by Anne Heltzel
“What’s that supposed to mean?” It’s obvious he doesn’t know what’s happened to Charlie, and he thought me calling him meant I was done with my relationship. And here I thought they were such good friends; that’s what Charlie always said.
“Forget it,” he says. “What’s up, Lena?” He hands me an Amstel Light and grabs one for himself, slipping a wad of bills toward the bartender without bothering to count.
“I need to know what you meant by that,” I shout over the deep thrum of the music. “Charlie’s gone. That’s why I’m here.”
“Gone?” Z’s mouth drops open, his forehead squinches.
“Dead,” I affirm, drawing a line across my throat. Okay, so maybe it’s callous. But it’s also like, we’re in a club. I’m trying to keep it light; and it’s not like I believe Charlie is dead. If I cry, Z’s not gonna talk to me; he’s going to get all nurturing and pity-party on me in an unsubtle effort to get on my good side. And then I’ve lost.
“Jesus. How did it happen?”
“He crashed in his dad’s plane,” I say, steering him away from the bar. “There was an explosion. He was alone.” I catch a glimpse of Aubrey. She’s not dancing anymore; she’s looking around for me, and that lost puppy look’s back. I almost ignore it but I feel guilty, so instead I hold a finger up to Z to let him know I’ll be back in a sec.
“Hey!’ I grab her and she turns to me, looking pissed. Her eyes move to my beer and then she looks even more pissed. “Look,” I say. “I’m making headway with Z. Why don’t you ask around about Charlie? These dudes are always hanging out here.” I jab the air around us, pointing out guys in hoodies, guys in wife-beaters, guys holding cigarettes, short guys, paunchy guys. “So make use of it,” I continue. “Some of them probably hung with Charlie at one time or another. This was his favorite bar. He loved coming here, meeting new people. Just give me ten minutes.”
“Okay. Just don’t leave without me.” Her voice is anxious. She’s hands down the most high-strung girl I’ve ever met.
“Obviously.” As much as I need her, it’s feeling like she’s the brick tied to my ankle right now.
I glance over at Z, who’s been chilling in the corner drinking his beer, but he looks a little dazed. For a second I wonder why we’re doing this; if deep down I don’t want just to confront Charlie and make him pay, but also to touch him and see him. But how could I feel anything for Charlie, given what he did to me and Aubrey? It makes me feel sick inside. The really healthy thing would be to write him off altogether and let the past be the past. But what he did doesn’t erase those years, those good memories. The times I loved him and felt him love me back. Those are what I’m mourning right now. They’re why I need answers. But I wonder: Am I looking for Charlie to find answers, or am I just looking for him? The thought causes another wave of shame to burn through me; he was a jerk who treated me and Aubrey like crap, and now I can’t accept that he’s gone.
“Continue,” Z says to me when I catch up with him.
“He’s presumed dead, but they never found his body,” I tell him when I plop down next to him on one of the benches that line the room where the bar is, just off the dance floor. “Just his bloody jacket.”
“Everyone thinks he’s dead,” he says.
“Yeah.”
“The cops, his family. Everyone but you.”
I flush. “It sounds crazy. But I have reasons to believe it. Real, tangible reasons.”
“What reasons?” Z’s eyes are intense.
I look down at my clasped hands. I’ve been digging my thumbnail into my palm so hard, it’s begun to draw blood. I gasp and move my hand to the side so Z can’t see.
“I can’t tell you the reasons,” I say, my voice thick with desperation. I want him to believe me, but I can’t trust what I know with Z or Aubrey or anyone else.
Z nods, but his eyes are clouded with an unmistakable pity. The ease of our conversation is gone. Z transitions to a couple of other, more boring topics that I don’t really listen to, and I’m still feeling the weight of his compassion. He goes on about an email Charlie sent him. A poster they stole while they were at University of the Arts London’s classical studies program for teens.
Then all of a sudden he whirls around like he’s just figuring something out. “What do you really need?” Z turns his gaze, leveling me. “This isn’t just a passing-through-town thing, is it, Lena? And who is that girl you dragged here with you? No offense, but it doesn’t exactly seem like you two are friends.”
