by Katie Sise
I’m downstairs. Come sign me in before I freeze.
I cut right to the elevator. As it descends to the lobby, I try to make my face normal, not like someone about to take her first pregnancy test. Haley knows me better than anyone, and it’s uncanny the stuff she can intuit.
The elevator doors open to the lobby, and I see Haley standing near a crappy floral painting that belongs in a Florida hotel. “Hey!” I say as cheerily as I can. “Who signed you in?”
Haley nods toward a girl I don’t recognize sitting at the check-in desk. The girl ignores us, her nose buried in a book. I turn back to Haley and smile at the sight of her in my dorm. Her black hair is cropped, and she wears an old army jacket of mine and combat boots. Her eyes flicker over me like always, seeing me. We throw our arms around each other because that’s what we always do. “Here,” she says when I finally pull away, thrusting a Ziploc bag full of sugar cookies into my hands.
“Thanks,” I say, opening the bag, trying one. The smell of sugar fills the lobby air. “You could sell these,” I say between bites. “They’re amazing.”
“I’m trying to get in touch with my nurturing side,” Haley says.
I burst out laughing, but Haley’s face falls so fast I realize she was being serious. “Sorry,” I say. She’s an oddball, but she’s my oddball. “Seriously, they’re delicious.” She smiles at me, and I ask, “Do you think there’s any way Mom lets you come tonight?”
“No way,” she says. “You know that.”
“I do,” I say with a shrug. “But what if you . . .” My voice trails off.
“What if I snuck out again?” she finishes.
“Exactly,” I say, swallowing the rest of my cookie. “I don’t want to be alone tonight.”
“You’re not alone,” Haley says. “It’s a party.”
I laugh. “You know what I mean,” I say, but it sounds too hollow in the mostly empty lobby.
“I don’t,” she says, and I realize she really wants me to explain it. Haley’s way smarter than me when it comes to academic stuff, but sometimes the day-to-day life stuff she doesn’t get as quickly.
“Haven’t you ever been with a bunch of people, and you still feel really lonely?” I ask.
“Yeah, all the time,” Haley says.
“Well, that’s what I mean.”
She considers this. “I got it,” she says. We stand there eating cookies together for a bit, not really needing to talk, just able to be with each other. For a while now I’ve wanted to tell Haley that I’m sleeping with Noah, but I want to wait until he’s officially my boyfriend because she’ll worry less.
“So see you tonight?” I ask. “Maybe?”
“Maybe,” she says. We lock eyes, and all the years we have together fill in the spaces between our words. When we embrace again, she feels like home.
ELEVEN
Haley
Haley’s head rested against Dean’s chest. It was nearly seven, and they were back home in their bedroom in the 1950s bungalow Josie and Noah found them to rent. The walls of the house were mostly bare, and the rooms had minimal furnishings. It gave the bungalow a desolate feeling that wore on Haley, but the house was temporary, a placeholder, somewhere they could stay before their real life started. She snuggled closer to Dean. “And then Chris just passed me the brochures and left the library,” she said, “which doesn’t even make sense because we already have the list of places we’re seeing this weekend.”
“Maybe they’re private listings,” Dean said. They’d kicked aside the pillows and lay on the layers of winter blankets that dressed the bed.
“They’re not,” Haley said.
Dean shrugged. “He’s a weird dude,” he said. “And the three of them act like real estate is the most important thing. They’re obsessed.”
“So are we lately,” Haley said. “And it’s their job.”
“I guess,” Dean said. He was so warm beside her.
“Don’t you think about our life in each of these houses?” she asked. “All the things we could be, all the things that could go wrong?”
“I don’t think about it like that,” Dean said, shifting his weight farther away from her.
“Why not?” Haley asked.
“Because it’s not helpful,” Dean said, like it was the simplest thing in the world.
