“Max—wait—are you sure—” I push the red button and pocket my phone.
“Excuse me,” I say, coming down the path toward her. “What was that about Arlo? I was looking for him. Arlo Oxley.”
“I said he’s not home. An ambulance came for him this morning. Arrived about nine o’clock.”
I stop several feet from her. “What happened?”
“That’s all I know.” She shakes her head. “Saw it arrive while I was gardening.”
“Oh. Okay. Thanks for letting me know,” I say, even as my heart slips slowly into my toes.
chapter fourteen
JONAH
“Shit,” I manage, face-first with toilet water, feeling the alarm bells slowly subsiding into the dull aching feeling of . . . well . . . shit. I wasn’t ready for that attack. I was feeling pretty good today. Great, really. I’d found Winter. I was talking to Max.
And then we got cut off and I got Max’s message a few minutes later:
Max: Arlo’s been taken to the hospital. Going to try and find out where. Call you later.
And yeah: Au revoir, sane Jonah. Hospital isn’t a happy word for me. It reminds me of the one day in my life I really, really want to forget. It’s also enough for my asshole brain to get to work: What if Arlo is dying? What if it’s COVID? What if he gave it to Max? What if.
The questions always find their way to panic. To a closed-off throat and pounding heart and a very good view of toilet water because apparently I am so polite, I even throw up air into the toilet. I sit on the cold tiles for a bit, arms draped over my knees, slowly coming back to myself.
What was Dr. Syme saying the other day? I need to find the positives in my daily life and practice gratitude. It’s like, dude, the world is on fire. It was my second virtual session since the lockdown and I’m sure Dr. Syme is trying and all, but a disembodied head on my laptop telling me to “think positive” isn’t the same. It feels like I’m watching a motivational YouTube video sometimes, and I’ve seen all of those. My search results looks like I teach a yoga class right now: Finding your calm while rain falls on pine needles and yes we have flutes.
But Dr. Syme is usually on the money with these things, so I take a deep breath and try to think of something positive. I found Winter. And yeah Arlo is in the hospital, but that means he could also probably use a nice pick-me-up right about now. A nice message from Winter/Ernest Robbins saying: Arlo, I miss you, let’s fall back in love when all this is over. Okay that might be a bit much, but you never know. And, of course, Max.
I did mention Max, and he said, “Relationships can be good and bad things when it comes to managing our anxiety.” I told him I’d take the chance for Max, she’s the one keeping me sane. He didn’t approve of that.
I decide to go for a responsible jog. A little fresh air might do me good today. I even leave my phone behind . . . then come back to my room a second later and scoop it up. If Max calls with updates, I want to make sure I’m there for her.
We did order some masks last week—Olivia got some crazy expensive ones that might also work on the surface of the moon—but I just plan to avoid everyone. I put one on last night to try it and my anxiety was like, Oh this is perfect I’m totally going to pretend you’re suffocating! Carlos keeps telling me he’s deathly afraid of mascne and is exploring “breathable materials,” so I guess I’ll see what he lands on.
I’m out the door a minute later, feeling the dry April heat fill my lungs. I wave at Mrs. Clodden and carry on, observing the mostly empty roads along with the ten thousand new joggers and gardeners and is that Mr. Wang flying a kite? It’s oddly utopian, but I wonder if it’s self-improvement or self-distraction. There are a few masks sprinkled around for groups walking together . . . the only real clue that it isn’t a sunny Saturday afternoon during a power outage.
I just stay well clear of them. I feel caught in a strange contradiction. After isolating myself in the house for a couple weeks, part of me wants to see strangers. But I also feel wary of them. It’s like I’m running through a zombie outbreak and I’m not sure who is about to try to attack me. I really hope this new, extra-paranoid mental state isn’t permanent.
