“You can’t misplace a whole seventeen-year-old boy,” I say.
Neither of us wants to acknowledge the scary possibilities that have begun to seem more like probabilities. Jonah’s missing.
A text message dings on my phone. It’s late for that. I look at the name. Dannie.
“You’ve paused me,” says Olivia.
“Sit tight,” I say, reading the message. “I think I’ve got something.”
“Is it him?” asks Olivia. “Is that Jonah? I’m going to kill him.”
“No. My friend Dannie sent me a link to a TikTok video.” I furrow my brow. “She says, Isn’t that Jonah?”
“Isn’t what Jonah? Who?”
I click the link and my phone starts to play a video. “That’s not Jonah,” I mutter. “That’s Ashley.” Definitely Ashley, who I know from brief Instagram stalking, so sue me. But not just any Ashley. Ashley in a bikini. Ashley on a boat. Ashley doing one of those viral TikTok videos I have definitely not learned except that one time in my room that absolutely nobody needs to know about, like, ever.
“Text it to me.” Olivia is so commanding. I don’t bother arguing the point. I just forward it straight on. The video keeps replaying until . . . Olivia says it first—“Oh my goddess, that’s Jonah.”
It is. Behind Ashley, sitting on an upholstered leather bench beside (if my instincts are correct) Carlos F. Santi, drinking a beer. Unless they’ve started serving lemonade in aluminum cans.
“I know where we have to go,” says Olivia.
Fountain Valley Yacht Club is the closest thing I’ve ever seen to the White House in real life. Olivia gives me the code to the front gate because did I really believe Jonah Stephens didn’t belong to some sort of club that involved boating? (No, I did not). I am all, “Are you sure, you have really not seen my vehicular transportation; it is absolutely going to look like I’m casing the joint,” but Olivia doesn’t care about my one-of-these-things-is-not-like-the-other defense and bosses me right through the gate and onto the off-season set of a Ralph Lauren catalog.
“I don’t see his bike,” I say.
“Park near the water.”
I obey. The mood, however, has shifted. The tension travels the distance between us. I cut the engine because I can’t afford the gas to keep my car idling plus the data overages, too, and I manually roll down the window. I don’t feel like having a witness, so I turn Olivia to face out the windshield.
“Nice view,” she murmurs. “You know, my dad used to take us here.”
There’s a vaguely sulfuric smell of seaweed, traces of gasoline, and freshly cut grass. The dock creaks. It’s way too quiet.
“Maybe it’s an old video,” I say.
Olivia doesn’t answer.
We wait, together at least in trying not to think about our respective mothers. It’s enough in common for now.
Sound travels faster across water. Or something like that. Science isn’t my best subject. But there’s something about sound and water, because I hear peals of laughter before I see the headlights on the boat. Peals. There’s a word I’ve never used before, but that’s exactly what it is.
“Do you hear that?” I whisper.
After another second—“I do.”
Waves begin to slosh between the planks on the dock, and then a white-hulled boat—I don’t know what kind; I don’t own clothes with whales on them—begins coasting up to it at an angle. Carlos F. Santi jumps out with a rope in hand and now the odds of the video being old feel astronomical. I keep my breathing even and try to channel Nate the Great and his dog Sludge the way Olivia had suggested. They probably wouldn’t jump to conclusions. So I don’t either.
I wait. I’ve been waiting, but I can do it some more.
Actually, you know what?
Screw that.
I twist my key hard in the ignition and my car is a beast roaring to life. The headlights sweep across. Jonah looks up the moment he’s caught in the spotlight, which is just as he reaches his arms out to help Ashley off the boat. Her arm is tossed easily around his neck and, as she steps down, she swings around and kisses the grand prize, that somewhat bougie, anxiety-riddled teenage boy I could have sworn I’d been promised.