They were quiet for a moment. “Chris came to find me in the library because he wanted to talk about Emma,” Haley said. “I swear I didn’t misinterpret things. It had nothing to do with the brochures.” Dean rested his hand on her bare shoulder, and even though he wasn’t saying anything, it was better with him there.
“I’m sorry, Haley,” he finally said, and she melted into him. She was exhausted, but it was too early to sleep.
“Do you think my dad’s going to be okay?” she asked softly.
“I do,” Dean said. He slung one of his long legs over hers. It was pitch-black outside, no stars, and the only light in the room came from a desk lamp that cast eerie shadows over the cream walls and made the writing utensils look like weapons.
“He’s so close to the edge,” Haley said. “We all are, I think. But he seems the most likely to fall off it. It was like he lost Emma again tonight, in some way.”
“And for you?” Dean asked.
Haley tilted her chin to see his features drawn. “I’m not sure,” she said. “I’m not thinking straight. I keep thinking about Susie, actually.”
“Who’s Susie?”
“My cadaver at school, I’ve told you that,” Haley said, trying to keep the snap out of her voice. “She looks like Emma, remember?”
Dean nodded, adjusted his body on the blankets. He would remember that part.
“I don’t know how Susie died yet,” Haley said. “But I’ll likely find out over the next few months. And I keep thinking about bodies and evidence, and not just evidence that leads to someone dying, but even the evidence of how they’ve lived. It’s all there in the body in some way, bad stuff like trauma, but happy scars, too—the cadaver next to mine has a cesarean scar. And ever since I started med school, I have these recurring thoughts about Emma’s body, that if I could just see her again, I would know what happened to her.” Dean was quiet. Haley swore she could hear rushing water, but it must have been a passing car or trick of the ear; they didn’t live close enough to the river for it to be real. She propped herself onto her elbow. “Do you have any memories of my sister at Yarrow?” She’d only asked this question once or twice, because Dean and Emma weren’t even acquaintances, let alone friends.
“I’m sorry, Haley,” he said, a pained look on his face. “I really don’t.”
“You must have seen her from time to time,” Haley said, her voice harder than she meant it to be.
“Sure, yeah,” Dean said quickly, clearly trying to appease her, “around campus.” His eyes cut away from hers like he didn’t want to see her cry. At work Dean was so incredibly successful, so powerful, and part of that was his ability to sense and give his high-powered clients what they needed on a moment-to-moment basis. But he couldn’t do that for Haley, and he knew it. At least not when it came to Emma.
“Well, what was she like?” Haley pressed.
“You knew what she was like better than anyone,” Dean said, and Haley could tell he was trying not to sound exasperated.
“But how did she come off to other people?” she asked, unable to stop herself from trying. Just a morsel about Emma—that’s all she needed.
Dean was quiet again for a moment. Then he said, “She just seemed artistic, I guess, something about her. The way she dressed, and how she carried herself.”
He was right. Haley pressed her body closer to Dean, wanting to feel her skin and drown out her mind. Dean didn’t say anything; he just squeezed with the exact amount of bear hug she craved. It was in moments like these that she understood how much she wanted him and all that entailed: a life lived together instead of an existence spent in limbo; a future instead of a past; and a quiet, p
eaceful respite from the ever-present thoughts of her gone sister.
TWELVE
Emma
Ten years ago
I’m in the bathroom stall—which smells like sugar cookies because I shoved Haley’s care package in my bag—and my hands are shaking around the pregnancy stick. These are the kind of juxtapositions of college that make me so crazy. I’ll do something like sleep with Noah, who isn’t even technically my boyfriend, and then call my parents and have a totally normal conversation about something mundane, like the art project I have due. Or I’ll drink too much and write an email to my grandpa, remembering some long-ago way he showed Haley and me kindness. Or like in this case, when I’m inhaling the homey smell of my sister’s cookies while I take a pregnancy test. How messed up am I?
