A Postcard Would Be Nice

by Steph Campbell

  When I don’t reply, she says, “And anyway, I sort of pried, if it helps. He didn’t give up the address without a fight.”

  I wonder what else he told her. Did he mention how he thinks I’ve been acting strange? Is that the real reason she’s here?

  I blink several times. “I don’t … I’m pretty sure that’s illegal.”

  “For him to give a friend your address?” Paloma shifts her weight and pulls in her bottom lip.

  A friend.

  Then she stares at the floor and says, “I’m sorry. He said you left without saying much. You can’t just disappear, you know. People worry.”

  I feel like a world class asshole now. I try to wave her off like it’s no big deal, but I’m not sure she’s buying it.

  So we just stare at each other.

  Finally, “Paloma, what are you doing here?”

  She reaches behind her back and holds out the thick fabric.

  “So, I brought your coat,” she offers.

  “My coat?” I repeat the words back slowly, as I take the coat from her and toss it onto my bed.

  “Yeah.” She nods, then giggles a little. A nervous giggle meant to lighten the mood. “I figured we could trade. You got your coat, I could have my water bottle back.”

  My face falls.

  I can’t even pretend to hide it.

  “It’s a joke, Oliver.” I can hear Paloma talking, but everything has gone black. Like I’m in a tunnel.

  All I can see are the pieces clicking into place for the first time in days.

  The water.

  That’s it.

  That’s what happened.

  I rub my palm along my cheek with one hand, and use the other to grip the edge of my desk, steadying myself. Paloma’s smile constricts, and her eyebrows pinch together.

  “I don’t actually want the water back, Oliver, chill.”

  “Is that all?” I ask. I sound like a dick. I don’t mean to, but I need her to leave.

  The water.

  There must’ve been something in it.

  “Is what? The coat? Yeah, I guess.” Her chin trembles a little. “I mean, no.”

  The water.

  The water that her ex-boyfriend had given her to drink.

  “No?” I push out a long breath. “So, what are you doing here, Paloma?”

  The water that I drank instead of her.

  “I just … I thought you might need a friend. You were weird at the museum earlier, and you weren’t there the day before, and—”

  I get it now. It looks like I led Paloma on by walking her home and telling her I write songs about her. And now I can’t even look at her. She’s here, trying to fix it. She’s here for answers. Answers I can’t give her.

  “I don’t.” I straighten my spine and clear my throat and add, “I don’t need anything.”

  “See, I don’t believe that.” She leans forward. Toward me. I grip my nightstand so that I don’t back away. “Sometimes people don’t know what they need until you give it to them.”

  The water.

  It had been meant for her.

  I can feel my nostrils flaring, my fists clenching. I have to remind myself that this rage, it’s not meant for Paloma.

  I clear my throat before asking, “So what are you here to give me?”

  “Me? My friendship.” She tugs on the end of her shirt and glances around the room before adding, “If that’s okay.”

  All the months and years I’ve spent thinking about this girl, and now she’s standing in my bedroom, offering herself up to make me feel better, and all I’ve done is make her feel like shit.

  Who am I?

  I’m the asshole who pines for someone, gets them to give a damn, and then pushes them away.

  “Yeah. Okay.”

  “So, I’ll see you around?”

  “I’ll see you around.” I nod.

  She turns the knob, and I can’t believe I’m letting her leave.

  “Paloma,” she’s in the hall before I call after her. She spins on her heels and smiles at me. “Do you need a ride home?”

  “That’s okay. It’s not far, and I like the walk.”

  “Okay.”

  She takes three steps in my direction.

  “But Oliver?” she asks. “Next time you decide to drop off the face of the Earth, maybe send a postcard, okay? Like I said, people worry.”

  As soon as I hear the front door click shut, I rush to my coat.

  Inside the pocket is a postcard.

  The postcard.

  Greetings from Los Angeles!

  I flip it over, and beneath the message I left for her, she has written:

  Shit.

  She’d looked up the meaning of the word. She knows exactly how I feel.

  It’s exactly what I wanted, at exactly the wrong time.

  I slump onto my bed, my mouth dry and my legs a little wobbly. I know it’s stupid, but I can’t help but touch my hand to the left side of my chest.

  The water.

  It was meant for her.

  As mad and confused as I am, I can’t stop the shaky laugh of relief.

  Relief that Paloma hadn’t drank that water.

  That she hadn’t let Martin take her home.

  That instead, I had been the one who got her home safely.

  (Written on the Metro on the way home) (Undelivered)

  19.

  You can tell a lot about a person by the coat they wear.

  For instance, the one I’m hanging up now is wool, and pretty damn heavy. It feels pricier than most of the coats we check, but it’s well-worn in the pockets and sleeves. The person who owns it is either a transplant from a place where a coat is necessary or bought it as a fashion statement. But my guess, based on the third button down that doesn’t match the others, and is obviously a replacement, is that this person is frugal and knows how to take care of something and make it last. That they bought a quality coat they knew would last and that they’ll wear this coat until it’s a single strand of thread, and then probably try to repurpose it.

  “You gonna go find her?” Colm asks.

  “Who?”