I find myself in front of my high school. I didn’t plan on coming here . . . but I think I wanted to. I don’t miss class particularly. I just miss routine. I miss going to school and playing soccer and when my biggest worry was my SATs and trying to avoid Ashley . . . and holy shit. It’s Ashley.
I had been circling the school, thinking vaguely about walking the track, and there she is: running laps, and jumping hurdles like a gazelle. I don’t even know how she got them out of the school, but they probably just gave her a key. Everyone loves Ashley. Even me . . . once.
I stand there like a deer in headlights as she comes running over. She’s wearing a sweaty white tank top, headband, and those volleyball-style spandex shorts like always. Is she going to hug me? I open my mouth to protest, but before I can say anything Ashley punches me in the arm.
“It’s so good to see you, Jonah!”
Okay, ow. I forgot how punch-y she is. Ashley has an older brother who plays football at Stanford and I think she learned all of her social skills from him. She is a straight-A student and student council treasurer who also occasionally traps you in a headlock until you beg for mercy.
Once I hung out with her and her brother and I barely escaped alive.
“You too,” I say, fighting the urge to rub my arm. “How’s it going?”
“Not bad,” she says, tilting her head toward the track. “Trying to keep my form in case the world goes back to normal soon. I was supposed to have a big meet this week, remember?”
I do. Why do I remember that? Oh wait . . . it’s because I really, really liked her. Not Max-level-like, but to be honest, they are both way out of my league. Ashley is not only pretty but also fully capable of kicking my ass in Jeopardy! She has this ability to fit in with every crowd—she bounces around tables in the cafeteria like a Ping-Pong ball. When I found out she liked me, I laughed and said, “Yeah. Right.” But she did. And we had a few good months. Even a half nelson can be weirdly romantic if deployed at the right time. And then. The ass. I take another few steps away from her.
“I should get going,” I say. “I have to go . . . do some pottery.”
Ashley seems to be reading something in my expression. “I owe you an apology.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I know I hurt you.”
I purse my lips and shake my head and basically hold up a sign saying “I am bad at lying.”
“Nope.”
She sighs. “I made a mistake. A big one. And then I tried to make myself feel better by actually starting something with Adam and . . . well . . . he wasn’t you. I dumped him three weeks ago. Pretty much right at the start of the lockdown when we started talking on the phone more. I realized I couldn’t take those conversations.” She laugh-winces.
“Cool,” I murmur, as nonchalantly as possible.
Okay, a small part of me is like Take that, Pilates Adam, but it’s definitely the petty, illogical side. The news changes absolutely nothing . . . and more importantly, it also doesn’t matter anymore. Like. At all.
I’m surprised to realize that. I had presumed I was over Ashley, but you never quite know until your first official run-in. Now that I’m here, I just wish I could run into Max instead.
Ashley eyes me for a moment. “We were friends first, Jonah. I’d like to go back to that, at least. I know it’s stupid, but some of us are still getting together and you could come by one—”
“Well, A, that’s literally the one thing they’re telling us not to do. And B . . . I’m good anyway. Really. Thanks, though. Enjoy the workout.”
I take off for the street before she can say anything else or charley-horse me goodbye or something. I actually feel pretty good about how I handled things. That was
a girl I made a photo collage for. But there was no drama, no bringing up that night, and no temptation whatsoever to try and restart things.
That said, I do miss my friends. Being around them was the one time my anxiety took a break. Well . . . it used to be. Now I have Max.
I wish I could call her with some good news. Something to balance the stress of Arlo being taken to the hospital. There is one thing . . . I was trying to think of the right words, but screw it, it’s going to be weird no matter what. I copy Winter’s email into a new draft and start writing as I walk.
Dear Ernest Robbins,
First off: I am a huge fan. My mom and I used to watch Greed and Glory like once a week. I have your poster on my wall. The movie meant—means—a lot to me.
But this is only half fan mail. I’m also a friend of Arlo Oxley. He’d really love to talk to you again, and I was wondering if you might be interested in organizing a call. He’s hoping you will. But if you don’t, I hope you’ll forgive this intrusion.