I already peed on the thing, and now I’m waiting for the words to pop up in the little window. It’s taking forever. If I’m pregnant, the baby’s definitely Noah’s, because like I said, I know my cycle. I slept with someone else on the sixth day of my cycle, right after my period ended. I remember that, because I remember being worried that my period wasn’t totally over, and I didn’t want it to get on his sheets, because he was weird about stuff like that, which made no sense given his profession. Anyway, I didn’t get my period on his sheets. And I almost broke things off that night, because stuff had been getting strained between us, but I didn’t. Obviously I will now, even if this test says I’m not pregnant. Noah’s the one I want—he’s the one I’ve always wanted.
Obviously I wish Josie wasn’t so annoyed by Noah and me getting serious, but she’ll get over it. Plus she’s seeing this other guy who’s literally tall, dark, and handsome. He seems like more of a Goody Two-shoes than most guys she’s attracted to, but I think in the end that would be good for her.
God. Why is this thing taking so long? I adjust my butt on the toilet seat. I guess I could pull up my pajama pants, but I’m not sure I can do that without jostling the pregnancy test around, and I think you’re supposed to keep it level.
Creak goes the door to the girls’ room, and I jump. Can someone see through the cracks in the stall doors? Is it Josie?
Footsteps pad across the tile, and my heart races. The sound of water whooshes in the shower stall. It can’t be Josie—she would have said something; she would have tried to figure out if I was in here. Steam billows over the top of the shower toward my stall. Our shared bathroom areas are so small, and they get way too steamy if someone blasts the water on full heat. Now I’m sweating as I use my fingertip to wipe the window of the test, praying it won’t steam over. But there isn’t time for that to matter, not anymore, because the single word stares up at me, declaring my fate.
Pregnant.
My heart thuds like crazy against my chest. I knew it—or at least, I sort of did. I pull my pants up with shaking hands. I go to throw away the test in the tiny garbage can, but there’s no trash in it yet, and everyone will see it. Ugh. I shove it in my pocket—I just need to get out of here. I push through the door to the bathroom and go looking for Josie.
THIRTEEN
Priya
Priya crossed the kitchen to unearth her phone from where she’d hidden it inside her handbag. There weren’t any other messages from Josie, and as Priya locked the phone she thought of how funny it was that her husband, of all people, didn’t have a password-protected phone, other than the one he used for work. Brad was careful in many ways, particularly with Priya, mostly treating her like a glass figurine that could go off kilter and shatter. But as careful as he was with Priya’s moods, he wasn’t particularly careful with his personal phone. It was where she’d seen the text from the woman he’d had an affair with three years ago. The woman had included a smiley-faced emoticon below her naked body, and it had taken Priya a while to realize who the woman actually was. She felt shocked all over again when she realized she knew her. The woman looked so different naked, and plus, Priya had felt so icky staring at the sexy photo that she kept having to look away. She’d finally poured herself a glass of wine to calm her nerves, as though she were settling in to watch a TV show instead of study photos of her husband’s lover, but Elliot was in bed, and she had at least an hour alone to go through Brad’s texts before he returned from the hospital. So, armed with a glass of rosé—which felt far too cheery for the circumstances, but it was all she had—she inspected the evidence. The woman had taken a photo of herself kneeling on bedsheets in that cliché pose of legs spread slightly apart, with a hand between them, and breasts caught in what seemed like midbounce. (Or maybe that was just what breasts that hadn’t spent two years breastfeeding looked like. Were Priya’s once that high?) The thing about the woman’s pose was that it was the kind of thing you could only do early on in a relationship. Priya was pretty sure Brad would think she was insane if she did something like that.
Priya had studied the woman’s face so carefully that night. It was heart-shaped and pale, with a glossy-lipped smile and subtle eye makeup, but it was absolutely the woman who worked the front desk at the local gym. The woman—Tracy? Nancy?—usually wore glasses and was always pleasant and not even a little conciliatory as she handed Priya a towel. Never once had her eyes telegraphed, I’m so sorry I’m sleeping with your husband, but here’s a fluffy towel! Brad hadn’t entered the woman as a contact into his phone, it was just a 914 number, and Priya had scrolled to see banal text messages that made her indescribably depressed.
