Lost on the Way

by Isabel Jolie

Dave gestures to the phone held tight in my grip. “Work?”

  “Yeah. Remember the financial information I need?”

  The muscles along his jaw relax, and he sits back in his chair. He has a laidback, easygoing mannerism to him that’s appealing.

  We’re sitting right next to the double doors, and every time the doors open, a blast of chilly fall air hits me from the back. This time, as the cold air surrounds me, Yara’s booming greeting echoes through the wine bar. “Hello!”

  I jump off the high chair to greet my roommate with a warm hug. I completely spaced that I had invited her to join us. As I’m sliding my glass over to claim the seat by the window and allow Yara to take my seat, Dave’s wide-eyed expression brings me to my senses.

  “Dave, you met Yara before, right? At the team happy hour last week? She’s my roommate. She comes to a lot of our team social events, even though she has yet to actually train.”

  Yara smiles and explains, “Well, I’m game for alcohol. Not so much the running or the biking or any of that physical hoopla.” She takes a seat, and he shows her the menu, pointing out what we’re drinking and telling her about some of the other selections he’s had. I pick up my phone to resume my conversation with Jason.

  Maggie: Yes, that’s the location. Are you coming?

  Jason: Almost there.

  I offer a polite smile to Dave and Yara as I shimmy off the high stool. Yara gives me a questioning glance, and I gesture to the door, holding up an index finger while mouthing, “Be right back.”

  Out on the sidewalk, I look up and down Broadway. Pedestrians hustle by while streetlights and lights from the stores and restaurants lining the avenue give the street a late afternoon glow. A man returns to his locked bike, and I watch as he unlocks the massive chain and slips it over his shoulder bike messenger style. A couple enters the Chase Manhattan bank on the corner.

  The moment I see Jason’s coppery hair bobbing toward me, I wave my hand in the air to get his attention. He smiles when he sees me, and as soon as he’s near enough, I’m throwing my arms around him. When he holds me, it’s as if his nearness sends a message to my psyche, and my muscles relax, and any heaviness weighing me down slips away. He holds me a tad longer than normal, and his nose dips into my hair. It’s this sweet thing Jason does, as if he’s captivated by the scent of my hair. When I change shampoos, he’ll always comment. It’s a quirk of his that I happen to love.

  I also love his woodsy scent. He doesn’t wear cologne, and I know the scent is from the Tom’s of Maine deodorant he uses and maybe also his bath soap. I purchase handmade, all-natural, chemical-free soap for him. I usually select soaps with almost no scent, but sometimes I’ll pick out something with a hint of rosemary or cedar. Instinctively, I bury my nose at the base of his neck to breathe him in.

  Jason pushes the heavy iron door open for me to pass, then comes up behind me, his arm possessively resting on my lower back as we approach the table. Yara rolls her eyes and sips her wine, barely acknowledging Jason with a slight nod. Nice, Yara.

  Jason extends his hand and introduces himself to Dave. I squeeze past Yara to get back into my seat by the window. Jason stares at the empty seat across from me. It’s a tight fit between Dave and the wall. Yara exhales loudly, dramatically angles her head up to the ceiling, and hops off her chair.

  “Sit here,” she tells him.

  Jason wraps his arm behind the back of my chair as he sits. He isn’t exactly outgoing, and I’m not sure when we developed this routine, but him remaining close by my side in social situations is our norm.

  Dave isn’t smiling. His brow wrinkles, and a deep crevice forms between his eyebrows. All signs of amiable Dave evaporate.

  “It’s getting late. Why don’t I ask for the check?” Dave asks the table but doesn’t wait for an answer. He raises his hand, waving it to get the waitress’s attention.

  Yara taps her fingers on the table and blatantly glares at me. It’s awkward, and I kick her under the table in frustration. I’m not exactly sure what her problem is, but she’s making the whole situation weird.

  Jason, oblivious to any tension, motions Dave off calling the waitress over, telling him, “Don’t worry about it. I’ll pay for yours when we leave later. Good to meet you, Dave.” He nods Dave’s way, his version of a goodbye, and with his right arm tucked around the back of my chair, doesn’t make any kind of move to extend his hand for a cordial goodbye.

