Page 137 of On His Schedule
“Who is that?” Bear says, looking at the screen. It’s a photo of her and I last year.
“Gianna.”
“Are you going to answer?”
“No.”
I put the phone face down. The ringing keeps going against the wood. I can feel the buzz through the side of my arm. Whatever Gianna is calling to say — an apology, more anger, a follow-up— I cannot hear it tonight. I don’t have anything in me to absorb another version of her voice. The ringing stops. The voicemail chime goes a beat later.
I wake up on Sunday because the house has started moving around me. The radiator under the front window has clicked on. Tyr is in the kitchen. Bear is somewhere upstairs being loud in the soft way Bear is loud, which is opening drawers harder than they need to be opened. The blanket on top of me is the gray one. The pillow under my head is the small one from my mother’s bed.
I stare at the ceiling and have no idea what I’m doing.
I run the list in my head. Go back to the apartment and pack the rest of my things. Call the housing office on Monday and see if anything is available on three days’ notice. Ask the tutoring center if anyone is looking for a roommate. Call Mara. Call Penelope. Move home — really move home, give up the apartment, drive an hour each way. Ask Benson — and I stop the thought there. There’s no way in hell that I’m asking Benson.
It is Sunday. I have to plan my week. I have to finish the Real Analysis problem set. I have to grade twelve practice midterms for the Calc III group I tutor on Mondays. I have to review chapter six of Stats for Tuesday.
Plan my week. Plan my tutoring. Make sure my homework is done. Eat. Sleep.
Bear comes downstairs at nine. He is in jeans and a hoodie. His hair is wet from a shower. He has his backpack over one shoulder. “I’m meeting my friends at the park.”
I sit up the rest of the way. “You just — leave the house.”
He nods. “Mom doesn’t care.”
“She doesn’t?”
He shakes his head.
“What time do you have to be home?”
“Whenever.”
“Whenever?”
“Yeah.”
“See you when you get back, I guess.”
He pulls the front door open and pulls it closed behind him. The lock clicks. The screen door bangs once on the spring.
I sit on the couch and stare at the door.
I close my eyes for a beat.
I pick up my phone.
The screen lights up.
One missed call from Gianna last night. One voicemail. Three texts from Benson.
Benson:Talked to G. Just know I’m here when you’re ready to talk.Benson:Goodnight, Lucy.Benson:I’m sorry. I hope you’re okay.
I read them twice, and I don’t listen to the voicemail. I open the messages with Benson and start typing.
Me:Good morning.
The three dots come up within twenty seconds.
