

Now the phone is ringing

and I’m wondering if it’s too late,

if maybe Marissa

won’t want to be friends anymore.

to go to the movies.

The movie was my idea.

I suggested it because it seemed safe.

We could be together,

but not have to talk the whole time.

I’m not sure

how all this is going to go down.

Probably not like Brian’s funeral.

That was our one day of grace—

like she hadn’t freaked out

when I told her that Brian and I had sex,

like she hadn’t said really hurtful things,

like we hadn’t gone weeks without talking.

And now we’re back to weirdness again.

And this time,

it’s my fault.

It’s a comedy about a bunch of guys

driving cross-country

and all the hilariously stupid

things that happen along the way.

It requires no thought.

It is a ninety-minute

vacation from my brain.

When the movie is over,

Marissa drives us to the diner.

Just like we used to,

we order coffee and cheese fries.

It’s nice

that some things don’t change.

But the conversation isn’t easy.

We start by talking about the movie.

But that doesn’t last long.

She asks, “So, how’s work?”

“It’s okay.

Just something to do,

you know.

What have you been up to?”

“Working almost every day for the Grants.

Steven is walking.

And Dana’s talking up a storm.”

“Whoa. That happened fast.”

“Well, not really.”

That feels like an intentional jab.

But she’s right.

Had Marissa and I been talking,

I would have known these things.

She asks, “How are you feeling?”

“Okay. Better. Sort of.

It’s hard.

And the last week

has been tough.”

“Why? What happened?”

I want to tell her

about finding out about Sarah.

I want to be close to her again,

but I don’t want her to say

I told you so.

I don’t want her to even think it.

So I only tell her about Ethan.

“And now you’re not talking to him?”

“Yeah.”

“Really?”

She pauses.

“I know things haven’t been good

between us.

But I have to say this:

You’re doing it again.”

“Doing what?”

“Shutting people out.

People who want to be there for you.”

I try to take this in.

“Annaleah, you’ve got to talk to me

because I can’t even imagine

what it’s been like since Brian died.

Or what it’s like

to have a dad that walked out

and hasn’t even called in fifteen years.

You never talk about any of these things.

That can’t be good for you.”

Her words challenge me.

They challenge all the stories

I’ve told myself.

“But there are people that you do have.

You have me.

You have Parker.

You have Joy.

And maybe you have Ethan.

Don’t ignore us.”

I want to get up and leave.

I want to go and sit in the cemetery.

I want to tell Brian about this.

I want him to listen

and to not speak.

I want to climb into bed

and think about my dad.

Think about all the things

that could have been.

But I stay.

I stay

and listen to Marissa.

when I asked my mom about my dad.

She always answered as best she could.

“We met and married quickly.

It wasn’t long before

our foundation

started showing cracks.

When you were about one,

he left—not honoring

any promises he’d made.”

“But don’t you want to find him?

To know what he is doing?”

“Yes, of course.

But I don’t want to look for someone

who doesn’t want to be found.

I don’t want someone

who doesn’t want me.

If he wanted to find us

he would have, could have.

But he clearly doesn’t want to.

It’s been over a decade.”

“But—”

“No ‘but.’

I’ve got to go on.

I’ve got to deal with what’s here,

what’s in front of me.

And that’s you, Annaleah.

That’s my friends, my job.”

Her words were never enough for me.

Not knowing

was not acceptable.

That father-shaped space

needed to be filled,

even if it was filled with fiction.

Marissa says, “I’m sorry

for being so hard on you about Brian

when you were together.

I didn’t want you to get hurt

and everything I said

kept coming out wrong.

I want to be close again.

I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you too.”

“Life’s boring without you.

You know, I haven’t

missed a single curfew this summer!”

“Yeah, well,

I haven’t even been to any parties.”

“We should change that.

Have some fun.

Take a mini road trip or something.

Do you think we can

just go forward from here?

I’ll try to be less bitchy,

promise.”

“And I’ll try to be

less…

absent, I promise.”

I ask Marissa to drop me off at the cemetery.

As I walk toward Brian’s grave

I think about how I believed

that my stories made the Dearly Departed

feel less lonely

and more loved.

But these people don’t need me.

Each stone represents a lifetime of stories—

stories that existed before me,

stories that will exist after I’m gone.

I was the one who needed the stories.

I was the one who needed to feel

less lonely and more loved.