If You're Out There

by Katy Loutzenhiser

  “Huh?”

  “Never mind.” I take a few deep breaths as Logan goes to the dishwasher to grab clean ladles for all the salad dressings. “Tell me something good, Logan. I swear to God I’m about to have a panic attack right here.”

  “Hey.” He comes over, drying his hands on his apron before placing them on my shoulders. “You’re okay.”

  “Something good,” I say. “Now.”

  He thinks a moment. “Oh, well, actually I do have one thing. I was going to surprise you after school with a ride to work, but then you skipped. I should clarify,” he says, smiling. “A ride with four wheels and an engine, as you once put it.”

  I perk up. “Wait, seriously? No more lady bike?”

  He nods, triumphant. “My aunt got herself an upgrade over the weekend and gave me her old car. For good behavior.” He teeters one hand. “Ish. I’m still happy to have this job, though. The paycheck can go toward gas. Or school, hopefully.” My stomach drops. “What?”

  “Paycheck,” I mutter. “Why didn’t I—” I call out, “Hey, Sam?” She’s studying in one corner of the kitchen. “Mind if I interrupt for a second?”

  “Sure,” she says, slamming a giant book shut and walking over. “I think I’ve had enough with fucking torts for a little while.”

  Logan grins. “You really do spread sunshine wherever you go.”

  Sam shoots him a reluctant smirk. “What’s up?”

  I take a breath. “Do you know if Arturo ever got Priya’s last paycheck to her?”

  “Uh . . .” I see a familiar gleam of pity in her eyes. It’s sad. Everyone here loved Priya. Now they never bring her up because of me. “Actually, no. He gave up. Honestly, it’s on her at this point.”

  Arturo pops in through the double doors then. “Zan, you’ve got tables.”

  “Sorry,” I say, my thoughts swirling. Why hadn’t I followed up with Arturo? Or checked the address myself? Suddenly I’m wondering. Did Priya and Ben change apartments? Did they not make it? Did Priya lie?

  My heart is racing, but the second I walk out, I feel something lift up inside me. Because Reggie is at his usual booth, and for a moment I’m positive he’s come to help. I am this close to running back for my binder.

  Then I see his face.

  He gets up as I approach him, his body stiff, and I slow my step. I’ve never seen Reggie look like this before. “You’ve put me in a bad spot,” he says, skipping hellos—but not in our normal, fun way. His voice is soft, contained, and possibly furious. He hooks his fingers through his belt loops, looking somehow more official in his uniform than usual.

  “Reggie. What are you talking about? What’s wrong?”

  “I just found out a neighbor reported a break-in at Ben and Priya’s the other night.”

  I step back. “Seriously?”

  “Why didn’t you tell me someone was with you?”

  Oh shit. Logan. As in still on parole Logan.

  The tourist couple from before is eyeing me. “Uh, miss? Miss! We still haven’t ordered.” I pretend not to hear them. “Miss!”

  Arturo steps out through the double doors and I catch his eye. Please? He gets the message. “Hi there. Sorry to keep you waiting. . . .”

  I return my focus to Reggie, gesturing to the booth, and we sit. “Okay, back up,” I say, keeping my voice low.

  “It was dark out,” says Reggie, “but the neighbor was sure she saw a male. I don’t get it, Zan. What were you thinking—trashing the place like that?”

  “Okay, slow down,” I say. “You mean the broken phone?”

  Reggie frowns. “What phone?”

  I shut my eyes. “I’m so confused. Reggie, I swear, I didn’t trash anything.”

  “There was a desk on its side in the office. The file cabinet had been turned over. There was a big old dent in the wall. What the hell were you doing in there?”

  I stare at him. “Reggie! I . . . I didn’t do any of that!” I shake my head. “Wait, the neighbor lady said it was dark out?”

  “Yes,” says Reggie. “And she was positive it was a male she saw climbing through the window. Who was with you, Zan?”

  I lean across the table. “Okay, I’m telling you, you’ve got this all wrong. We—I mean I! I broke in during the day. And I just walked in through the back door. No window climbing necessary. I swear.”

  “So, what.” He leans back into the booth. “You’re telling me these were two unrelated break-ins? Total coincidence?”