  “Don’t give me that crap, Oliver Wu. You were clocking in when she checked her coat, but I know you saw her.”

  “I’m busy,” I say. I tie and then retie the band around my hair, trying to shake the nervous tension that comes from talking about Paloma.

  What if I go and find Paloma in the museum? What do I say to her after last night?

  “In that case, I need you to check out the Chinese Garden.”

  “For what?”

  “Had a report of a suspicious coat left there.”

  “What?” It takes a few seconds for it to click that he’s screwing with me. “You’re an idiot, you know that, right?”

  “An idiot that owns your ass for the next three hours. Go scope it out,” Colm says.

  Face burning, I stash a few more hangers on the rack then round the counter. I don’t have a good reason for avoiding Paloma, but seeking her out feels weird. Presumptuous. When I reach into my pocket where the postcard is stashed, I feel a tiny surge of confidence.

  I don’t know how Colm knew where she was, but he was right. Crafty little leprechaun that he is. I bypass the direct route to the gardens, and instead head through the Egyptian Art exhibits, loop the Medieval wing and through the third floor gift shop, even though it’s the absolute longest route possible. I have to stop and give directions to the restrooms and cafes to at least five people on the way, but that’s okay.

  She’s sitting in the garden area, her back pressed to the cool gray stones that line the walls. Her short black hair is pulled back, but it’s not quite long enough to stay back, so a lot of it has fallen loose. Her jeans have tears at the knees, but they look too uniform to have come from wear, so she must have bought them like that. The way she nibbles at her bottom lip while she reads, combined with the plain white V-neck T-shirt that dips low enough to make me suck in a quick breath, all dr
ive me a little out of my mind. I like the way she always looks comfortable.

  I stand in the doorway for a little longer than I need to, working around what I can say to break the ice. I’m about to open my mouth when she looks up from her book.

  “Oliver,” Paloma says with a bright smile. She closes her book, marking her page with her index finger. “How are you?”

  I take a small step into the room and dip my head a little as a greeting. It’s awkward and shy, but it’s an improvement from yesterday.

  “I’m good,” I say. “I just— I wanted to thank you. For bringing my coat back.”

  “Right,” she says. “Well, you’re welcome. You looked like you needed it. The coat, I mean.”

  I finally walk fully into the room. I crane my neck around, scoping out the space, making sure we’re all alone, even if it’s obvious.

  Paloma pulls her book bag off the bench and sets it on the floor. “Here, sit.”

  I slide onto the bench next to her, leaving nearly a foot of space between us.

  “How’s the book?” I ask. It’s a lame conversation starter.

  Paloma nods. “So far so good. It’s one of my favorite authors, but this is her first paranormal. The rest of the stuff she writes is contemporary, so this is different. I like that she’s taking a risk.”

  “What’s it about?”

  “Do you like zombies?”

  “Zombies?” I ask. I nudge the book with my thumb so that I can inspect the blue cover with the raised blood splatters. Her arm brushes against mine with the movement. Paloma’s skin is warm despite the cold air in the museum. I try to remember if her skin had felt warm the night I’d walked her home, but I can’t. I fucking hate that. “I would have pegged you for a romance girl.”

  She half-snorts, half-laughs. “Romance? Me?”

  Romantic enough to write back on the postcard.

  A couple of people file through the room but walk through without stopping to look at anything. It’s rare that people hang out in here for more than a few seconds; they all just pass straight through. Which is probably why Paloma spends so much of her time here, tucked away with the fountains bubbling and the tiniest bit of sunlight filtering in through a small, square skylight.

  “I don’t know,” she says with a shrug. “I guess I sort of think zombie stories are their own brand of romance.”

  I can’t help but chuckle. And scoot a few inches closer to her. “How so?”

  Paloma pulls her legs up onto the bench and spins to face me, sitting cross-legged.

  Her eyes brighten a little now, and it makes me relax, too. “So you know how in romance, you’re focused only on that one person who has stolen your heart?”

  The veins in my neck strain as I swallow hard. “I guess.”

  “Imagine the zombie apocalypse. Everything in your life is stripped away. You don’t have to worry about bills or school, or work. There are no taxes to report or homework to be done. You don’t have to worry about the asshole who always parks in your spot or the gossip going around about you. You don’t have to worry about pissing off your parents for saying the wrong thing. All you have to worry about is your own survival. It’s your one solitary goal.”

  She stares back at me, but I don’t move.

  I don’t even think I blink at all.

  It makes so much damn sense.

  “I don’t know,” she says. “I think it’s on par with romance.”

  “I get it,” I say. Now I’m nodding with feverish excitement.

  “Yeah?” she asks. “Maybe I’d hole up in the museum if the zombies came.”

  “That’s sort of brilliant, Paloma,” I say. “All of it.”

  “You think?” she asks. Paloma slips her finger out of her book, abandoning her marked page, and shoves it into her backpack.

  “Absolutely.”

  “What do you like to read?” she asks.

  “Ah, nothing as exciting as this. Mostly nonfiction. I dig biographies.”

  “I can’t do nonfiction,” she says.

  “Oh, yeah?” I reply. “Why not?”