  “Are you sure you have to go? Dave and Yara just got here.” He’d probably like them both if he got to know them.

  “Yeah, this date’s not going quite how I thought it would.” He throws back the remainder of his wine then reminds me, “Don’t drink too much. See you at seven a.m. Fifteen miles.”

  As soon as he’s out the door, Yara slaps my hand.

  “You were on a date?” she whisper-shrieks. “You invited us on your date?”

  “It wasn’t a date. It was supposed to be a group, and only he and I showed up.”

  “Maggie. He called it a date.”

  “No, he didn’t.”

  “Yes. He said, ‘This date isn’t going how I thought it would.’ What the hell, Mags? You don’t invite friends to join you on a date.” She’s leaning over the table as she says this, her glittery gold eyeshadow sparkling under the overhead pendant light.

  Jason smirks, the corners of his lips barely turned up.

  “What?” I demand, glaring at him.

  He sits straighter in his chair and places both hands in the air in a defensive gesture. “I’m just sitting here.”

  “It wasn’t a date,” I mutter under my breath as I toy with the base of my wine glass.

  Yara doesn’t drop it. Instead, she points at Jason. “You are the reason she’s going to end up foregoing her dream of having children. You can’t show up on her dates.”

  “You showed up.”

  They glare at each other until Yara jumps off her chair. “I’m heading to the restroom. Order me a glass of whatever you’re having. Since money bucks over here is paying. That’s what you said, right, professor?”

  “You walked into that one,” I tell him. He’d pay for her drinks anyway—he’s gracious like that—but it’s still amusing to watch Yara in action.

  A serious expression crosses his face. When Jason is serious, his lips form a straight line, and his brow smooths as if every facial muscle has been called to attention. “When we’re done here, I need you to come back to my apartment. I’ve been digging into the Excel sheets you shared. This year is vastly different from the summaries from years past. It might be the limited view I have based on the spreadsheets you have access to, but I have a list of additional information I need, and I need to make sure you understand it.”

  He’s all business and concern. Not about my maybe-date with Dave or Yara’s accusation that I’ll never have children because of him. But because of the financial status of the not-for-profit I work for. He’s a good friend. He cares. And he’ll never be anything more than a friend.

  Chapter 11

  Jason

  The Funeral

  Every so often, I relive Adam’s funeral. I see the day and the people. The service. The priest, or pastor, I don’t know what denomination Adam’s family followed, but this man in a long black robe stood at the front and shouted at the packed church. “If you want to see Adam again, you will believe in God Almighty. If you want to join Adam at the table of Christ, you will believe.” The last word, believe, dragged out, as in ‘beleeeeeeve.’ Maggie and I shifted on the wooden pew. Tears streaked her face, but at that juncture, both of us strapped down the smiles that wanted to rise. That robed guy was just too over the top, televangelist style.

  Adam’s parents sat in the family section, to the side of the robed man. His mother stared straight ahead, at times visibly sobbing. His father nodded in agreement at almost everything the pastor said. He even nodded when the pastor reminded all of us that “God works in mysterious ways. We cannot question the ways of the Lor
d.”

  Of course, science had uncovered lots about cancer. In time, with more research, we’d know a lot more. What caused it, how to cure it.

  I wanted to argue with the robed man and try to make him see that we very much did need to question cancer and find solutions. Make him see that science might not have all the answers yet, but that we could make progress if we asked questions and trusted in science. Our knowledge wasn’t far enough along to save Adam, but one day, we’d know enough to save a different nineteen-year-old.

  Maggie stood graveside after everyone else left. With her head bowed, she stood alone, sobbing. Her back was to me, but every now and then, the wind carried the sounds of her sobs, and her shoulders shook.

  Never have I ever felt more helpless. There was nothing I could do. She was heartbroken. And it wasn’t just Maggie. It was everyone. That church was packed. It was like every single person Adam went to school with, or played team sports with, or went to camp with, or bumped into line at Starbucks had come to his funeral. So many people, completely crushed over the tragic death.

