“When did you get back?”
He looked tired and tense, like he’d just gotten off a flight. He gestured and I sat in the chair across from him.
“That’s your question?” he asked.
“It’s a question. Did you—were you in San Francisco?”
“You want to know if I lied to you? That’s cute.”
“Boots—”
“Don’t. Do not.”
“Max! Did Clive kidnap you? He does that kind of thing now.”
“Yes, I went to San Francisco,” he said, avoiding eye contact. “For two days. I got the contract, incidentally.”
“Congratulations.”
“Oh, shut up.”
I fought to keep my cheeks down. “Shut up” had a long run as the most scandalous phrase available when we were kids, before the full plumage of curse words were introduced.
Now that the lights were on, I could see a platform at the far end of the room with little cubbies, perhaps once used for Hebrew School, now filled with yoga mats, rolled up like Ho Hos. There was also a perfectly made bed and, on the shelf above it, the sculptures Boots had been selling online.
“What in the fuck is going on? Are you the last one?”
“The last one of what? Of the Mohicans?”
“Max.”
“I don’t know where to begin.”
“Maybe start with why you’re here. Or how you know of this place. Or how you got in. I’ll go first: Me, I scaled a dumpster.”
He looked at me as if he were looking straight through me, out the door, out the building. It was the look of someone who wanted to get on a bus and circle the globe until they died. After what felt like a long time, he resumed focus.
“I’ve been here, you idiot. Every night you’ve been here, I’ve been here. Every night you’ve been out, doing God-knows-what with your ex-boyfriends, I’ve been here. Sometimes alone, mostly alone. Sometimes I order takeout, which sucks because getting in and out of here is a thing. Sometimes I sit with these crazy-ass rich freaks in lotus position. They really like to meditate. And don’t worry, Jin used a fresh suction cup on you.”
“What?”
“After she was done with me.”
“I feel like I’m having a stroke. You’ve been sleeping here?”
“Clive said it was better if I sleep here.”
“God, he’s so insane,” I said, trying to pry his anger off me.
“It’s not so bad. Honestly, it’s nice to give my sinuses a break from the cat. I was about to head back to the apartment to meet you because I know tonight’s your last night. According to Vadis, at least. Then I heard a thud and there you were. Here you are. Which is how I knew.”
“Knew what?”
“That I’m about to get dumped. That’s how it works, right? I see you in here, it’s bad news for Max. Max is in the past tense now.”
“Well, at bare minimum, he’s in the third person. So that’s not good.”
“Nope!” he said, pulling a stick of gum from his pocket and chewing violently.
“I have so many questions.”
“You look like a homeless person, by the way.”
I wiped the back of my hand against my forehead. My fingers were black from prying open the window. I had attic dust on my face.
“You don’t even like Clive. You’ve never liked Clive.”
“Lola,” he said, snapping, “keep the fuck up. I hired Clive.”
I felt as if I were above us, that we both were, watching these versions of ourselves, confused and incensed respectively. My major organs were competing to exit through my throat.
“Come again?” I croaked.
“Clive offered to help me and I took him up on it.”
“Help you with what?!”
He looked around for a place to put the gum, then decided to jam it underneath his seat.
“Max,” I scolded reflexively, and he gave me a look as dirty as I’d ever seen.
“A few months ago,” he began, splaying his hands on his knees, “I was cleaning out the hall closet and I moved this shoebox. It was heavy so I opened it and it was packed with all these letters and shit. There was this card that played a song, and I thought, huh, maybe this is where Lola stockpiles cards to give to people. My mother does that. But that’s when I started reading the letters. Some of them were breakup notes, some of them were nothing—meet me here, see you at eight, nice shoes, let’s bang—but you saved them all. And I know women do that. Sorry to be gendered, don’t leap down my throat. But you printed out emails from the 90s. The box was lined with ticket stubs and scrap paper and it was … intense. Like hoarding intense.”