  For a moment I picture the man outside the gate, with the dark eyes behind glasses.

  “Maybe,” I say. Or maybe not.

  When our shifts end, Logan and I head to my place. Reggie and I left things okay. He didn’t have me arrested, at least, so that was positive.

  We find Mom and Whit curled up watching TV, and I tell them we have to study.

  Upstairs, I shut the door behind us and wake my laptop from its sleep. A quick search yields the property report for 418 Bellevue, Priya’s failed California address. I exhale for what feels like the first time in hours. “Found it.”

  Logan walks around the room, studying the sticky notes on the wall. There are key phrases written out in big letters, strung together like an equation without symbols. Found you, Stalker guy, Broken Phone, HLEP, Blueberries.

  “You should add the second break-in,” says Logan.

  “Yeah,” I say. “Good idea. There are Post-its there on the desk.” He walks over and scribbles down the words.

  “We’re definitely thinking the same thing, right? It has to mean something.”

  “Yeah,” says Logan over his shoulder. “Whoever it was, he wasn’t a genius. At least we were smart enough to check the back door.”

  “Well, actually, I locked it. Sort of absentmindedly, after you left.” Huh. I’d forgotten about that. “Hey, I’ve been thinking about something,” I say, the thought still working itself out. I set my computer aside and sit up on the edge of the bed. “What if we’ve been thinking too much about Priya? What if the real person in trouble is Ben?”

  Logan turns around. “What makes you say that?”

  “Okay. Well, for one thing, the note in his desk. Found you. It could read as threatening, right? I can’t place how it fits together, but . . . I mean, all those unpaid bills in the mailbox? And his office getting broken into—all torn up like that? And then there was that guy who followed me last week. When I first met him, it was outside the house. He wanted to know if they still lived there.”

  “Huh,” says Logan. “But you’ve talked to Ben recently. He didn’t say anything, right?”

  I shrug. “Maybe he couldn’t.”

  Logan turns back to the wall of sticky notes, scratching at his jaw. For a second, I just watch him, the reality of the moment—of this whole absurd situation—washing over me. Logan has Instagrammed and crank-called and now here he is, regarding my wall of Post-it notes like we really are on Law & Order. At every turn, he’s been here with me.

  He’s believed me.

  I sit up a little taller as he traces an ink-stained finger along the edge of a bright pink square. “Hey, Logan?”

  “Hm?” he says, still looking at the wall.

  I feel a swell of abrupt, puzzled affection for him. “Why are you helping me?”

  “Why does anyone help anyone?” he says, like a reflex. But after a minute, he walks over and sits down next to me on the bed, the mattress dipping. He’s so close I can feel the rhythm of his breath, our arms and legs just barely touching. I’m so distracted by the smell of soap and the warmth of his skin that I almost forget to listen.

  “At first . . .” He frowns, like he’s really thinking about it. “I guess it was curiosity mostly. With the way things were going in my own life, maybe, I don’t know. Maybe I wanted to throw myself into something. To get swept up. And . . .” A tiny smirk. “It didn’t hurt that it meant I got to hang out with this really cute, ferocious girl in the process.”

  I smile into my lap, my face heating up. />
  “But now . . . It’s more than that. Priya’s important to you.” He shrugs. “Which means she’s important to me.”

  When I raise my eyes to his, he’s looking at me with a quiet intensity I’m not sure I’ve ever seen before. “You’re . . .” I swallow, my heart pounding. I can hardly catch my breath. “You’re such a surprise, Logan.”

  “Most good things are,” he says, raising a mock dashing eyebrow.

  “Shut up,” I say, giving him a look. “I’m trying to be real here for a min—”

  He ducks down and kisses me, lightly, and I feel a jolt pass through me, from his mouth to every part of me.

  He pulls back and I touch my lips, a little stunned. I think I may have just gotten my first clue as to why people willingly go and lose themselves, and I am decidedly more amenable to the idea.

  He looks at me, his eyes like a question, and before I can think, I close the space between us, kissing him again. I touch his cheek, and his fingers trace the freckles up my arm. I catch a glimpse of his crinkling eyes and it strikes me that I want to make his face keep on doing that. Again and again.