Please let me know about Arlo.
—Your biggest fan, Jonah
PS. Can I call you Winter in future correspondence? I totally understand if you’d prefer I didn’t. I don’t want to antagonize the fastest draw in the west, right? Okay I’ll stop now.
* * *
• • •
Max is lying on her bed, hair splashed out over the pillow. “So you sent an email?”
“Two, to be precise,” I confirm. She is pointing the phone down at herself, and I am pretty much in the exact same pose in my own bed . . . and it’s not impossible to imagine we’re in the same place. “The first one got a little . . . off track at the end. Still nothing on Arlo?”
She sighs. “Not yet. Hospitals won’t give you information if you’re not family.”
“What about an emergency contact? He must have had someone? Some friends?”
“He never mentioned anyone. I know he was an only child. And his parents would have been long gone. Plus, Arlo’s got to be in his eighties by now, right?”
“Eighty-four and a half,” I recite. “It’s on his IMDB page.”
“So . . . he might not have a lot of friends . . . left,” she continues. “But, okay, I mean, it’s probably not even COVID. What are the odds of that even happening?”
I say nothing because I’m pretty sure probably pretty good is not what she wants to hear.
“He could have tripped on the last step and broken an ankle.” She’s thinking out loud. She’s spinning. I get it. “That would be rough, but fixable. Or . . . food poisoning. Food poisoning is a serious thing, right?”
“Right,” I say. Because boyfriends are supposed to be supportive and I want to be a good boyfriend. “How about this? I’ll call tomorrow. I’m getting good at this whole tracking people down thing.”
“Must be a family talent,” Max says dryly.
“I’ll pretend I’m his grandson. Marlo.”
“Marlo?”
“It’s too weird to question. They would just be like, That rhymes with Arlo! Let me patch you right through.”
Max rolls onto her side and brings me with her, curling up under the blanket. The phone is less than a foot away from her face. As always, a loose strand of hair trails down her cheek, past those bright green eyes. “I’ve been thinking about Chester,” she says. “I stopped by twice today to look in the front window, but I didn’t see anything. I knocked and Chester didn’t come running to the door. That means . . . it means he must not be there. Right? Maybe Arlo has a mystery friend we don’t know about who’s watching him . . . But what if he doesn’t? The next-door neighbor didn’t have any news. What if we’re the only two people who know? I just keep thinking about Chester in there without food or water.”
I feel a pang of worry. But I don’t want to add to her concerns. “I’m sure he’s fine. Arlo probably broke his ankle or something and called a friend to watch Chester. He’ll be home any day now and you’ll get an order for foie gras and baby carrots and you can ask him yourself.”
“I hope so. Thanks for caring about this. I know it’s not the most romantic thing.”
“We’re literally trying to reunite two long-lost lovers. It’s super romantic.”
“You know what I mean.”
I roll over too . . . left, like I am looking at her. It probably looks insane. But it’s a pandemic and this is the best we can do.
“I want to find him too,” I say. “Really. And besides, we’ll make up for lost romantic time when the world stops being upside down. We’ll go to the movies. No. We will get ice cream and then go to the movies. Now, I don’t have a car per se, so you’ll have to drive and have me home before midnight, I do have a curfew . . .”
Max laughs. “You’re such a catch.”
“I will buy the popcorn. It’s like forty-five dollars, so that should be fair.”
She props herself up on her elbows, raising an eyebrow. “So, to be clear, at the end of this pandemic where we can’t be close to each other, Jonah Stephens’s very first priority is to take me out to a movie theater?”
“Max, I am nothing if not a gentleman. I don’t kiss until the tenth date.”
“That’s impressive.”
“Or ten seconds in if you want. It’s totally one hundred percent up to you.”