“Found him.”
chapter twenty-four
JONAH
I always hear about the deer in headlights thing and I know the headlights are probably metaphorical but these ones are actually scalding my eyes. I can’t move. I pull away from Ashley and just stand there. It’s hard to see who it is in the blinding light.
But I know. I know the car and the wheezing, ticking motor that just sputtered back to life. The moment feels endless. I hear Ashley saying, “Oh shit, the cleaning staff is here,” and Carlos saying, “Fiddlesticks,” and Lane up on the flybridge shouting, “Is that my dad? Oh man, I am so dead!” but they all feel really far away, like I just drifted out into the vacuum of space.
I try to justify things to myself, like a defense attorney going over some last notes before the trial. I didn’t kiss Ashley back. I didn’t ask her to kiss me. I definitely shouldn’t have gotten close enough to help her off the boat, but I was just being polite, and I pulled away the second our lips touched.
But I know what it looks like. It looks like a yacht club prep is partying on a boat with his ex-girlfriend during a pandemic lockdown and, well, that’s because he is.
I start for the car, and the questions flood my wine-soaked brain. Where was she? How is she here now? How could she possibly know where I am and oh my god Sara promised she was not going to put anything on TikTok.
The engine roars again, the car turns, and Max speeds away in a screech of tires and a last plume of smoke and sparks. I suddenly feel a lot more sober. And a lot shittier. I grab my phone to text her and . . . it’s dead. I spent so much time playing games and numbly staring at the screen on the hill, I must have drained the battery. It’s probably been dead for hours.
Carlos drapes his arm around my shoulders, pulling me in. “I presume that was—”
I step away. “Yeah,” I breathe.
I’d called him when I got Ashley’s text for “a last-second boat party just in case you change your mind (I hope you do)!!” followed by like a thousand emojis because it wasn’t Max, you idiot. Carlos, of course, had already been going to the party, and he had sped over to pick me up, and I got in his car like I hadn’t spent a half hour lecturing him about social distancing on my front lawn a couple weeks ago. I feel like I’m emerging from a haze. What am I doing here? Why are there so many people?
“Lane, tell your dad that the cleaners are speeding around in here,” someone complains.
“My dad doesn’t know we’re here,” Lane snaps. “So why am I seeing a TikTok on my dad’s freaking boat, Sara. Take it down!”
“It already has two hundred likes!” Sara protests. “I can’t.”
Carlos pats my shoulder. “Well, she did abandon you tonight. Though I did say—”
“That anything could have happened and I shouldn’t jump to conclusions,” I mutter.
“Yeah. Or she was with some other dude and just realized the time.”
“Carlos!”
“Just being the devil’s aristocrat.”
I rub my forehead in exasperation. I should probably go home and face the Reaper, but I know I won’t be able to sleep. I know I need to explain myself. I know that in the world of the block button I might not get another chance to see her. And I really shouldn’t be doing anything that is happening right now, but I think that metaphorical ship has sailed too, so I turn to Carlos. “Can I get another ride?”
“We’re not going home, are we?” he asks, grinning.
“No.”
Carlos hurries to his car. “I am loving all this drama. Max, she just fell onto my lips!”
“Shut up!”
* * *
• • •
“This is it,” Carlos says, nodding at the low-slung apartment building.
It’s three stories and curved around the driveway like one of the cheap highway motels we see on the way to San Antonio to visit Dad’s family. Kate would rather die than let us stay in one, of course, and she would probably say the same for this place. Most of the exterior lights are burnt out, the concrete entryway looks ideal for murder, and two dudes are smoking out front.
On the plus side, I think the fact that I am afraid they are going to murder me confirms I am fully sober again. I need to explain myself, and I already downed a water bottle I found in the back of Carlos’s car and a decent amount of that charcuterie board. So I’m definitely a little more sober and definitely sick with guilt, and both explain why I almost threw up five minutes ago.
“Wish me luck,” I say. “Unit 237, right?”
“Yes, sir. Do you have a plan?”
