Page 42 of 72 Hours of You

“I mean, shit. He could die of a heart attack or something.”

“I know,” Peter says again. “But this way, he won’t die with a secret.”

He won’t die with a secret. I think about all the secrets I’ve buried inside me—like a paranoid doomsdayer stashing tin cans of money all over the backyard—losing track of where they’re buried and what’s inside each little coffee tin. Charles. Caroline. Mom’s scratched-up face. All the clocks I’ve seen. Every single person in my red notebook. Ninety percent of the thoughts in my head.

“Good for him,” I say. “But it still doesn’t change anything.”

“It doesn’t change his death.” Peter pauses and reaches out to take my trash from me. “But it still changes something.”

There’s something there—shimmering in his words—but I feel like if I look too hard it’ll burn my eyes.

“Listen, Sydney.” Peter takes a breath and rakes his fingers through his hair. “I didn’t know if I should bring it up before or let it go or … But now that we’re kind of …” Kind of what? He inhales again and looks me in the eyes. “I saw you. On your run. Before you … fell.”

“And?” My stomach turns in on itself and I wish I had that vase from the pizza speakeasy to smash against the sidewalk.

“And I saw you close your eyes. You looked …” He slides his hands out of his hair and down to his neck. “You looked like you were really hurting.”

Suddenly it feels like the negative space between me and the sky is alive and bearing down on me, like the hand of god—or fuck, maybe the devil—is crushing me into the stone I’m sitting on. If I stay here one single second longer I might flatten into nothing. “I’m supposed to drive home with Jules,” I blurt. “I have to go back. To school.”

I try to feel self-righteous or pissed but I’m just so fucking embarrassed. I want to sink to the bottom of the ocean and implode like some billionaire’s Titanic sub, disintegrating into oblivion.

I can’t believe I thought I could have some montage-style city adventure. Going to Dylan’s Candy Bar for fuck’s sake. It doesn’t get any more delusional than that. Who do I think I am?

I can’t go there and pretend I’m some normal happy person in search of jumbo Sour Patch Kids. I can’t be in this city at all. There are too many people and too many clocks and too many sirens and too much honking and too many fucking hot dogs.

And too many questions from Peter.

I stand up.

I have to go. I have to fucking go. Now.

“Sydney, I didn’t mean to—”

“She’ll be waiting. Jules. She— I have to pick her up. Now.”

I wait for Peter to triple up on his apologies or go on the charm offensive. I wait for him to show me photos of enormous lollipops and person-sized chocolate bars. To point out that Jules is arguably one of the most popular people in our school and there would be plenty of people falling all over themselves to drive her home.

But he just crumples up the trash and tosses it into the bin at the bottom of the stoop. “You don’t have to explain yourself. You not wanting to be here is enough.”

I nod, my jaw clenched, afraid to let any words escape.

Peter steps off the stoop and onto the sidewalk. “Let’s go.”

As we push our way through the bloated city blocks back to Grand Central, I keep my eyes on the piss-stained concrete in front of me, afraid to look up. Afraid to see another Doom Scroll. I don’t know these people and I shouldn’t give a shit if any of them are clocking out. But all I can think about is how Patricia is going to have to call Carnival Cruises and listen to Bruno Mars music play while she’s on hold for a refund.

By the time we sit down on the orange train seats, I can tell Peter’s simmering. Not in an angry way. This guy doesn’t get angry. But in this way where he’s clearly got a lot of words in his body that he wants to fling at me and it’s taking a lot of self-restraint to keep them rattling inside him.

A jolt of panic, FOMO, whatever, shoots through me and I get the impulse to grab Peter’s arm and tell him I changed my mind. Maybe I’m making the wrong choice—running away again. Let’s get off this train. Let’s stay in the city. Walk around all night and eat ice cream or pretzels or whatever. See the bridges lit up. Do they light up? I want to find out. I want to see the sky turn purple and dusty blue and feel small and big at the same time. I want to see if Peter’s green eyes turn turquoise at dusk.

But then four men in button-downs and matching haircuts stumble onto the train, shouting like they’re inside a frat house and not in a tiny metal tube filled with other people. They slap each other on the back and congratulate themselves on (I assume) being the winning race and gender in this country.

One of them locks eyes with me as they shove their way to the back of the train. He stops, his hand gripping the top of the seat in front of me. His gold watch glints under the blinking fluorescents. I want to peel his fingers off the chair and bend them backward until they break.

“Hey.” He smiles at me, sloppy and stonelike at the same time. I push my teeth down hard, yearning for something to bite. One of his compatriots pushes him past me, and they continue to the back, where they keep laughing too loudly.

Oh, whoopsie daisy.

My heart thuds against my chest, and I slump back in my seat, wishing I had a hoodie to pull over my face—fabric to lose myself in, to forget where and who I am. I settle for staring hard at the smudged pole across from our row. This is why I don’t come here. There is no escape. And no number of life-changing ten-minute hot-dog conversations is going to change that.