“That’s Aubrey,” I tell him, sighing. For some reason I feel like, No no no, play your cards close to your chest. “I seriously am just passing through. Seeing family and all that. My parents are in Marseille now but I’ve got my aunt and uncle here. I just wanted to get away from France after the memorial service. Thought it could be good.” That’s half true, anyway. “I mean, yeah, sure, there’s this element of maybe someone knows exactly what happened the day he vanished and the events leading up to it. Can you blame me?” I let my eyes well up because the tears are coming. They come at super unexpected moments, like this one when I’m only being half sincere. This is one of the few times the tears have worked in my favor.
“Well, I don’t know,” Z says. “I’m sorry. I don’t know anything about it. But can I just be honest? I never thought he was good enough for you.” My heart freezes a little because everyone loved Charlie. Everyone.
“No?”
“I’m probably just jealous,” he says. Then he leans forward, close, and this Z who always seemed so nice, so benign, seems like some other Z with hostile motives. I move away slightly and am about to toss my beer in his face to wake him up when I feel Aubrey’s hand on my shoulder.
“He’s got nothing,” I tell her, ignoring the disappointment in her eyes. “But I’m still optimistic. There are other—”
“I didn’t say I’ve got nothing,” Z interrupts. “There’s that stupid journal he lost. When I saw him a few months ago in our hotel room, it was all he could talk about. He was obsessed. It got pretty annoying.”
“Okay,” I say. “What makes you think his journal was important?”
“Just the way he wouldn’t stop talking about it afterward,” Z said.
“When was this?” Aubrey asked sharply. “Where were you?” Her face is gray. She looks sick. I try to shoot her a question with my eyes, but she ignores me.
“It was a few months ago. Mumbai.”
“Mumbai.” Aubrey looks even more confused. “Why were you guys there?” She turns to me. “Did you know about this before?”
“Nope,” I say. “But I wasn’t exactly his keeper. Charlie traveled all the time.” It had been one of the ways we were most compatible, actually. We got each other’s desire to take off without a moment’s notice—were always surprise calling each other from exotic locales.
As we talk, Z is scrolling through pictures on his iPhone. When he stops at the one he wants, he hands Aubrey the phone. I intercept it before I can think. The picture of Charlie sends a shock I’m not prepared for through my entire body. In it, Charlie and Z’s arms are slung around each other and they’re smiling broadly into the camera. They’re sitting on the edge of a bed, the fancy kind, complete with tall wooden bedposts. Charlie’s messenger bag is lying open on the floor next to them, a couple of books spilling out. The sight of his face—his smile—hits me with overwhelming force. Aubrey eyes the photo, furrowing her brow intently. I watch her face turn from gray to white. But just as quickly, she turns to Z, her mouth set in a grim line.
“The journal he lost,” she says. “Was it this?” She taps the screen with one finger. The book she’s indicating is fairly non-descript. Simple, brown, nothing special about it.
“I think so,” Z says distractedly.
“It’s hard to see here. Do you remember what it looked like?”
“Brown leather, a front flap. Leather tie that wrapped all around, I think. He was always writing in it. I figured just notes about the trip.
Why . . . ?”
“Where did you lose it?” Aubrey’s strung tight, her cheeks sucked in and her slim frame rigid.
“Taj Hotel,” he says. “Colaba. In Mumbai. That was the night before we visited Adam at his place in Andheri. Why?” Instead of responding, Aubrey’s eyes widen, and she brings a fist to her mouth. I watch her gnaw on her nails, one after the other.
“Will you relax?” I ask. “What is wrong with you?”
“I’m not—” But she can’t continue, she’s freaking out so bad. Worse than that, her whole body is trembling. I stand up and then Z stands up, moving a couple of paces away from us.
“Look, Lena,” he says. “This is messed up. I’m out of here.”
“Just wait a sec,” I plead. I still feel like there’s something I’m not getting from him.
“Nah,” he says. “Whatever this is, I don’t want it. I’m sorry about Charlie.” Then he’s off, nice guy–turned–every guy, I can’t help thinking.
