Swipe Right for Murder

by Derek Milman

  “So did you reach this Mr. Preston?” Tats asks him.

  He nods. “I did.”

  Tats and I both sit up straight, all ears.

  Shiloh holds up the piece of paper he was writing on and slides the pen behind his ear. “Well, I told him I was you.” He looks at me. “He was curt. He gave me directions to a location. As well as info on a bus you’re supposed to take to get there. And he said no matter what: come alone.”

  CHAPTER 9

  Dinner

  Mr. Preston—Jesus, that stupid name—wants me to meet him at the visitor center of Mohawk State Park, in upstate New York, tomorrow at noon. He said he would know me by sight. I’m supposed to take a 6:15 a.m. bus from the Port Authority Bus Terminal, which will take me directly to the location. The trip is five and a half hours. The state park has hiking trails that wind around the Adirondacks and Lake George. Apparently it’s really beautiful there.

  Tats is looking at me incredulously. “You’re not really thinking of—”

  “I’m going.”

  “Have you lost your mind?”

  “Do I have a choice? If he can give me the flash drive the terrorists think I owe them… then maybe this will end, like he says. They’re trying to kill me. They almost succeeded once.” My hand involuntarily goes to my throat. “They’ll try again. They’re good at finding me. Only problem is, I’m supposed to go to Nevada with my family today. I have to find a way to get out of g—”

  “Aidan. Aidan. Listen to me,” says Tats, standing, her arms outstretched. “They’re obviously trying to get you alone and isolated.”

  “Maybe it’s just a secure spot for Preston to give me this item.”

  Tats isn’t having it, plus I have my own doubts that this makes sense. But I don’t know what the hell else to do.

  “Listen,” she says. “You’ve been through a lot, you’re not thinking clearly. Listen. You will be up there, in an unfamiliar, faraway location, without your phone or your wallet. You don’t even know if this Preston person exists!”

  “I know.”

  “You don’t know any of these people, or their intentions, except we know they’re terrorists, or affiliated with terrorists. Honey. You don’t know if they will try to kill you up there. You don’t know if they will kill you anyway once they receive this flash drive that for some mysterious reason they think you have, which you don’t. We literally just had a conversation about how you tend to get yourself into trouble. Maybe make a different decision this time?”

  “What’s the alternative?”

  “You must—you have to—call the police!”

  I’m nodding. “You’re right. This is nuts.” I scratch at my scalp. “Shit…”

  “I concur,” says Shiloh. “I don’t think you have a choice anymore.”

  I turn to Tats. “What time is it?”

  She tells me.

  “I gotta get ready for dinner!”

  “Aidan!” she cries.

  “Just wait here! PLEASE!”

  I grab some fresh clothes, run into the bathroom, and take the fastest shower of my life. (After this day, it still manages to be the most satisfying, though.) I throw on a pair of skinny black jeans and a white polo shirt. I’m forced to do a douche pop with the shirt collar to hide the bruises on my neck.

  When I come out of the bathroom, Shiloh is looking out the window, hands clasped behind his back, and Tats is checking her phone. She gives me a long look: “Honey. I have to get home. I have a family thing. I’m so sorry.”

  I kiss her on both cheeks. “Okay. Thank you. Sorry for all this.”

  “Aidan. You’re not going to be stupid. Right?”

  “I already am stupid.”

  She lightly slaps my cheek. “No. You’re not.” Her tone turns a bit more serious. “It’s time to grow up, Aidan. Face your parents. Tell them what’s going on. They’ll survive. And they’ll support you. They have to. And then call the police.” She points to my laptop. “I’m going to FaceTime you later. And you better be in this room, heading to bed, not heading to any state park.”

  She looks at Shiloh. “Take care of him. Please.”

  He smiles at her. “I’ll try. It was very nice meeting you.”

  “Aidan,” she says. “Text Jackson. Okay?”

  “Yeah.”

  Tats looks at me, then back at Shiloh. She grabs her purse, heads to the door. She pauses for a second, hand gripping the door handle, looking down at her shoes. I know she feels helpless and she hates it. She also feels guilty, I think, about leaving me to an uncertain fate, knowing I probably won’t follow any of her advice, and thinking I’m going to get myself killed.

