This Story Might Save Your Life(28)

The sun is bright and searingly hot. Luna and I cover our eyes as Mallory and Quinn drive away.

“Bummer about the tree,” a voice calls out.

We find my neighbor Ted on the curb in his brown bathrobe.

“He has a squirrel on his shoulder,” Luna whispers.

“I know,” I whisper back through gritted teeth.

“What the fuck?”

“He feeds them.”

“Oh my god.”

It’s obvious she’s loving this, but the sight of Ted’s face after everything that’s happened makes me Hulk-smash angry. “Not now, Ted,” I say, already headed toward the house.

“Some detectives came by last night,” he says.

My feet slow, then stop.

“Aren’t you curious how it went?”

I turn around and stare at the squirrel. Ted is roughly sixty years old, if I’m doing the math right. I know his only daughter is in grad school at UC Santa Cruz, his wife left him for a podiatrist, and his clay sewer line is clogged with roots. I also know, based on personal experience, that when sued for defamation, he doesn’t back down. Clenching my fists, I ask, “How’d it go, Ted?”

“They seemed to think I might have info on Joy and Xander’s disappearance, but I was out of town.” He sucks on his teeth. “I was sorry to hear about it, though. You probably won’t believe me, but I like Joy.”

“Oh, I believe you.”

He huffs. “I never had anything to do with that number-one-fan business. I told the police as much.”

Luna must be catching on because she grabs my arm. “Come on.”

“Hey, wait! There’s something—” Ted shouts as we slip inside.

Luna locks the deadbolt. “He’s the guy from the video?”

“He’s the guy from the video.”

“I didn’t realize he lived next door.” She shakes her head. “The nerve.”

I agree, but I don’t want to talk about Ted. I focus on the dogs as they whip our legs with their white-tipped tails. “I forgot to walk you, didn’t I?” I say with a heavy sigh.

“I’ll do it.” Luna points toward the back rooms; I can see the residue of elimination-print ink on her fingertips. “Go. Shower.”

She doesn’t have to tell me twice.

“Take your time,” she calls after me.

The shower heats quickly, and I step inside, resting my head on the cool tile wall. Steam builds around me and I close my eyes, wondering if I should tell Luna the whole truth. She won’t want to hear it, and I’m not sure I have the nerve to say it, but of everyone involved she’s the most affected by what I’ve done.

The water is cold by the time I’ve worked up the courage. I towel off, dress, and return with dripping hair, pausing in the doorway at the sound of Joy’s voice coming through Luna’s phone: “And that, my friends, is what to do—and what not to do—when you’ve accidentally dismembered yourself while woodworking. Thank you, Norm, for writing this one in. What you went through sounds horrible and gross, and you handled it with aplomb. Far better than Benny would have.”

“Obviously. If any of you out there have a personal survival story you want to share, please go to our website and follow the link to the submissions page. We would love the opportunity to put ourselves in your death-defying shoes from the comfort of our studio.”

“With theoretical swords!” Joy adds. “Isn’t it kind of wild that I still don’t own a sword?”

“Listeners, that is not an invitation to send Joy a sword. I repeat, do not send Joy a sword.”

Joy laughs. “Thank you, everyone, as always, for listening. And remember, what doesn’t kill you…”

Past Me joins in for the outro, “Makes you a survivor.”

Luna closes the app with a sigh. A few seconds pass before she notices me in the doorway. She stares at me with sad eyes, then shrugs. “Mallory told me you were combing through recent episodes. I guess I was just curious.”

I run a hand along the back of my neck. “Remember what Mallory said about me and Joy recording something the other night?”

“You mean when she kicked you out?” She frowns. “Why is your face doing that?”

Luna can read me like an X-ray machine. From day one she’s known if my smile is real or fake, if I’m paying attention or pretending, and if my promises are heartfelt or duty driven. She’s lived through my griefs and my failures and given me multitudes of second chances I didn’t deserve. She is a better person than I am, evidenced by the fact that she’s here right now, the fact that she’s been helping Joy navigate her divorce after everything the four of us have been through. This is the part I’ve been dreading. “I said something regrettable while the mic was on.”

“What do you mean regrettable?”

I press my palms to my eyelids. “I’ve looked everywhere for the file, but I have no idea where it is.”

“You’re not gonna tell me what you said?”

“She asked about our divorce. If there was another reason we couldn’t make it work, beyond what she already knew.”

“Okay.” She crosses her arms.

“I know we agreed on how much to tell them, and I know I should’ve left well enough alone, but I thought she was fishing around for it—which she wasn’t, I can see that now—and…”