The Break-Up Retreat(32)

“Thank fucking God,” he says, his voice loud and searing and so very, very comforting in the small space of the cabin.

I hasten to lower the volume, despite not quite wanting to; I’d like to raise it, instead, until the voice of my best friend would fill the whole place, and chase all the ghosts away.

Armin is sweaty; I can see the screen lighting up his face as he walks up the stairs to his apartment. His purple T-shirt is stained dark around the collar, and a dark lock of hair is clinging to his forehead.

There’s an angry little red zit right next to his nose, like a beauty mark; he always gets a pimple there when he’s stressed. After he broke up with his last girlfriend, it lingered for months, like a little reminder of heartache.

“I was about to send the cops your way,” he continues, and I hear very real anger in his voice, barely hidden below his joking tone. “And the fucking army, and maybe a SWAT team. I cannot believe you didn’t call me yesterday.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, pulling my knees up to my chest and resting the arm holding the phone on them, so that I can see him properly.

“You promised, Isobel,” Armin says. “You promised you would call every day.”

“I didn’t think yesterday counted,” I say. “We talked in the car on the way up here.”

“Don’t play dumb with me,” Armin says. “It didn’t work when you pretended to have not stolen all my vodka in tenth grade, and it won’t work now.”

I laugh. It’s weak, but it feels soothing, like the first blast of cold air from an air conditioner on a brutally hot day.

“I didn’t take your vodka,” I say. “I’ve told you so many times, man. That was your sister. I was innocent.”

“Tara was thirteen,” Armin says. “And she wasn’t the one who puked all over the driveway.”

He comes to a stop, looks down and away from the phone; I hear the jingling of keys.

“Were you out for a run?” I ask him.

“One sec,” Armin says, and the phone shifts, pointing away over his shoulder, so I only see one-third of his face. A second later, I hear the clicking of a lock, the opening of a door.

Then he reappears, his face lit yellow by the hallway lamp, the triangular one from the ’70s that came with the apartment.

I know that light well, and just the blurry sight of the front door behind him as he walks instills a sharp ache in my gut, shocking in its strength.

Armin’s place is as much home to me as my own apartment, or the house I grew up in. More, probably; it’s where I go when I’m sad, or when I’m happy, or when I’m lonely.

“Yeah, well, something like a run,” he says, as he walks into the living room. “More like a slow, sad jog. A lady in her seventies managed to lap me twice.”

“She must have been extremely fast,” I say; for the first time today, my smile is genuine.

Armin laughs.

“Sure she was,” he says. “Thanks for being so supportive.”

“Any time,” I say.

I press my hand to the side of my throat, feeling the slowing beat of my heart.

Armin sits down on his couch. The worn, millennial-gray fabric hovers in the background, right behind his shoulder.

“Gross,” I say. “You’re not going to take a shower?”

“Later,” he says. “You know what my dad always says. You’ve got to wait until you stop sweating, otherwise you’re just wasting water.”

“Of course,” I respond. “Very wise man, your father.”

“In his own way,” Armin agrees.

His face grows still, his eyebrows knitting together.

“Are you okay?” he asks. “You look pale.”

I shake my head, leaning my chin on the arm I’ve hooked around my knees.

“I’m fine,” I say.

Such a well-worn untruth that it flies easily from my lips. I know, as I say it, that he won’t believe it, and there is such a comfort in that.

“What happened?” he asks. “How is it? The place, I mean.”

His breathing is still fast from the run. I know what he would smell like, if I was sitting there on the couch with him. The fresh eucalyptus scent from his detergent, the softer, herbal undertones from his deodorant, and then the reassuring smell of sweat, of human, something physical and distinct and reliable.

“It’s weird,” I say, shaking my head, letting out a little laugh that isn’t quite a laugh. “It’s . . . yeah. It’s really, really weird, Armin.”

I pause. I don’t want to tell him the truth; but, then again, I clearly do. Why would I have called him, otherwise?

“Don’t say I told you so.” I raise my eyebrows at him, and he holds up two fingers like the Pope.

“I feel like . . . I don’t know. I don’t want to say it, but I feel like I might have gotten in over my head here.”

“Okay.” Armin’s voice is soft. Nonjudgmental.

“It’s all just really fucked up.” I run my fingers on my free hand through my hair; I get caught on a knot, tugging at it, and the slight pain makes me wince.

“It’s Martina Hastings,” I finally admit. “She got in my head today.”

“In what way?”