I feel my face reddening again with that insane thought of actually kissing Max . . . I mean, yes, I’ve thought about it. One night I was even considering if a mask kiss would still be romantic and probably not but . . . Yeah. Max is smiling at me with her eyebrows up, all You’re thinking about it right now.
“You really love that volcano filter, don’t you?” she asks.
“It brings out my fuchsia.”
Max laughs again. Man, I love that laugh. “A movie date sounds very on-brand for you.”
“We’re going to be able to share a large popcorn and not sanitize every time and it’s going to be wild. Just promise me we’ll never be one of those couples that calls each other babe. It’s my only relationship rule.”
“If you ever call me babe, I will drive over and smack you.”
I look up, grinning. “You’ll drive over, huh . . .”
“Don’t.”
“So, want to watch a movie, ba—”
“Hanging up now.”
I laugh and prop the phone against the headboard, rolling onto my forearms. We’re clearly developing some sort of FaceTime dance where you just roll around until you fall off the bed or something. “Fine. So we have a plan. We are going to find Winter, and Arlo, and give them their well-deserved happy ending. And then the whole world will somehow suddenly make sense again and we are going to hold hands so much. Take that, 2020.”
“You know . . . most boys try for a base hit. Jonah Stephens? A bunt. Maybe a walk.”
“I like to play the numbers. I’m like Brad Pitt in Moneyball. Especially my looks.”
She pulls her blanket up past her chin. “So that’s where I knew you from! Now, I need sleep. I have like ten thousand deliveries in the morning. I just wish one of them was for Arlo.”
“He’ll be okay.” I can’t believe I am saying that. I sound like my dad. “Good night, Max.”
“Good night, Jonah.”
She ends the call and I roll onto my back and feel . . . happy. Really, scary, happy. More than I ever was with Ashley. And that makes me nervous, because I used to be happy like this.
I tell myself this is different. Nothing is going to happen. But this is anxiety. It’s always the what ifs. It’s the way it turns good things into land mines. It says, So you found the good thing to make all the bad times worth it.
Okay, great. But what happens if you lose her?
chapter fifteen
MAX
I wake up to the sound of footsteps and cabinet doors banging. The beep-beep-beep-hum of the mic
rowave. It’s one a.m. and I untangle my feet from the blankets and take my robe off the hook on the back of my door. Cinching its terry cloth sash around my waist, I pad gingerly out on bare feet. “Mom?” My voice is froggy with sleep. “Mom, is that you?”
When was the last time we had a real conversation? Two days ago? Last week? Recently, it’s like we’ve returned to old times, two ships passing in the night.
It’s only temporary, I remind myself.
I rub my eyes and notice her sitting at the kitchen table over a cup of coffee.
“Sorry, did I wake you?” Her voice drags, as though she’s been zoned out and has just now come to.
“What are you doing up?”
“I took a job cleaning a group of doctors’ offices—the lease manager at the store helped me get it—some of them are night shifts. I told you that . . . didn’t I?”
I shake my head. When you’ve been living with someone long enough, you know all their looks just by paying attention to their eyes. My mother has a whole host of signature looks: don’t you sass me, you best be grateful, fine you’re pretty funny, just to name a few. Now those same eyes take me in too intently.
“What’s wrong?” I say. Whatever it is, it’s not good news. For a wild, mixed-up second, I think: It’s Arlo. She knows what’s happened to Arlo. Even though I’ve never even mentioned him because for one, I’ve never had a chance to; she’s gone all the time. And for two, I might have been feeling the teensiest twinge of guilt that somehow Arlo’s become my go-to for talking things out, big parental things like boys and college—guilty because none of that’s my mom’s fault; she’s just working as hard as she can to get ahead.
Or, at least, that’s the two-minute summary of how I know I’m supposed to feel.
Because if I’m being completely honest, sometimes in the middle of the night, I do think to myself, How can all my mother does really be “for me” when it involves her so often being nowhere near me? But that’s just lack of sleep talking, even I know that.
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