Page 54 of 72 Hours of You

He says the word Clocker in this kind of stiff way, like he still doesn’t believe it’s real, and to be honest neither do I. I mean, not the death part. That part is plenty real. But the part where he knows and he’s here with me, and we’re doing this thing. I still can’t really wrap my head around it.

“Is that shitty?” Peter asks. “To be kind of looking forward to finding one, I mean, a Clocker? It is, isn’t it? Shit. Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” I say. “I mean, that’s what we’re here for. They’d have a clock even if we weren’t around to see it. So. Yeah. It’s all good.” And, it kind of is all good. It’s so weird—I hadn’t even realized how much my subconscious was constantly scanning my surroundings for clocks. But now that I’m trying to find them instead of trying to avoid them it’s like I can breathe or something.

“Cool,” Peter says, putting his hands in his pockets and looking back out at the city. “That little sliver of building over there? That’s the Plaza.”

“That one I actually know,” I say, thankful for the subject change.

Peter raises his eyebrows. “You know the Plaza but not the Chrysler Building?”

“My dad took me there once. To ride the elevator.”

“Like Eloise in those kids’ books?”

“Exactly.” It’s kind of wild sometimes how Peter just, like, knows what I mean. Although, yeah, of course he’s read those books. He’s read everything. “Eloise was my favorite when I was a kid.”

Peter laughs. “That’s because you basically are Eloise.”

“I’m a turtle-obsessed pain in the ass who doesn’t own a hairbrush or know when to shut the fuck up?”

“No,” Peter says. “You’re someone who doesn’t take any shit.” We keep walking and then Peter starts rubbing his neck. Oh god, he’s going to ask me something. He pauses. “What’s he like?”

“Who? Oh, you mean my dad? I don’t know. He’s a dad. He’s fine.” I feel kind of shitty, talking about him like that, so I add, “That day in the Plaza he let me push every single button,” as if that redeems him.

“That’s cool,” Peter says.

“It was, actually. Every time the elevator doors opened, I’d say, ‘Ohhh, I absolutely love the Plaza. Fifth floor, please!’ or whatever. People were mostly cool about it, but there was this one old bitch who gave me the stink face, and my dad, without missing a beat, said, ‘So sorry, she cawn’t, cawn’t, cawn’t help herself,’ like in the nanny’s accent, you know?” The image of Dad’s clean-shaven face, young and pudgy, crinkled in a laugh is suddenly so clear in my mind. I haven’t thought about him like that in so long. Now he’s all sharp angles and beard and a flat line for a mouth. God, I can’t even remember the last time he laughed at all.

“He sounds awesome,” Peter says.

“Yeah, well. He’s not like that anymore.”

“Because of your mom?” Peter asks, carefully.

“Death sometimes kills the living too.”

“Yeah,” he says, squinting into the sky, “I guess it does.”

“What about yours?” I ask.

“What? My dad?”

“Yeah,” I say. “Tell me some This Is Us wholesome shit. Like, I bet your dad does the laundry and knows who you have for fifth period.”

Peter smiles sideways at me. “He does, actually.”

“I knew it. Let me guess, he went to all your flag football games too.”

“Little League. But yeah. He coached, actually.”

“Of course he did.” I try to picture a tiny version of Peter catching a pop fly, but all I can see is him sitting in the dugout reading comic books, not even pretending to give a shit. I bet his dad still took him out for pizza or whatever afterward, though. “If he’s so great …” I don’t know why, but suddenly I feel kind of weird about finishing that sentence. Like there’s a locked door that I’m not sure I want to look behind.

“What?” Peter prompts.

“Just … Why were you so weird about going camping with him? Is he, like, a closet climate-change denier or something?”

Peter lets out a kind of laugh, but I can see his jaw tense just the tiniest bit. “I wasn’t being weird about it. I just … don’t like camping.”