I turn on her, furious. “That was our best shot!”
“Really?” she says, starting to lose it. “You getting cozy with some guy was our best shot? You totally ditched me. This isn’t my scene. I’ve never traveled abroad. I’m not comfortable wandering around a Euro club on my own. Do you know how stupid I felt?” Her head is in her hands, and she’s turning around in this little circle.
So that’s it. She’s mad that I left her alone. Embarrassed, maybe. “Calm down,” I start. “I’m sorry. We still—”
“Do you even know how hard it was for me to pull this off? For me to be here at all?” she asks. I have no idea what she means. I have no idea what she gave up.
“Just come here,” I tell her. “Let’s go into the bathroom.”
“No.” She jerks away from me. “I’m tired of listening to you, tired of following you.” I’m about to make a joke about how it’s been less than three days, but I bite it back. Instead I draw in a long breath.
“So let’s go outside,” I say. “You can tell me all about it out there.”
Aubrey pushes past me. She doesn’t bother to grab either of our coats from the coat check, but mine’s leather so I have to. I watch her weave through the line that’s still forming on the stairs, other teenagers waiting to get in—it’s only two o’clock—and I shove in past the coat-check people. I slap a five on the counter and hand the girl my ticket.
Let her still be outside. My leather jacket is seeming less and less worth it. It only takes about a minute, though, before I’m shooting out the double doors and gasping deep, cold air. I see her right away, hunched into herself, my dress hiked all the way up her thighs where she squats against the cold brick wall.
“I wasn’t flirting with him,” I tell her, sliding down next to her. “I really was trying to dig. I can’t help that he turned it around. Or that he sucks. Or that my club idea turned up empty. I say yes a lot,” I explain. “Sometimes to my detriment.”
“My parents don’t know I’m here,” Aubrey says quietly. She breathes once, twice, like she might give herself over to panic if she doesn’t focus hard on those breaths.
“Mine don’t either.” I keep my voice light, bubbly. “Mine don’t care what I do as long as I check in every few weeks.”
“Mine care, Lena.” Aubrey turns her eyes on me. “You have no idea. They count on me. I’ve never done something like this in my life. You think I can just run off?” She laughs but it’s hollow. “Your club idea didn’t come up empty,” she says. I open my mouth to ask what she means, but she holds up her hand. “Just wait a second. We’ve got something here, but you’re taking it so lightly, like it’s some kind of joke or adventure. I need to be able to trust you. I don’t have money, I don’t have time, my parents are probably freaking out. I was supposed to be home already.”
“Why haven’t you told them?” I keep my voice quiet, even.
“Because they’d be out here in a second to bring me home.” I look at Aubrey. Her face is serious.
“I’m sorry,” I tell her.
“Why did you ask me to come along?” she wants to know. “I know why you’re doing this. Anyone could see you’re hoping he’s still alive, that ‘body missing’ means he’s out there somewhere. But my own reasons are totally different. So what does it matter if we’re together?”
I can’t look at her. I’m afraid my eyes will betray my secret—the real reason I think Charlie’s alive. So I avoid the question. “I don’t have some grand plan. I’m telling you. I thought Z could help. All he really said to me before you walked up was that Charlie was weird in Bombay, which doesn’t do us a hell of a lot of good.”
“Wait.” Aubrey cuts me off. “How was he weird in Mumbai? What did Xander say about it?” She looks so interested that I feel guilty breaking her heart all over again.
“Just, whatever,” I say. “That he was moody. He was curt and distracted and sometimes he said the same thing twice or contradicted himself. But Z thought it was just stress from school and all.” Aubrey stares at me, thinking.
“So we’re talking about just a few months ago,” she confirms.
“Yep, after exam season at Oxford.”
“And before that . . . what was his moving history? We met just before he started his first year there, the summer beforehand in New York.”