  I’ll bet she’s going to warn Jackson and tell him everything. But they’re not speaking, so I don’t know what will happen then.

  Tats gives me one last look over her shoulder, then makes her exit, leaving a pleasant scent in her wake—sugar and roses, something like that.

  I turn to Shiloh and extend my hand. Every time my eyes focus anew on his face, everything inside me gets all mushy. It’s kind of embarrassing and ridiculous.

  “Thank you. For everything.”

  He shakes my hand. “You’re welcome. What are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know yet.” I give him a charged look. “I wish I could stay here with you, to be honest.” My eyes roam to the bed.

  His mouth gets a little tight. “Well. That’s not the way the cards are playing out.”

  “Yeah, I know. Sucks.”

  “Plus,” he says, moving in, taking my face in his hands and giving me the lightest of kisses on the side of my jaw, “I saw your ID when everything tumbled out on the lobby floor. I didn’t really think you went to Dartmouth, Witloff boy.”

  My face must turn a million different colors.

  “Yeah,” he says, nodding at me in a disappointed sort of way that makes my chest tense up. I still feel that kiss. It’s doing things to me.

  I close my eyes. “I’m sorry. I was running from bad guys.”

  He smiles softly at me and turns away.

  Okay, wow. I get this terrific lump in my throat because here I am in the middle of this huge mess. And out of nowhere, so randomly, this guardian-angel hottie just appears and genuinely seems to care about me (or the little about me that he knows). That was selfless and kind, and I probably didn’t make a great impression, lying to him, in the middle of an already whacked-out drama he had nothing to do with. And still, he never quit trying to help me. And that doesn’t really make any sense, does it? None of this does…

  “I see some thoughts marinating in that head of yours,” says Shiloh.

  “I’m just not sure about you, man.”

  “You’re suspicious.”

  I am a little, but that seems almost rude. “Wouldn’t you be? As much as I want to believe everything about you, it’s all a little too perfect, a little too pat. You dropping down from the heavens like that.” I want to be honest, but I don’t want to push him away, either.

  “I didn’t drop from the heavens. I told you: I saw someone who looked like they could use a friend. I think you need to have more faith in people. Despite everything.”

  I don’t say anything.

  “You want my advice?” he says.

  “Sure.”

  “Listen to your friend. You have a family. Tell them everything. Let them help you. Call the police.” He pats me on the shoulder. “No one else can do that for you. Or should. You have to grow up a little.”

  Ouch. What is with everyone telling me this today?

  The pat on the shoulder feels like a rejection. A patronizing one. “I’m not a little kid,” I tell him, kind of petulantly, and then I feel embarrassed for getting upset.

  “You didn’t want to tell me who you were,” he says. “I’m a stranger. I get it. But I’m curious”—his eyes wander over to the bed and then back to me—“if things had gone down a different path, given all the flirting going on… if you would have ever told me you were in high
school.”

  “Honestly, probably not.”

  He nods, opens his wallet. “You need some cash for a cab?”

  Jesus. Fuck. I take the money. I can’t look him in the eye.

  He takes out his phone. “What’s your number?”

  I tell him. When he texts me, I hear the ding on my iPad and I remember that I still have it. There’s that, at least. I can access my texts again. I’m not cut off anymore.

  “Now you have me.”

  It’s almost cruel the way he says that.

  “Text me if you need help,” he says. “If you’re in trouble. Don’t hesitate.”

  “I won’t.”

  There’s a tiny pause where we just kind of look at each other.

  “Kiss me again,” I command.

  Shiloh steps forward, cups my chin, and kisses me lightly on the lips. It’s the softest kiss I’ve ever had, charged with so many different emotions, and I feel it through my entire spine like it came with little electrodes.

  It’s so short.

  Shiloh steps back, with a deep exhale. “Good-bye, Aidan. Be smart. Be safe. Take care of yourself.”

  I’m literally swooning. I have to press my feet into the floor to stabilize myself. “Yeah, you, too.”

  And then he leaves.

