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“I almost had you there.”
I lean back in my chair, stretching my arms behind my head. “I’ll take on an intern when you can light a fucking campfire, my friend.”
Right here, right now, all this doesn’t seem so terrible. But those fragile moments are the ones you destroy as soon as you try to hold on to them. Suddenly I wish I was home with my routines and my books, where nothing is unknown and I can trust that my world will remain orderly and secure because I’m the one who made it that way.
That excuse for a hike barely covered a few miles, but I’m exhausted when I step out of the leaky shower and hang one of the flimsy guest towels around my waist. My whole body feels the bone-weary ache of spending the day off balance, surrounded by people I don’t know and things I don’t do.
Rubbing steam off the mirror, I study my blurry face without my glasses, my hair tousled in every direction and the slightest pale stubble because my shaver doesn’t work in the bathroom outlet.
My phone lights up on the counter. Cupping it in slippery fingers, I hold it right up to my nose and squint to make out the text.
J: Can I get that photo? I want to show Elliott.
Blind and useless, I prod irritably at the screen until I appear to have succeeded. I’m much too young to be this bad with technology. Just as I’m about to toss it onto my pile of dirty clothes, a reply comes in.
J: That’s a pic of your day planner. I think. You have terrible handwriting.
A deep yawn shudders through me. I should do this in the morning. Instead, I lean against the counter and slide my glasses into place, blinking in relief.
Concentrating, I study the interface. When I tap an icon looking for more options, everything vanishes into a black screen and a chiming ringtone. Before I can take it back, Jonah’s scrunched-up face appears upside down in the dark, cheekbones highlighted by the glow from his phone screen. “Hi,” he grunts softly, voice thick, and I think he’s laughing at me.
“Fuck. I’m trying to send your photo.”
He rolls over with a muffled groan, the blanket falling off his bare shoulders. “Even my dad knows how to do that.” He’s crawling out of bed now, whispering as he pads through the dark room. “Elliott’s asleep.” I can hear him shut the bathroom door; then he climbs up onto the counter and curls his knees to his chest, orienting the camera to his face again. His eyes flicker over the screen and I remember I’m mostly naked and dripping wet. “These showers suck, huh?”
“I want to go to sleep. Hang up so I can send the picture.”
“Do you like it here?”
Glancing in the mirror, I try to brush my hair back. “Not particularly.”
“Why not? It’s so beautiful. Just a little while ago I went down to the river and followed it toward the lake and there’s a whole-ass beaver dam down there.” He looks up at the ceiling, exposing his strong neck. “But I couldn’t find any beavers. Should I try again tomorrow? Maybe they come out in the morning. Do you want to come look with me?”
“Don’t you have Sophie for that?” It just comes out, and not in a particularly kind tone of voice.
He blinks. “I—I guess.” Looking away, he props his chin on his knees.
“I saw an owl when I went to check on my car,” I offer, trying to make up for being an asshole.
“What kind?”
“It looked like a saw-whet owl. They’re particularly small and noisy; I think you’d get on.”
He’s beaming now, eyes sleepy and warm. “A me-owl? That’s so cool. There were owls on my family’s farm in Iowa. Big, white, fancy ones, like you.”
Midwest farm boy, exactly like I thought. “That’s me: big and white and fancy.”
He snorts loudly and buries his face in his elbow. “Stop. I’m gonna wake up Elliott.”
I watch droplets running down my chest and abs, into my towel, my bare feet spread on the floor. “Alright, I can figure out the picture. I’m not geriatric.”
“Whatever you say.”
“That’s it.” I wrap my palm around the camera, eclipsing him, and toss it on the counter. “Goodnight.” Shivering a little as water dries along my skin, I duck into the bedroom and find my toothbrush.
I’m about to squeeze out a neat ribbon of toothpaste when I realize he never ended the call. The camera shows an empty view of the ceiling. Maybe he fell asleep.
Instead of hanging up, I continue quietly about my chores and listen to him breathe, slow and soft. I wonder where he’s going to be in five years, ten, who he’ll be with, what kind of lawyer he’ll become. Whether he’ll still be likethisor if he’ll have worn down into something tired and docile like the rest of us.
