If You're Out There

by Katy Loutzenhiser

  Someone comes up from behind me and I whip around.

  “It’s me,” says Logan, his hands up. “Is something wrong?”

  “No.” I shake my head, heart racing. “Maybe . . . I don’t know.” I look at the gum-pocked sidewalk. “I think someone might be following me.”

  For the first time today, Logan looks straight at me. “Seriously?”

  I feel suddenly sheepish as I meet his eyes. “I think so. I met him yesterday. Saw him again earlier today. And now here, at the theater.” I search the moving crowds, but there’s no sign of the man. “So yeah. Seemed like I should probably leave.”

  “Jesus,” says Logan. He checks over his shoulder. “What’d he look like? Do you see him anywhere?”

  “No, I think I lost him.” I look down the block, back toward the theater. “I feel bad for running out on Arturo like that.”

  “I think you saw what you needed to,” says Logan. “Our man killed it in there.”

  “Yeah, seemed like it. But I was so distracted by that stupid guy that I spaced out for a lot of it. What do you think he was getting at?”

  Logan shrugs. “Meaning of life?”

  “Damn,” I say, smiling despite myself. “That would have been good to know.”

  For a moment, I’m tempted to slide back into our easy banter, but I know it’s not that simple. It won’t change what Logan said about me. Or what I said. He must feel it too, because he clears his throat, back to business. “I should walk you home.”

  I squint up at the sky. It’s still a ways to sundown. “How about I walk you home instead?”

  He groans. “Is this another gender role thing? I don’t think it’s patronizing of me to offer when strange men are literally stalking you.”

  “I’m just not allowed to come home yet,” I say, smiling though I don’t mean to. “Mom’s punishment for . . . wallowing, I guess.” We pass a stream of bustling bars before turning down a quiet side street.

  Logan seems lost in his thoughts for a while. “So . . . how’d you meet this guy?”

  “We met outside Priya’s house. After you left.”

  He scratches at his jaw. “Did he say who he was?”

  “A family friend, supposedly. Something was off. Anyway, I’m fine. No use dwelling on it.”

  “Oh, I plan to dwell on it,” says Logan. “You might be a pain in the ass, but I don’t want you getting hurt.”

  “Gee,” I say. “How nice of you.”

  “Hey. Zan,” he says, reaching out to stop me on the sidewalk. “What I said? The stuff about Priya?”

  “It’s fine,” I say, a mess of emotion rising up inside me. “We were both . . .” I’m not quite sure what it is I want to tell him. I’m mad, and I’m sorry. It’s strange. These aren’t good feelings, and yet, even now, it’s so much better to be with him than without. “I think you were right, anyway,” I say finally. “I’m . . . giving up on all that.” We’re at the path to Logan’s building, where one door stays propped open with a big rock. Someone is shouting nearby. I listen close. “Whoa.” There’s a loud crash and I hurry toward it, stopping at the entrance to the lobby.

  A small stained glass lamp lies in pieces on the ground. Frank the doorman is standing with his chest out, a petite woman yelling up at him. “It’s my kid! Do you get that? I’m trying to see my kid!” On that last word, the woman’s spittle hits his face.

  “Is not up to me, lady,” says Frank, wiping his eye. “I call upstairs, maybe we sort this out.” The woman makes a break for the elevator, but he blocks her with his body. “Please. Don’t make me dial police.” She tries to run again, but he grabs her by the wrist, a pained look on his face. “I’m just doorman. Not security guard.”

  I can feel Logan standing behind me in the entrance now.

  “It’s my kid,” the woman says through a whimper. Frank releases her and she crumples to the ground, a mess of blond hair covering her face. “My babies.” As the woman’s back heaves up and down, I turn to Logan and suddenly understand.

  “Hi, Mom.”

  Frank and I share a look.

  “Logan.” She scrambles to stand and a few glass shards sprinkle down from her long skirt. “Logan, honey.” She wipes away a trail of mascara, a frantic, pretty smile taking up her whole face. “Thank God you’re here. Let’s get inside, baby.”

  “You can’t be here,” he says evenly.