  And I kept thinking, and I know you are going to tell me I shouldn’t…that it isn’t the case. But I kept thinking, it should have been me. We had the same cancer. I didn’t do anything special, I don’t think. It’s not like he was out smoking cigarettes and I had turned vegan.

  Here’s the thing that’s so wrong about what happened. He had so many people who loved him. Devastated parents. Aunts and uncles. Childhood friends who remembered him. Loved him. And he had Maggie.

  If it had been me, it would have been better. And I’m not just saying that. My parents had died years before. That man in a black robe could have shouted out that I’d gone to join them in the sky. I went away to boarding school and barely remember my elementary school friends. No girlfriend. One hundred and twenty-three people attended Adam’s funeral. I counted. Nine people would have come to mine, tops. I mean, Maggie and Adam would’ve come to my funeral, sure, but they would’ve had each other after it. That’s really what should have happened.

  I watched Maggie crying in front of the reddish sandy mound of dirt beside the rectangular hole. The sides of the black fabric they laid around the ground flapped in the wind. People trudged to their cars, heads down. Adam’s dad wrapped his arm around his mom, and she tucked into his side as if she couldn’t stand on her own.

  All the men wore suits. Adam’s dad had a black suit with pinstripes. God, twelve years gone, and I still remember so many minute details. The blue sky, wispy clouds. Green, freshly mown, pungent grass.

  What I remember most of all, though, from that day is how broken Maggie was. And how wrong it all was. It should have been me.

  Maggie. Completely broken. Crushed. Devastated. I stood there, long after everyone else drove away. Without a fucking clue as to what I should say or do. Her slender shoulders shook as she cried.

  I couldn’t fix it. Change anything. Bring him back. When she was ready, I drove her back to the hotel. That was all I could do.

  Chapter 12

  Maggie

  I clasp my Be Happy flowered file folder while tapping lightly on the doorframe of my boss’s office. Jane leads the marketing team. I’ve worked with her for almost four years now. Her love and passion are fundraising events and advertising, and since my primary responsibility is completing grant forms, she more or less lets me run my own show. While I try to stay out of her hair, every now and then, I need her help. She lifts her head at the noise of my tap. Her perfectly coiffed black bob barely moves. She peers over her spectacles and welcomes me in as she folds the lid to her laptop closed.

  “Hi there. How’s the Prospect grant application coming?” It’s the first time we’ve applied for this specific research grant, and it’s due in less than a month.

  “Good,” I answer as I sit down in the mid-century, modern, wooden chair across from her desk. “They want some of the data on the first three quarters of this year. Our published data is only from last year. The quarterly financial reports from this year are missing some of the information I need. Here’s a list of some of what I can’t locate.”

  I lean across the desk to give her the typed-up sheet of questions that Jason provided. She slides her spectacles back up her nose and reads through it then sets it down on her desk.

  “I’ll ask Stephen. I assume you need it as soon as possible?” She pauses from writing a note on the paper to glance at me.

  “Yes. I can meet with him if you prefer.”

  Stephen functions as our CFO, but he’s also on the board. He doesn’t actually work in our offices, as he’s more of a volunteer on an executive level. He’s best friends with Senator McLoughlin, who started The McLoughlin Charity shortly after winning his first congressional seat. I don’t expect Jane to put me in direct contact with Stephen, given his bigwig status, but like a good employee, I offer.

  She waves her hand at me, dismissing the idea. “I’ll get the info for you. Is there anything else?”

  I tell her no and pull the door closed on my way out.

  When I return to my office, I pick up my phone and call Jason. He answers within two rings.

  “I’m getting those answers for you.”

  “Good. For each of my questions?”

  “Yeeessss. Are you joining us for dinner tonight?”

