Page 26 of The Burning
“He looks like someone . . . I don’t know . . . do we know him?” she asked, tilting her head a little.
I wasn’t sure just how detailed I wanted to get with Elodie about the whole thing until I knew more—especially given her trip to the hospital today because of stress. But on the other hand, I knew very well how half-truths felt, and I hated that feeling.
“He’s the guy who Austin was fighting in the street that night when the MPs were there.”
She nodded, but I could tell she needed further elaboration.
“This is confusing,” said Elodie, her fingers rubbed her temples and she sighed.
I agreed. “Very.”
“Let’s get some more information first. I don’t want you to worry about it; you have enough going on. How did you leave things with your parents?” I asked, changing the subject.
She shrugged. She was still in her uniform from this morning; it was loose on her arms, but tight on her belly. “They want me to come home. Karina, am I a bad person if I don’t want to go back?”
She took in a breath and slowly kicked her dangling feet back against the edge of the couch.
“I love Phillip. I do. And I’ve tried to be the best wife, and it has been hard. Even if we don’t end up together, I want to stay here. Lately I’ve been thinking about it a lot. I know I don’t have family in the United States, but I do like it here. The bigger houses, the people. The place I’m from is so small, and my parents aren’t city people. They live outside of Paris, but don’t visit the city, and anyway, I could never afford to live there. And I’m starting to make friends here. My friends back home have gone to university or have moved somewhere else.”
I gently rubbed her shoulder. “First of all, no, it doesn’t make you a bad person. And I get it. As much as I hated moving when I was young, some people thrive in new environments. My mom was like that. She always wanted to start over, to try new things. It’s nothing to feel bad about. You’re so young, Elodie. You can always move back if you want to. You have that freedom.”
I thought about my mom dancing around the living room, raising her arms up high. She always dressed like she was straight out of Woodstock, her hair in a braid that she would let me decorate with colorful beads. I didn’t know what it was about that particular memory that caused me to recall it so fondly. The music was loud, the windows were wide open for the whole neighborhood to hear Santana’s electric guitar gliding through the air. My mom loved Santana before it was cool to love him. I remembered how the house smelled like pot roast when I got home from school that day. My mom grabbed my arms the moment I walked through the door, taking my book bag from my shoulders, and telling me to ignore my schoolwork for the night as she tossed the bag on the couch. She even wrote me an excuse the next day for my homework, something my dad would never agree with and never find out about. The sleeves of Mom’s fringed suede jacket—brown and too big for her body—looked like wings as she flew around the room. She was like a bird trying to make the best of its metal cage.
Elodie leaned closer to me and snapped her fingers in front of my face. “Enough about me. I’m worried about you.”
“Me? Why?” I shook my head, acting like I wasn’t just spacing out of our conversation.
“You’re so distracted lately. And sad. I can see it. You’re just . . . how do you say, zoned out.” She looked pointedly at my face.
I scoffed. “I’m not sad. Or zoned out. I was just . . .”
It was a terrible lie I didn’t even bother to finish, and she rolled her eyes.
“Please! You are. And I know you don’t like to talk about it, but I know you are very unhappy, very sad, and very lonely. And you saw Martin today . . . that must have been hard.”
“Okay! Okay!” I put my hands up. “I get it.Jesus. Can’t we go back to your life drama and not mine?” I smiled, trying to lighten things up.
We both laughed.
“It must have been hard. Are you guys speaking at all?” Elodie pursed her lips.
I loved the way the slight language barrier sometimes took the sugarcoating out of her words, especially when I really needed to hear something.
“Anyway. Back toyourproblems,” I teased. “I’ll find out more about this asshole, and you just focus on taking care of yourself and the baby. Please?”
She nodded and smiled, then sighed. “Thank you. No matter what, I cannot leave you. I would miss you so much and you don’t have any friends.” She kissed me on both cheeks.
“I have friends! Plus, who decided that having friends was better than spending time with myself, reflecting on my own thoughts? Weren’t we just saying that women should be their own best friend?” I did my best Samantha Jones voice. Elodie usually chose Charlotte as her favoriteSex and the Citycharacter to impersonate, but for me it was Samantha, the one I was the least like in real life.
“Mm-hmm, I don’t agree. Life is about experiences with other people.” She hummed, wiggling around on the couch before getting comfortable under her favorite blanket, the one hergrand-mèremade her.
“I have experiences.” I pouted.
“Alone.”
“And? I like to be alone. I like myself.” I shrugged, lying a little, but someday that would be the truth.
“Yes. But Martin still likes you. I can tell by the way he was sulking around like a lost puppy when I saw him the other day.”