  “I want to see Bee.”

  For a flickering moment, I see those haunted charcoal faces in his eyes, and all I want is to take them away. “You know you can’t do that,” he says. “And even if you could, it wouldn’t be like this.”

  “Honey . . .”

  “How’d you get here, Mom?”

  She shrugs. “Got a ride.” She walks over to touch his cheek, her eyes filling all over again. “I love you so much, baby. More than you’ll ever . . .”

  Logan takes her hand from his face to hold it, and for a moment I forget to breathe. “I know,” he says. “I love you, too. But it’s time for you to go.”

  When I get home I find the door unlocked and charge straight into the kitchen to hug Mom. As I pull away, she looks a little stunned, but in a good way, I think. “You okay?” she asks after an odd silence.

  “Yeah,” I say, the haze around me slowly dissipating. “Sorry.”

  “Don’t be,” says Mom.

  I pause a moment, trying to place the lingering smells. “What’s on the menu tonight?”

  “Quiche and kale salad,” says Whit, slipping into the room.

  “Actually, Zan has plans,” says Mom.

  “I do?”

  She nods. “Dad called. Asked if I would persuade you to come by. Consider yourself persuaded. I told him you’d be there at eight.”

  I hang my head. “I shouldn’t have blown up at him like that. It’s gonna be weird.”

  “He’s your dad, Zan.”

  I pout there a moment, feeling especially indulgent, and Whit shoots me a kind look that makes me feel even worse. “Sorry about yesterday,” I say to her. “I know it was your big night.”

  Whit shrugs. “It was just a party. It’s what I signed up for with all this, isn’t it?” She gestures to the home around us. “The kids come first.”

  “Where’s Harr?” I ask, relaxing a little.

  “The sleepover was rescheduled,” says Mom. “You know that girl Claire?”

  My jaw drops. “Claire as in a girl? You think that’s a good idea?”

  “Honey, he’s seven.”

  “Uh, seven and a freaking Casanova,” I say, making Whit snort.

  “We’ll see,” says Mom. “He claims he’s stepping out of the dating game for a little while, at least until he’s ten.”

  “Huh,” I say. Something in this house still isn’t right. I peer down the open hallway. “What’s different in here? Why does everything feel so nice?” Mom grins, waiting for me to catch up. I look at Whit. “You unpacked!”

  Mom squeals and claps her hands. “We had a stoop sale while you were out.”

  “I’m still mourning a few items,” says Whit, slumping down to rest her chin on Mom, who promptly takes the opportunity to palm her face and cover it in kisses. Whit laughs. “I suppose it was worth it.”

  “Oh! And we made a hundred bucks!” says Mom. “Here, buy yourself something pretty.” She hands me a twenty from the counter. “And I forgot,” she says to Whit. “This came for you.” She sighs, handing her an envelope. “I still love seeing mail with your name on it.”

  Whit rips through the top corner and pulls out a photo. “One of my old patients,” she explains, handing me the picture. “This little baby came out early. Four pounds. Now look at her,” she says, showing us. “So sweet and chubby you just wanna eat her like a turkey leg.” Mom and Whit both linger on the photo.

  “Wait,” I say. “You guys aren’t thinking about having another—”

  “No,” Whit interrupts, though Mom sort of teeters her head from side to side. Whit laughs. “Not y
et, anyway. I think we’ve got our hands full here.”

  I smile, surprised by the welling emotions inside.

  “Hey.” Mom bumps me with her shoulder. “Did you know your dad always said you were the world’s most eatable baby?”

  I did not know that. The thought actually makes me a bit queasy, but I shake it off and say, “I believe the official title would have been world’s fattest blob of freckles.”

  “You were adorable,” corrects Mom, pretending to be stern. “I swear you were even cute in the sonograms—from the day Dad started calling you Boop.”

  The welling feeling grows. “That was Dad’s name for me?” Mom’s eyes do a quick Zan-scan. “What?”

  “Just. Go easy on him, okay? I think you made him . . . afraid.” I cringe at the impending awkwardness. “Better get moving.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” I say.