  There’s a pause before he responds, “Who all is coming?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t ask.” My thumb pounds on the back of my pen to release my frustration. This is his crew, not mine. Sam Duke is his childhood friend. He’s close with all the Dukes. I’ve spent many holiday vacations with the Duke family, and think the world of them, but Sam’s his surrogate brother, and these are his people.

  “Do you think it’s a large group?”

  “Ah, well, I invited Yara. But Janet texted me to ask how many people we were bringing, meaning you and me. It sounded like she was making reservations for a group.”

  “Janet’s coordinating tonight? Why didn’t she reach out to me?” He sounds whiny, like an unhappy boy. He cracks me up.

  “I don’t know. She probably figured she knows us well enough to know I’d be the one inviting others, and you would never invite anyone.”

  “I don’t like groups. And I’ve had a shit day at work.”

  “What happened?”

  “Dean Schlosberger wants to schedule a meeting. I don’t think I did well in the student and peer reviews.”

  “I’m sure you did fine. You’re a great teacher. Everyone likes you.”

  Jason exhales loudly, and it sounds like a wind tunnel through the phone. “I’ll stop by your office to meet you beforehand. We can head over together. Good?”

  Before heading out for the evening, I stop in the restroom to freshen up. I’m wearing a dark blue dress with a thick brown leather belt at the waist and my heeled tall brown leather boots. The boots and belt closely match my leather tote. The matching leather is all by chance, but it works to make the outfit pull together. When living on a shoestring budget, it’s the little things.

  I remove the light brown sweater cardigan I’ve been wearing all day in our chilly office and release my hair from its ponytail. This morning, I took the time for hot rollers, and some of the bounce survived. After throwing my head upside down to give the hair some body, and swiping on some lip gloss and a little blush, I decide it’s as good as it’s gonna get and go out to the sidewalk to wait for Jason.

  The sidewalk is crowded with folks leaving work and heading home. Some of the folks passing by have phones pressed to their ears. Others hustle down the sidewalk, head down, speaking as if talking to an imaginary friend. It’s the earbud movement. Now that wireless earbuds fit so easily into the ear canal, I’ve noticed it more and more on the city streets. It’s not for me. I’d prefer for passersby to see I’m talking into a phone, and that I’m not crazy Sally talking to myself. A little girl weaving down the street with a massive lollypop turns quickly, and her hair flies into the big multicolored
sticky candy. Her lips turn down, and the woman with her bends to her level. I can’t hear what she’s saying to the little girl, but she doesn’t seem pleased.

  I do love people watching. I can sit on a bench and watch people pass by and imagine whole lives for each person. My favorite is the couples holding hands. Wondering how they met, how long they’ve known each other…if they have kids.

  Strong arms wrap around my waist from behind, lift my feet off the concrete, and twirl me around in a half-circle. He came up behind me to surprise me, and he succeeded. I clutch at my chest, because if a stranger wraps his arms around you out of the blue it’s more than a little frightening. He laughs, pleased he “got me,” then intertwines his fingers through mine. We have a fairly long walk to get to Jacob’s Pickles.

  “Did you ever find out who’s going to be there?”

  “Nope. Does it matter?” I don’t know why he gets so stressed out about these things.

  We meld into the throngs of pedestrians hustling to get somewhere, separating only when we need to pass slower people. Night has fallen over the city, but lights pour out from all different directions. My chest squeezes tight, and my body’s reaction to his innocuous comment annoys me.

  When we arrive at Jacob’s Pickles, I look straight to the bar. Before I can make my way to the long, crowded, wooden oasis, Jason is tugging my hand and leading me to the back of the restaurant. Sam and Ollie Duke both stand as we approach. For years, Jason spent his summers and holidays at Sam and Ollie’s parents’ ranch in Texas. Ollie still lives in Texas, but he visits his brother every month or two.

  The two Texans are essentially family to Jason, but they both bypass Jason to welcome me with a hug. I’ve come to know them well over the years. They both introduce me to Jackson and his girlfriend, Anna, and to one of their friends, Chase. I explain my roommate, Yara, will be joining us, but she’s running late. All the chairs are accounted for, so I conclude this is the entire group. Jason can handle this.