Page 23 of What You Left Me

But I feel like I do.

I feel like I do.

10

Turrey parks in his winding driveway and walks me over to Daniel’s. He follows me as I open the back gate, walk through the vegetable garden, and end up at the edge of the in-ground pool. Apparently, Turrey is coming with me.

“Petra!” Cameron shouts, emerging from her shaded corner to greet me. She sees Turrey and tries to communicate in glances, askingWhy is he here?with only her eyes. She’s so distracted by his presence that she hugs me while dripping wet. Her one-piece soaks the front of my shirt.

“This is Mike Turrey,” I tell her. “Turns out he lives next door.”

They shake hands. It’s all so forced. I wander off to put my purse down on a pool chair.

Aminah emerges from the guesthouse. “Hello,” she says more to Turrey than me, sizing him up as a candidate for her affections. Her gold bikini shimmers in the sun, popping against the umber of her skin.

“Sup,” Turrey responds.

Aminah dives headfirst into the pool and glides through the water. She surfaces on the other side and holds on to the pool’s edge, keeping her back turned to us. Knowing she has no plans to engage in the conversation further—aggressive disinterest a time-tested Aminah Prabhu dating ritual—I ask Cameron, “Where’s Daniel?”

“Oh, he’s inside,” she tells me. Her eyes shift as she sways.

For a girl with a cherub’s face and a near-impeccable GPA, Cameron’s had a tiny share of debauchery, once dancing in her underwear by Daniel’s pool, a beer can in either hand, singingAmerica the Beautiful. She’s selective in her moments, but when she lets loose, she means it. She hovers around the buzzed stage right now, reaching her hands out for objects that aren’t there in an attempt to steady herself.

The worst thing that can happen to a person in a social setting is happening to Turrey, and he doesn’t even realize. He’s the elephant in the room. His existence is the question, the point of awkwardness, the nervous fidget. Cameron wants to hear about Martin, but she can’t ask because Turrey’s here, and she doesn’t know enough about him to take a chance. Aminah continues dismissing him, alternating between underwater laps and inflatable lounging. The kitchen curtains flutter where Daniel spies on us from inside the house. Turrey doesn’t budge.

The intense daylight begs for me to take a break. I sit and apply lotion, attempting to sunbathe in jean shorts and a wet crewneck tee. It isn’t easy, but it’s much better than trying to keep a conversation going between Turrey and my friends.

Heat beats down on the lounge chair. Sweat pools on the back of my neck where my hair sits crumpled against the wicker chaise. My eyes are closed, but the sun burns red through the lids, lighting up my thoughts, which are full of equations. Letters and numbers converging in a way that requires more of my focus than I’m willing to give. My mind zooms out and sees the paper the equations are written on: a single sheet on a thick stack sitting on the desk in my bedroom. The letters actually scream, as if they aren’t letters but people, crying out in neglect. They move around. Questions asking other questions.If X equals Y, then why aren’t you here to study? Can you track the vertical shift of what you’re doing to your future? P(E or T)Rª = S(T/U) P+(I-D).

I tuck the problems away into my overcrowded attic of a mind. Soon. I will study soon. All I need to do is pass. And if I don’t, I lose the precious scholarship money my parents mention any chance they get.

Petra, you can’t just throw away tens of thousands of dollars because you’re upset about a breakup!

My thoughts move to the reddish-blackness I see with closed eyes.

What does Martin see behind his?

I go back to his fanned-out eyelashes. His trimmed hair. That scar on his lip. His Facebook page. Van Halen.

• • •

I spend my time focusing on my thoughts. It makes more sense to still use those words—timeandthoughts—even though the nothingness seems to swallow everything up.

I need to be the Martin who gave an impromptu knock-’em-dead speech at his sister’s wedding, not the Martin who slept through a whole lecture in U.S. History then drew pictures on the pop quiz that followed.

Starting with Petra seems like my best bet. She’s the one thought I had while I was in the car with Spitty. I even imagined her at that card game with Turrey.

She’s been my constant.

I focus on her name. Petra Margaret McGowan.Petty Margs.I try to see her better. I don’t have much to go on. Red cheeks and chipped sparkle nails. The light around her when the sun hit her face. Her long brown hair flowing over the back of the folding chair. Van Halen.

11

Petra tries to jump into a pool, hoping to be relieved of the relentless heat. The water is crystal blue and full of people. But Petra doesn’t go under. The liquid hardens where her feet touch. It scorches like pavement. She hopscotches, trying not to burn her soles, dodging heads and complaints simultaneously.

“Look out!” someone yells.

“Stay out of my way!” says another.