  Mom pulls me to her, and though it feels a little abrupt, I stop to hug Whit too. She squeezes me back, and a pang of sadness shoots through me. Hug a lot. Even if it’s weird.

  But actually, this time, it isn’t.

  I walk through the warm night, in a fog from the strange day. I think of Logan, and his mom, and all the good in my life I take for granted. Thoughts of Priya slip in and out, but I send them away. It isn’t easy, but I’ll get it.

  I’m living here, now. I’m letting go.

  It’s only when I reach the apartment that I really emerge. I turn the knob and stop short. Under the big low-hanging lamp in Dad’s apartment, a small army of plastic takeout containers has overtaken the dining room table.

  “Whoa,” I say. I scan the dishes row by row—the bright reds, greens, and oranges smashed against the see-through sides. It smells amazing.

  Dad walks in and I look around, confused. “Is all of this for us?”

  “It is,” he says. “And it’s meat. It’s all meat.” I laugh, feeling oddly winded, and Dad says, “I’m so sorry, Boop.”

  “Look, we don’t have to—”

  “Yes we do,” he says. “Those things you said? You were right. When your mom and I . . .” He shakes his head. “I did check out, for a long time—on you, and your brother too, though he was too little to understand.” He tries to smile. “But I didn’t love you any less.”

  I can officially no longer stand the sincerity in his eyes, but he grins and says, “We might get a little real here, and you’re gonna have to deal with it.” Something in my chest tightens, but I breathe through it. “It’s hard to explain. My world sort of crashed, you know? I should have put you first, but you were such an obvious reminder of what I’d lost. And you know how intense your mom is.” He sighs. “I guess I figured she had it covered. In my mind, you didn’t need me. But that’s no excuse.”

  I nod to the floor. “It’s okay.”

  He walks to the cupboard and sets out two plates, alongside forks and serving spoons. “I know it’s not that simple. But for now, at the very least, I should know that my daughter eats meat. And . . .” He waits for me to look at him again. “I’d like to be the dad. If you’ll let me. And maybe even meddle in your life sometimes. Once I’ve earned the right. By being there, and . . .” He shrugs. “And by ordering the meat.” I laugh. “Would that be okay?”

  He pulls out a chair for me and I smile through a sniff.

  “Yeah,” I tell him. “That’d be good.”

  From: Zan Martini

  To: Priya Patel

  Date: Sat, Sep 15, 11:58 pm

  Subject: if you’re out there . . .

  I just thought you should know that if you’re okay, then I’m okay.

  Or I will be.

  I’ll miss you though.

  Always.

  Amanda’s beginning to break my heart. I bet you liked her, Mom.

  Look for the silver lining

  Whene’er a cloud appears in the blue.

  Remember somewhere the sun is shining,

  And so the right thing to do is make it shine for you.

  I keep thinking about my three-day sleepover. With Yaz and Anushka. It’s not that I didn’t want you around, but we’d been hyping it up, and I’d been counting down the days. You were flying out to see Alice. She was going through a tough time, you said. It was reason enough for me. Ben was on a work trip. He flew so much we rarely asked where to.

  The moment you said goodbye to me is fuzzy. I was reading on Yaz’s chair. I looked up for just a sec, just long enough for you to smack a kiss on my face and remind me to take my vitamins.

  Yaz’s place in Harlem had a huge four-poster bed.

  Anushka slept over too. She made biryani, and brought a lifetime supply of chick flicks and candy.

  On Saturday we went skating at Rockefeller Center and we saw a man propose to his girlfriend in the middle of the ice. Anushka got teary-eyed, and Yaz said, “Pull it together, woman.” I thought it was hysterical.

  Sunday I was reading in Yaz’s chair again when the two of them came and sat down on the rug in front of me. I remember losing my breath.

  A heart full of joy and gladness

  Will always banish sadness and strife.

  So always look for the silver lining

  And try to find the sunny side of life.

  I’m trying, Mom. I swear.

  (Principle #303: Somewhere, the sun is shining.)

  Eight

  Sunday, September 16

  I’m not quite asleep when my phone goes off. It’s a text from Logan.