  “I don’t know. Real life? I get enough of that on my own.” I want to ask more. To dig deeper. But I don’t want to shut down what we’ve just started.

  “But some of them are so interesting and bizarre and just cool.” I tap my knee as I talk, excited that we’re finally on a roll.

  “Really? What’s the most interesting biography you’ve read?”

  “Okay, so I read this one last month about this guy, Edward Mordrake. He had this rare medical condition— he was born with an extra face on the back of his head.”

  Paloma clamps her hand to her mouth. “Oh my gosh, like a real-life Quirinus Quirrell?”

  “Exactly!” I nod, and I love that she throws in a Harry Potter reference. “The secondary face could cry and laugh; it just couldn’t eat or speak.”

  “That’s incredible,” she says. “And so weird. What happened to the guy?”

  I stop tapping my knee and shrug. “He offed himself when he was twenty-three.”

  “Go for the ‘happily ever afters,’ Wu.”

  We both laugh, and Paloma falls forward a little, letting her head rest on my shoulder for a brief moment.

  “Sorry.” She jerks away from me, even though I don’t really think she wants to. I didn’t want her to. “I know you’re working, and that was weird.”

  “It’s fine,” I say. I hope it sounds believable. I hope she can’t see the weird wall that’s up now since the night of the party. “I should probably get back, though.”

  But I don’t make any actual movement.

  “Okay.” She grabs her book from her bag and flips it back open. I think she was further along in the novel, but she stares down at the page like it’s where she left off. “Good to see you again.”

  “And thank you,” I say.

  “You already thanked me.”

  I stare at my hands when I say, “Well, thank you for coming by in general.”

  Paloma looks up from the book and shrugs. “It’s not a big deal.”

  “Can I ask you something?” I wait for her to nod before I continue, “What made you come by? I mean, you could’ve just brought the coat to me here.”

  “That’s true,” she says.

  “So why’d you go to the trouble?” How did you know I needed you to so badly?

  “I’ve always sort of been an observer. It’s one of the things I love so much about this place. I can just sit back and watch people. I’ve always loved doing it, ever since I was a kid. On holidays, when my cousins would be running around the house like the batshit pricks they are, I’d hide under the kitchen table and watch my grandmother, aunts, and my mom make tamales. Sometimes they didn’t even know I was there. I saw the world differently under the table. I heard the way their tone changed even if the words never did. And they’d laugh and tell stories while they cooked. But sometimes they’d laugh because they were trying to cover up something that wasn’t happy at all.”

  I twist my bracelet around, and she looks back up at me. I shift my eyes away.

  “I guess I just felt like something was off with you. I mean, you told me you wrote a song about me, Oliver, and then you just sort of dropped off the face of the Earth.”

  “I didn’t—”

  “I told you, I’m an observer. There were two options there. Only two. Either you regret saying what you did—”

  “I don’t,” I say. My words are full of conviction, begging her to believe me.

  “The only other option is that something happened. Something changed.”

  I let out a long sigh, and I know, for Paloma, it’s confirmation that she’s right.

  “You don’t have to tell me what it is,” she says. “But I do have another question.”

  “Anything.” I say the word around a gulp.

  “The postcard—”

  A smile stretches across my face and Paloma grins back like she’s won a prize.

  “Wh
at’s the word for it? The sound of your heart skipping a beat?”

  It’s falling. The smile is gone, and my mouth forms a tight line.

  “What’s the matter?” Paloma asks.

  She looks over her shoulder, and sees a girl. The girl who maybe looks vaguely familiar— the long hair that rests in perfect waves on her shoulders … but from Paloma’s expression, she can’t place where she knows her from.

  “I have to go,” I say through ventriloquist-like lips.

  20.

  I want a fucking zombie apocalypse.

  That’s what I’m thinking as I stride across the room away from Paloma—toward Tarryn.

  21.

  I pull her to the side, under the big marble archway where no one can see us. I contort my face into an angry, unrecognizable Oliver Wu.

  Except in reality, I stare at the ground. A tile is chipped. I’ll have to report it to maintenance.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask Tarryn. The words are thick, because I’m so damn exhausted.

  Tarryn puckers her lips and looks over her shoulder like she can’t decide if this was a good idea or not. I want to tell her it wasn’t. None of it.

  The strap of her purse slips off of her shoulder a little. I think it’s snakeskin, which seems fitting. God, I’m a dick.

  Tarryn readjusts the strap while I scan the exits looking for a way out.

  “So I just thought …. Well, you never really gave me a for-sure answer the other day, and I can’t ever find you at school—”

  “What is it, Tarryn?” I hate the way her name sounds when I say it. It takes extra effort to pronounce it, like even my mouth is in revolt.

  She tips her head to the side and sighs. Like I’m the problem. “Did you think on what we talked about the other night?” A few beats pass before she adds, “Do you want to go to prom together?”

  “Are you serious?” The words sputter out.

  I stare up at the ornate ceiling, at the gold filigree that twists around the light fixtures. I wonder how much each of those suckers’ weighs, and what the odds are that one might fall on me.

  Her touch is razor sharp—rusty nails shoved into my neck. An ice pick through my trachea.