Page 57 of 72 Hours of You

But he keeps talking, and little by little her stone face starts to soften.

And then she’s laughing and touching his arm. He hands her the water bottle, and she clutches it to her chest like it’s a bottle of Dom. And then, I shit you not, she wipes a fucking tear from her overly mascaraed eyelashes.

What the actual fuck.

Peter keeps talking, and then he gestures to me across the street. The woman turns and waves to me. And then puts her hand over her heart in a show of appreciation. Like she’s been touched by an angel or some shit.

And then she fucking hugs him, for like thirty seconds, before waving at me again and running off down the sidewalk, her high pony bouncing in the breeze.

“Well,” Peter says when he comes back to my side of the street, “you were right. She was a total bitch.”

Twenty-Nine

“HOW DO YOU DO THAT?” I say, staring up at Peter. He looks so light and airy, his brown waves almost golden in the sun.

“Do what?”

“Whatever it is that makes people love you like that?”

“People?” he says, a sliver of a smile blooming on his face.

“Yeah, you know. Gordon. Lulu Bitch. Whatever,” I say extremely casually, ignoring the jolt of fire in my stomach.

Peter shrugs. “I just listen, mostly. People have a lot more to say than you think.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.”

“No, it’s usually good. Everyone wants the same thing at the end of the day.”

I roll my eyes. “That’s so not true. Some people are doing, like, Doctors Without Borders and other people are poisoning reservoirs for fun.”

“I don’t think there are people poisoning reservoirs for fun …”

“You know what I mean,” I say. “There are pediatricians and there are politicians.”

“I get your point,” Peter says. “I just think most—not all, but most,” he adds before I can interrupt him, “people are just trying their best. And Ronnie was cool.”

“Wait,” I say. “The runner’s name was Ronnie? That’s so … relaxed. I thought it would be like Charlotte or Ansel or something.” Damn. How does he keep doing this? Seeing people?

“It’s almost like you can’t tell exactly who someone is by how tight their ponytail is,” Peter says.

“Whatever,” I say. “What was her deal, anyway? Why was she so emotionally invested in that water? She was clinging to it like it was a lifeline or something.”

“Well, it was Fiji.”

I can’t help but laugh.

Peter pauses for a second. “She just … hadn’t had anyone be nice to her in a while, I think. She’d been having a rough go with her husband.” I knew she was getting divorced. The ponytail doesn’t lie. “I think she just needed to be reminded that not everyone’s an asshole.” Peter looks me in the eyes. “You know anyone like that?”

“No,” I say, glaring back at him.

“It’s pretty cool, though,” Peter says, looking down the block where the runner took off. “I mean, I know she’s going to die really soon, but we made her last hours a little better. Maybe a lot better.” He turns back to face me. “We did that. You and me.”

“That was all you,” I say, looking away. “You’re the one making these connections. I’m just skulking.”

“Are you kidding? There is no this without you.” Peter runs his hand through his hair. “Shit, Sydney. I think you might be the bravest person I’ve ever met.”

Jesus, he really is delusional. Still, I can feel the heat creeping up my neck.