  You get home alright?

  I sit up in bed and text him back.

  Yeah, I’m here. You okay?

  I look at the time—2:30 a.m. exactly—and wonder if that might be some indication of the night he just had. When I last saw him, his mom had yet to leave the lobby, the glass still everywhere.

  I pull back the blankets and slip into a pair of fuzzy socks from the floor before swigging from the water by my bed. The house is dead quiet, and worry bubbles up with each passing second. As of 2:38 he has not texted back. I can’t take it. And so I’m up. Energized. Cleaning.

  I straighten the papers on my desk and stack books in neat piles. I scoop jewelry into boxes and tidy the contents of my wardrobe. Moving dirty clothes into baskets, my fingers graze something solid. My heart sinks and the productive mojo promptly dies. It’s the little lime-green notebook, buried in the pile.

  I bring the book to bed with me and text Logan again.

  Should I take that as a no?

  But he doesn’t write back. I peer down at the cover and send the pages fluttering with my thumb.

  #5

  When Zan is sad, JUST ADD COOKIES!!

  It’s actually very true. I wonder if we have any downstairs. I skip ahead to an old favorite.

  #19

  Life is like brie. It kinda stinks, but it’s also weirdly good.

  It’s strange to think of Priya admitting life could ever stink. She was the one always telling me to be positive.

  I’ve lost track of the origins for some of these, which does add an element of intrigue.

  #36

  They should have puppies at peace talks.

  #87

  We must band together to end egg salad on airplanes!

  #267

  One day, our kids will laugh at all the mustaches.

  I leaf through the rest until I find the spot where the pages go blank. I notice the last entry and catch my breath. I didn’t write this one. In fact, I’ve never even seen it.

  #300

  We can never, EVER, give up on each other.

  (K ZanaBanana? PS. I’m gonna miss you a buttload.)

  I touch the grooves in the paper where her pen carved out the words, and for a moment Priya is exactly who she always was—the master of many tongues who still sometimes used words like buttload. Priya. The real Priya. My friend.

  I jolt at the sound of my phone. Logan.

  Sorry. I’m okay. It’s a long story.

&nbs
p; I write him back.

  I’ve got time.

  The phone chirps again, and I smile down at the message.

  In that case, wanna come outside? I’m kind of on your porch.

  I slip on a sweatshirt and pad down to the darkened first floor. When I step outside, I find Logan sitting on the top porch step, his messy hair reflecting moonlight. “Hi,” I whisper, closing the door.

  He straightens up when he sees me. “Sorry about earlier. After you left I realized I shouldn’t have let you walk home alone.”

  “Don’t be sorry.” I take the step below his and lean back against the railing. “I can take care of myself.” He nods, relaxing somewhat as I drink in the crisp, clean air. The fireflies are out tonight, their little green orbs appearing and vanishing without a sound. Priya and I loved fireflies when we were younger. I always wanted to catch them. She always made me let them go.

  I reach out to nudge Logan with my foot. “I hope you didn’t come all this way in the middle of the night to say that.”

  “Well, no.” He looks at me and I remind myself to breathe. “I guess I felt like if I saw you, I’d feel better.”

  “Oh.” I clear my throat. “Do you? Feel better?”

  He smiles. “A little.”

  “So that was your mom.” It sounds so useless and obvious as it tumbles from my mouth. I tug at the drawstring of my hoodie. “Is she always—” I recoil. “I mean, is that why you guys had to move here?” He winces and a tide of regret rises up in me. “We don’t have to get into it if you don’t want.”

  “It’s fine,” he says. A car drives by, its moving headlights drowning out the fireflies. But the little orbs return soon enough, the engine’s rumble fading.

  I clear my throat. “Is she . . .”

  “An addict?”

  I look at him, startled by his directness, and he nods.

  “It’s been like that for a while.”

  “How long is a while?”

  He laughs ruefully. “Since I was little. But it was getting worse. Or at least harder to ignore.”

  “Like how?” I ask, as gently as I can manage. He looks a little dazed. “Sorry,” I say. “Too many questions?”