  There’s a pummeling of loneliness right then. I have this impulse to go after him, tackle him, apologize. But I can’t—it’s too late. This sucks so hard. It is possible he’s right—that paranoia clouded me and fear muddled my mind. Shiloh might be a genuinely kind, compassionate person; someone I would’ve liked to get to know. Seeing his text on my iPad (Shiloh, hi) makes me feel even worse. There are also a slew of texts from Jackson and Leo: worried, asking where I am, and then kind of pissed at me for running off. I can’t deal with them right now.

  I quickly pack my bags. I stuff my laptop and my iPad into my backpack and fling it over my shoulder. I roll my two suitcases out the door.

  But I really don’t like the last text I saw from Jacks: Dude. Have you seen the news?

  And from Leo: Turn on the news. Dude! Call us!

  But I can’t, because I don’t want to be late. My family hates it when I’m late.

  And I already decided I’m going to Nevada with them.

  Screw the goddamn Swans.

  Despite my backpack weighing me down, despite dragging two suitcases behind me, I decide to take the subway down because Shiloh gave me way more cash than I expected, and I figure I should probably conserve some of it. Because who knows?

  I’m stuffed in tight with all my shit on the crowded train. But I take solace in the mini-mobs of rush-hour commuters, with their books and Kindles and headphones playing muffled hip-hop, Candy Crush spangled across their phone screens. The more crowded it gets, the more I can wrap myself in their lives for a little while, squeezed out of danger, forgetting the madness of my own.

  I’m ejected into a busy intersection of the West Village, all turned around, and make my way down a quieter street with town houses and pretty little shops, my suitcases kind of deafening as I roll them down the sidewalk.

  The restaurant, Bella Fegato, is subterranean, hidden between a posh-looking toy store and a brand new building of sleek, glassy lofts.

  A tall, elegant woman in a black dress greets me from behind the host stand as soon as I burst through the doors. I spot my family at a corner table in the back and make a beeline for them after dropping my suitcases with the coat-check girl. My mom’s hair, in a sort of modern bob thing, is blonder than ever.

  My stomach knots up right away. Typical.

  The restaurant is rustic seaside Italian, purposely roughened up. It’s like they want you to feel you’ve been drifting on a raft for days and finally washed up on the shores of Tuscany, yearning for fusilli. The place is empty, given the early hour. All the waiters are refilling everyone’s water glasses, hovering, as my family ignores the menus spread out in front of them.

  “Aidan!” my mother calls when she sees me, reaching out with her hands.

  “Hello, hello,” I say, leaning in for a kiss from her, which lands awkwardly on the side of my nose. “Sorry I’m a little late.”

  “How did the echo test go?” she asks.

  “Oh, it was amazing.”

  “Aidy, what did they say?”

  “The technicians aren’t allowed to say anything,” I explain, “until a doctor interprets the results. But the woman said I had nothing to worry about.”

  My mom claps her hands to her mouth, then addresses my father, who has my giggling nephew on his lap, bouncing him up and down. “They said he doesn’t have anything to worry about!” she tells him.

  “What?” My dad’s hearing is not what it was.

  “Doesn’t. Have. Anything. To. Worry. About!” She pounds her chest. “His heart!”

  “Oh?”

  “Okay,” I say, “that’s not confirmed. I have to see the doctor.”

  “Of course,” says my mom. “But still, she wouldn’t have said that!”

  My eyes flit to the empty chair that Neil would have been in. That happens every time we go out to dinner. Sometimes I see him smiling at me, the Ghost of Christmas Never. But I don’t right now. There’s just an empty chair in an Italian restaurant with lots of bleached wood.

  My dad hands my nephew over to my sister. He leans forward, hugs me, and pats my head. “Nice to see you, you look good,” he says, like I’m an old man who he plays chess with every other week in a park somewhere.

  I swing around the table and hug Nicks, who isn’t wearing makeup and looks more tired than ever, almost like it’s a competition—who can look the most exhausted?—and my brother-in-law, Rick, the only one who ever directly acknowledges my being gay, always asking if I’ve “found a nice dude yet.” He wears a maroon V-neck shirt meant to show off the tattoo looped under his collarbone: Chinese lettering he thinks is ultra-sexy and super mysterious. “It’s Rumi!” he says proudly to anyone who asks.