Meet you at eight?
when do you get off work?
U teaching tonight?
And then she saw the one that made her cry. Did you tell her yet?
Was that truly how deep in he was with this woman, that they’d had some kind of discussion debating whether Brad should tell Priya?
That night, when Priya confronted him, he broke down. He said he’d made a terrible mistake, and that he’d never do it again, and that the woman was his only transgression since the mistake he made years ago. Priya feared she was being the most naive woman on planet Earth, but she believed him, and she decided to stay.
FOURTEEN
Emma
Ten years ago
I’m standing outside the door of town house 24B. I’m out of breath, because I practically sprinted here. At the last minute I decided not to tell Josie about the pregnancy and instead told her I just had to pick up art supplies I left in the studio and that I’d be right back so we could go to Noah’s. I don’t want her to find out about what I’ve been up to with this guy because I really don’t want her telling Noah. It’s part of the reason I’m coming here tonight to end it, so that nothing gets in the way of Noah and me. He’ll take me so much more seriously if I end it in person instead of over text. He barely even carries a phone.
Town houses line the east side of Yarrow’s campus, redbrick things with putty-colored frames on the windows. They’re too new to be charming, but the people who live here—mostly professors and administrative staff—have tried their best, with flower boxes and old-fashioned bicycles leaning against iron railings. The teachers at Yarrow can be a little hipster and above it all, which is why I mention the old bicycles. Instead of buying shiny new ones, they ride along the sidewalks on the old dilapidated ones, sporting wan smiles and carting their books in the functional metal basket attached to the handlebars. It’s a look, I guess. And it suits most of them.
But not Brad. I can tell he likes nice stuff by the way he decorated his town house. I’ve only been inside twice because obviously it’s risky for us to be sleeping together, and I wouldn’t want to get him in trouble, because he’s not only superhot but also really sweet and decent, other than sleeping with a student, I guess . . . but it’s not like I’m his student. And he’s just a TA for a pre-med science class, which is barely even being a teacher. His real job is as a surgery resident at Waverly Memorial. Plus, he didn’t even know I was a Yarrow student until we’d hung out a bunch of times. I didn’t lie about it exactly; I just didn’t mention it. We met at a coffeehouse and had lat
tes together, and it’s all been mostly innocent. He said he thought I was really pretty and artsy, although I don’t feel very pretty or artsy these days. He’s a little intense, but not into drugs or anything weird, and at first he wasn’t possessive about seeing me. I think that’s what interested me when we started seeing each other, the lack of desperation, and the ease of it all. Plus I’d never been with an older guy, and there was something so exciting about that. I think he’s in his late twenties or so, but I purposely haven’t Google-stalked him because like I said, it was feeling so easy, and I didn’t want to ruin it because being with him felt like a break from my other life with Josie and Noah. But lately Brad’s been more desperate, more possessive.
I raise my hand and knock, thinking about the baby inside my stomach. How big is she? (I know she’s a she—I just do.) She’s got to be so tiny if I remember right from high school biology classes. What’s Noah going to say tonight when I tell him? What are my parents going to say? What am I going to do?
The door swings open, and my mind trips over itself when I see the face in front of me. What’s my art teacher doing here? Her black hair is usually tied into a high bun in watercolor class, but now it’s long and loose and falling over her shoulders. Gone is her uniform of leggings and a paint-spattered tank, and in its place is a chenille robe, tied loosely over her protruding stomach.
“Priya?” I say, my heart pounding.
“Emma, hi,” she says, an edge in her voice. Her hand goes to the swell of her stomach.
“Do you live here?” I ask. The town houses look identical, and it’s dark out—is it possible I knocked on the wrong door? My neck cranes to check out the number again.
“My fiancé lives here, Emma,” she answers, and the way she says my name sounds very different from the way she says it in class.