I sigh, wrinkling my forehead. Charlie’s life was hard to keep track of, even when he and I were talking every day. He forgot to tell me he was moving to India at all, and then bam, all of a sudden he calls from Mumbai. “He spent most of his time in the U.K.,” I say, thinking back. “But when he was a kid, he lived in Paris. Let me think.” I rack my brain, piecing together everything Charlie ever told me about his personal history. “Okay, yeah, he was in Paris pretty much exclusively until he finished middle school. Then he spent his freshman year in Bangkok. Then I guess that didn’t work out, so his mom moved him to London for his sophomore and junior years. That’s where I met him, the summer before his junior year.”
“I guess summer’s when he had the most game,” Aubrey says, and I laugh. The comment is unexpected coming from her, especially because she sounds so sincere about it. “So then what?” she prods. “Senior year in Mumbai?”
I nod slowly. “Yeah . . . and you know the rest. New York for the summer just before he started Oxford.” I pause, thinking hard. “I guess he did start acting pretty weird toward the end of the school year,” I offer. I’d never thought much of it—had just assumed Oxford’s exam season was heinous.
“What’s weirdest is that he never told either of us he was going on the trip to Mumbai,” Aubrey points out. I flush, but she’s right.
“I mean, his parents were fighting a lot then. Maybe that’s why?” My heart thuds a little.
Then I shrug, trying not to read too much into it. “Like I said, he traveled all the time. It wasn’t a big deal to him.”
“The journal in that photo,” Aubrey breaks in. She’s looking at the ground, the stoplights, anything but my face. “It’s my journal. The one I’ve been looking for. My dad gave it to me for my birthday and . . . it’s the same one. I’m sure of it. If he lost it there, it might still be there. Z didn’t say he went back for it. Only that he talked about it.” Her eyes are trained on mine, and we’re thinking the same thing.
“Bombay is far away,” I say. “And expensive to get to.”
“I need that journal, Lena. I have to have it. We need to go there right away.”
I’m surprised by the force of her words. Bombay is a big trip. I’d considered it, but for it to be our next stop is a big deal. “I’d thought maybe we’d continue in London, or go back to Paris, depending on what we find here.”
“Z said Charlie was always writing in the journal,” Aubrey reminds me. “And he mentioned Adam. Maybe Adam knows something. Maybe something in the journal will give us insight into what he was thinking. Why continue in London when we know we have a lead in Mumbai?”
It’s a long shot. I know it, and I know she knows it. Bu
t this journal seems to mean so much to her. And really, she’s right. While tenuous, this is the best lead we got from Z. If Charlie was writing in that journal just a few months ago . . . it could definitely shed some light on what he was thinking.
“Please.” I can tell by the way she says it that she’s not used to asking for things. “I need this.”
“Okay,” I tell her. “Bombay it is. I’m on board.” In an instant she’s moving to her feet, the gold fabric of her dress—my dress—catching on the jagged bricks at her back. She pulls me into a hug, and I feel the force of her gratitude. It makes me happy, doing this for her. I can’t explain it, but I want her to be happy.
“My parents are going to be just thrilled,” she says wryly, smiling.
“I thought you don’t do stuff like this,” I tease. “Who knew you’d be the one pushing for another continent?”
“Maybe I’m discovering my secret jet-setting identity,” she says. “And,” she adds, trying to sound brave, “it’s not like I don’t have a credit card for emergencies. This probably qualifies. But don’t we need visas or something?”
I almost laugh at how worried she looks under the bravado, but I bite my lip. “Pssh. All it takes is a quick trip to the American embassy. NBD. And don’t worry,” I add just in case. “I’m footing the bill.” Shit, I guess I am, I think as I say it. She doesn’t say anything, just looks at me. “Trust fund,” I explain. “I only stay in hostels because I want it to last forever. Plus I like an authentic experience.”
She shakes her head. “That’s too much,” she says. “I can’t accept it.”
“I can’t go unless you accept it,” I threaten. She stares at me for a long moment, disbelieving. Then she throws her arms around me again.
“Thank you,” she whispers. “No one’s ever—”
“Get ahold of yourself,” I interrupt, easing out from under her embrace. “Or the offer’s off the table.” Still, I’m glad to have been able to do something good. I don’t want to like Aubrey; but there’s something about her vulnerability and openness that I’m drawn to.