  We break apart, only to come back to each other. Our lips are locked and smiling, like we’re sharing a perfect secret. I climb into his lap and wrap my arms around his neck. His hands graze my waist and a shiver runs through me.

  A rap on the door makes us spring apart.

  “Jesus!” Logan works to catch his breath and I begin to snicker.

  Whit calls from the other side, “Hey, uh . . . You guys alive in there? We’re prepping dinner. Is Logan sticking around?”

  “Oh, um . . .” I meet his eyes, still a little light-headed. “Yeah. I think he is.”

  We listen as she walks away, the energy between us quiet but not awkward, tinged with something like happy relief.

  “Can I ask you something?” I say after a moment.

  “Anything.”

  I straighten up, emboldened. “Would you like to go on a date with me, Logan Hart?”

  “What’d you have in mind?” he asks. “Tracking down Priya’s social security number at some government archive, perhaps?”

  I glare. “I was thinking the Art Institute, actually. The museum. You can show me your natural habitat.”

  “I’d like that.” We’re both grinning like fools.

  He glances at the clock by my bed. It’s nearly eight here, so six in California. “Crap,” I say.

  Logan ticks his chin up toward the Post-it wall, and if it’s possible, I like him even more. “Where were we?”

  “The California address,” I say, already reaching for my laptop. I scan the Bellevue property report until I land on the number for the management company. Logan hands me my phone, settling in next to me. “Okay, here goes,” I say, suddenly anxious again. “Let’s hope they’re still open.”

  “ABC Management, this is Kimberly.”

  I exhale, smiling. Thank you, Kimberly. You overzealous worker, you.

  “Hello,” I say. “I uh . . . I’m trying to get something to one of your tenants, but it keeps returning to sender. Ben Grissom, 418 Bellevue, apartment C?”

  The woman makes a smacking sound and Logan leans in to listen. “Apartment C, apartment C . . .” I hear typing. “Okay, ma’am, well, mystery solved! Mr. Grissom broke the lease back in July.”

  “Oh?” Logan’s eyes meet mine. “Did uh . . . Did he say why?”

  “I wouldn’t have that information, ma’am. Plans changed last minute, I would guess. It happens.”

  I squeeze Logan’s arm. “But . . . So he never moved in?”

  “No, ma’am.” A pause. “Who did you say you were again?”

  “A friend.”

  She laughs. “Well then, silly. Sounds like he’s the one you should be talking to!”

  “Yeah,” I say. “Thanks, Kimberly. I think you might be right.”

  Back again. And, ugh . . .

  I don’t know.

  I think I’m running out of silver lining. What’s the word for restless, furious, and sad all at once?

  No. (NEIN!) Enough with the wallowing.

  Always have a plan. PLANNING IS LIFE! There have been hiccups, yes, but I have to remind myself: there were successes on that To-Do list of mine.

  Firstly: Um, what? Dial-up internet is a thing. I should have documented the glory sooner. It was a good moment. Doing recon in the basement, finding those forgotten boxes in the closet marked “office.” When I swiped the dust from that massive monitor I thought, “Checkmate, fucker!” Then I remembered I knew nothing of computers. (Despite everything TV would have us believe, my South Asian heritage did not bestow upon me any innate tech-wizardry. But fortunately it turned out to be more a matter of plugging things in.)

  I think I misjudged Amanda. She only sings when he’s gone. Before I thought he just didn’t like her voice, but now I wonder if it’s actually a signal. Either way, she helped me find my moment. She was singing “Over the Rainbow” when the screen lit up. The DONG-GEE-DONG noises howled for what felt like an hour, and then . . . voilà! For a brief window, the world opened. I saw the icon: MAIL. I was so excited I didn’t notice the singing stop. He walked in, shouting as my fingers raced across the keyboard. I thought of the only email address I knew by heart, and thrashed toward the SEND button before he yanked me away.

  Dang.

  I’m not sure if my plan to get him out into the world really worked. The hope was that he’d get himself spotted, or caught. But even if I did hit a wall with this one, at least all the taunting had the added benefit of making me extremely happy.