I pause. “Lay out everything in a desperate rush and hope she understands?”
“Perfect. Can I listen in?”
“No! Are you okay to wait? I can get the bike out of the trunk and ride home.”
Carlos looks at me like I am a sad, lost little child. “I’ll wait for you in the car, dear.”
“Stop having so much fun with my misery.”
“I’m sorry,” he says. “But if you need a witness, call me up.”
I sigh deeply and step out of the car, then pause. “Wait . . . how did you get in last time? I never asked.”
“Lock’s broken,” Carlos calls. “Just press any button and it’ll buzz you in.”
“That’s not safe,” I murmur, heading for the partially illuminated lobby.
It does work, though, and soon I am up on the second floor hurrying down some paper-thin, bright yellow carpet checking door numbers and 237 appears and it doesn’t have a peephole, so maybe she’ll even open the door.
I stand there for a moment, trying to get my thoughts together. I need a clear, coherent explanation. But my brain isn’t working right and I feel so sick about everything that I just knock and fidget and try to slightly compose myself.
The door opens to the length of a chain and half of her face, which is more than enough to recognize that she is not happy to see me. In fact, it’s even less than half, because she’s wearing a mask. She must think I’m a risk now. I’m so stupid. I fumble into my pocket and pull out my own, looping it around my probably bright red ears.
“Are you serious, Jonah?” she snaps. “Get out of here!”
“Max, I can explain—”
“Step back,” she says coldly. “I don’t want to risk giving you anything.”
I take a few steps back, holding my hands up. This is starting badly. “Max—”
“I spoke with Olivia. I’m sorry about your mom. I am. And—no, you know what? Not going to do this. Just . . . bye.”
“Max, she kissed me. I pulled away immediately. There is nothing going on with her.”
Her eyes flash. “We’re dating and we’ve only touched arms. By accident. We’ve been careful. I haven’t kissed my own boyfriend. And then I show up and you’re just making out with your ex—”
“We weren’t making out—”
“I don’t care! What was the point of all this? What was the point of us being careful? What was the point of telling me you liked me in the first place?”
Her voice cracks a little as she says it, like she is balancing between anger and tears. I feel my heart shredding.
“Max, I just had a lot going on and needed a break and—”
“And thought you’d go hang out with a hundred people and make out with Ashley.”
“We weren’t making out,” I repeat, starting to sweat. “And the party was really stupid. I know. It was meant to be a little distraction. The whole lockdown thing is hard on the brain—”
She laughs derisively. “Is it? Why? Because you don’t get to go on your free trip to Paris? Or are you bored sitting in your mansion drawing on your window? Oh no. I have to go lounge by the pool again today. This is hard.”
I open my mouth, close it again. I’m so shocked by the vitriol that I can’t even form a response for a moment and I finally just change tacks. “You left me sitting on a hill all night, Max. And I don’t blame you at all. But . . . a text would have been nice.”
“I am so sorry,” Max says. “How dare my mom get rushed to the hospital! I will take it up with her if they ever let me see her.”
I step toward her, feeling all my arguments fall away. “What? Is she okay?”
Max closes the door even more. There is just a sliver of her left.
“No, she isn’t. Go home. And stay away from Olivia, you selfish asshole.”
She closes the door, and I hear a dead bolt slide into place. And then it’s just me on some old banana-cream carpet with the lingering smell of cigarettes in the air and a moment to reflect.
Ashley kissed me tonight. Lane hugged me. I clinked drinks with ten different people and probably sloshed them all together. I’ve been with Carlos all night and . . .
And Olivia is at home.
I shuffle back to the car, and Carlos just pats my arm and turns the ignition.
“Can you stop at the gas station?” I murmur.
“Why?”
“I need to get some supplies. Like . . . two weeks’ worth.”
* * *
• • •
“I’m coming in,” Kate says, knocking again.
“No,” I say loudly. “The door is locked.”