  Except Rumi is Persian. So. Anyway. Let’s not go there.

  “Did you see the Klimts?” says my mom.

  “Hi, Pixie!” I kiss Annabelle on the cheek and pinch her nose. She’s sitting in her own chair playing with the menu, her ice-blond hair in a neat ponytail, and she smiles up at me. Her dimples kill me. She says, “Uncle Aidan!” in this delighted sort of way, kicking her feet.

  “The Klimts!” my mom shrieks. “At the Neue?”

  “And you!” I say to Sam, now sitting on Rick’s lap, having been handed over by my sister so she can attend to what’s left of her martini. “Look how big you are,” I say, kissing his forehead, pressing the back of my hand to his cheek.

  “Hi,” he says quietly, unsure, like I may whisk him off and sell him into slavery. Sam probably doesn’t remember me. It has been a while.

  “I’m Aidan,” I tell him. “Your uncle Aidan.”

  “You’re away in ssh-kool,” he says, touching the edge of my ear.

  “That’s right! I’m Uncle Aidan and I’m away at school.”

  “The Klimts!” my mom shouts. She’s already had a glass of wine. Maybe two. There’s a smear of lipstick on her teeth.

  “Holy shit, Mom,” I say, my fists pressed to my ears, finally sitting down, grabbing my napkin and throwing it onto my lap, freeing all the silverware. “No, I didn’t get a chance.”

  “Why? Why not? You had all day.”

  “How was the hotel?” asks my dad, looking at the menu.

  I put down my backpack, my iPad stuffed in, next to my chair. “Fine.”

  “You had all day,” says my mom, looking around, then turning and making a tickling motion at Annabelle. “I see you!”

  “What is your thing with me seeing the Klimts?”

  She turns back to me, napkin pressed to her lips. “Nothing. I just figured. You were in the city. I know you haven’t been there. Why not see—”

  “I need a glass of wine,” I tell her.

  “Waiter!” she hollers, but he’s ri
ght there, so he nearly jumps out of his skin.

  I shake my head at Nicks. She laughs at me, rolling her eyes. “How is school?” she asks me, reaching over and plucking a fork out of Sam’s grabby hands. “No, sweetie,” she tells him, “that will hurt you.”

  “It’s fine. It’s school.”

  “You look off,” she says, squinting, letting Rick deal with Sam.

  “I want an egg,” says Annabelle.

  I press my tongue against my upper teeth. “Off?”

  “Yeah,” says my sister. “Is everything all right?”

  My mom’s picked up on this now. “What is it? What’s the matter?” she says, looking at me, then at Nicks. Then, to the waiter, gesturing at me: “He needs wine.” The waiter silently points at the wine list.

  I look around. Where are we? Italian place. Tuscan. Fine.

  “Uh. Glass of Sangiovese?” I ask the waiter. He nods and runs off.

  “What is it now?” My dad.

  I lean forward. “It’s okay. I just lost…”

  “What!” says my mom, hands out. “What did you lose?”

  “My wallet.”

  “Oh, my God,” she says, sighing into her lap, “Aidan, how did you manage—”

  “Just cancel the credit cards. Don’t freak.”

  “What is it?” My dad again.

  “We have to cancel the credit cards!” she shouts at him.

  “Why?”

  “Aidan lost his wallet!”

  “Jesus.” He sighs. “His wallet now?”

  “Egg!” says Annabelle.

  “You want an egg?” Rick says to her, giving her a peck on the cheek. She nods and laughs. “All right.” He turns to me and grins. “Find a nice dude yet?”

  Oh, Rick—you have no idea.

  “They’ll give her an egg,” my dad says to Rick. “Why not? They have eggs here.”

  “You’re not answering your phone,” my mom tells me.

  “I tried calling you, too,” my sister adds.

  “Did you bring your bags?” my mom asks. “Did you check out of the hotel yet?”

  “They check you out automatically, in the morning. My bags are with me.”

  “Well, we’re not going!” says my mom, announcing this to the whole restaurant. “The trip is canceled.”