  Me: That can’t feel great. Knowing there’s evidence out there, waiting to be found. The broken phone probably won’t look great, either.

  Him: Shut up.

  Me: Aw. Don’t get down. I always say, Gotta get through rain before the rainbow.

  I almost wonder if I did it on purpose—letting those papers fly from my grasp so that some landed behind the desk. I’ve been mentally thanking myself for being cognizant enough to print them in that moment. I sometimes wonder what would have happened if I hadn’t found out. If my phone hadn’t run out of battery while we were packing up. If I hadn’t been compelled by that bit of random musing and opened up his laptop.

  The random musing that changed the course of my life? It’s so dumb I almost can’t bear to write it down. *Clears throat* Does excessive carrot ingestion really turn people orange? And if so, does it only occur in white people? The worst part is I never got an answer. (Okay, no, not the worst part.)

  HOLD UP.

  I have to admit something here. . . .

  A small part of me is beginning to fear that this journal is, in fact, for posterity.

  What kills me is that I could have gotten away. I was blowing it all up—dialing Anushka as we yelled. He ripped the phone from my hands and it shattered, the papers flying everywhere. And then—JUST THEN—the doorbell rang. He peeked out of the office, stealing a quick glance at the windows that overlooked the porch. I didn’t see what he saw. When I spoke, he shushed me, and something in his face made me keep quiet.

  I let him pull me to the garage, where his voice was so low it was barely a whisper.

  Him: We’re not safe here. That man out there? He’s here for me.

  Me: WHAT?

  Him: Shh! I had help, okay? And when I shut it all down because of, well—you—my partner wasn’t happy. He has guys . . . That work for him. And they’re willing to travel. He warned that without a sizable payout, which I do not have, one of them would be . . . sent after me. After both of us.

  Nothing in my life had quite prepared me for a moment like that. So you know what I did? I stood there, just like he told me to. When he tiptoed back inside, I didn’t run. After a minute, he came back with the stack of papers and a laptop. We drove off together, before the man could get inside.

  In the car, I stewed. He looked miserable. And pale. And I’ll admit it—he looked sorry.

  Me: Is there even a job i
n California?

  Him: No. But I got us an apartment. You’ll like it.

  Me: He’ll find it.

  Him: Huh?

  Me: If he goes through our house. You left the lease out on the kitchen table.

  Him: I did?

  Me: God. Did you even love her?

  Him: Of course I—

  Me: You have a funny way of showing it.

  Him: She left you a college fund.

  Me: That was before she’d even met you. And she only set aside enough for my education. She wanted me to work. To make something of myself. Not that you would understand. And anyway, you were already rich!

  Him: I was, and then I wasn’t. Money is a fickle thing.

  Me: Just so we’re clear. I’m not on your side.

  Him: I know.

  Uggggghhh. I hate this. Okay, FINE. I shall call this next installment . . .

  A Brief Reluctant Breakdown for Posterity:

  Week One. We stayed in motels. Argued. Tried to make a plan. We bought clothes and supplies at Target and watched our backs. Paid for things in cash.

  Week Two. He fired the nurse over the phone. I felt bad. We showed up hours later. He wouldn’t let me call people. Knowing could put them in danger. We ate popcorn and watched Jeopardy! Amanda seemed vaguely pleased with the company.

  Week Three. I got restless. Walks were too risky. But at least I had the yard. He started spending time in the basement. I noticed Amanda’s landline phones go missing from the walls.

  Me: Aren’t people going to notice all this silence? At least let me tell Zan and Nick.

  Him: Absolutely not. And anyway, I took care of that. All your passwords are the same, Pri. Bacon? Really? But don’t worry. You’ve been getting lots of likes.

  For a second I saw red, but breathed through it.

  Me: People will know it’s not me.

  Him: We’ll see.

  Week Four. I woke in a clean, white room.

  Me: . . . ?

  Him: There may have been some Ambien in your smoothie this morning.

  I was on a couch. The junk that was here when we arrived had been cleared out. He left the TV and the minifridge. There was a bathroom off to one side, and a closet. I noted the window—briefly hopeful, before I remembered Amanda and her home safety infomercials. I never noticed the door down here had a dead bolt. Maybe he’d installed it.