“What happened last night? Why is Olivia acting so strangely? Why are you locking yourself in your room?”
I am lying on my bed, still fully clothed, the bedding untouched beneath me. Winter stares judgmentally down at me from my wall. Fine, I deserve that.
I didn’t even close my eyes all night. I just lay there, looking at my enormous gas station haul that is supposed to keep me alive for the next two weeks. It’s a lot of chips and peanuts. I did get some sandwiches, but I don’t have a fridge, so I kind of need to eat those today. One case of water. Two cases of soda. Why did I buy so much soda?
“I . . . had someone cough on my face,” I say. “A stranger. While I was jogging.”
It’s a vain lie, since Olivia clearly knows the truth, but if I tell Kate outright that I went to a boat party she might break down the door, and I need that thing. I already put a towel under it to create a better seal, even though Alexa didn’t seem to think that was necessary. I came into the house last night with my mask on and yellow dish gloves I bought at the gas station and just hurried straight to my room. Bubble commenced.
“Why would you jog so close to somebody?”
“Poor spatial awareness.”
She grunts. “I can believe that. Did it sound like a sick cough? Was he smoking?”
“It doesn’t matter!”
“I’m sure you’re fine.”
“I’m not going anywhere near Olivia. I have a bathroom and all the food I need.”
I check my phone. It’s the same ten-minute routine I’ve been practicing since I sent Max a message last night. Well, three messages.
Jonah: Max I am so sorry about tonight and your mom please talk to me
Jonah: I just needed to get out. It was dumb. I wasn’t thinking
Jonah: I won’t bother you anymore. Just . . . I’m sorry. I hope you’re okay
She didn’t reply. Won’t, I suspect. And a life without Max messages seems really, really shitty. And I will have two weeks of self-imposed house arrest to drive that point home.
“So you’re going to sit in there for what . . . two weeks?” Kate asks, snorting.
“Yes!”
She sighs deeply. “Fine. Wait a couple of days. Then I’ll take you to my friend who’s
an oral surgeon. She has tests.”
“Wait.” I look up at the door, frowning. “You have friends?”
“Her nurse will test you there if you want. You’ll need to wait a couple of days before she’ll test you, I think, and then a couple days after that for the results. But it will still be faster.”
“I thought there weren’t enough tests and you had to be sick to take one and all that?”
“Yes . . . or you know someone. But I doubt your therapist wants you locked up in a room for two weeks.”
I really can’t keep up with this woman. “Thanks, Kate.”
“Thank me when you have a cotton swab poking your brain.”
I actually do feel a little better. Maybe my fervent promises through the night that if I just didn’t give anything to Olivia I would be really good and never go to any stupid boat parties ever again have paid off. I slide off the bed and help myself to a breakfast of Doritos and Pepsi, almost throw up, and then frantically brush my teeth, eyeing myself in the mirror.
My clothes are filthy. My hair is everywhere. I am spitting out orange toothpaste. I look completely insane.
But I guess I made it through another anniversary.
chapter twenty-five
MAX
Dannie says I’m keeping vigil. I say I have nowhere to go, so I might as well be here . . . in my car . . . waiting . . .
The end of that sentence is “just in case.” And I know I’m not fooling even myself by lopping off the end like that.
Case has become such a loaded word lately. The number of them is growing so fast the reporters can’t keep up, and after my mother’s positive results yesterday, she’s another one of them. I wonder who tells the CDC, I wonder how they keep tabs at all, I wonder if somebody expects me to do something that I don’t know I’m supposed to do. I’ve heard all sorts of crazy things. Like one minute it’s all about how almost everybody who gets the virus is a-okay, and then the next I’m hearing how some twenty-five-year-old triathlete in the best shape of his life is dead. I heard a rumor that in New York they’re going to start loading bodies onto moving trucks. I heard kids don’t get it. But then again, I heard that maybe they do.
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