We did about ten rounds, and then, I’m not going to lie: I did feel better.
Less dizzy. Less nauseated. Less sweaty.
“My friend’s totally different thing used to pass after about twenty minutes,” Joe said then.
“I don’t think my thing is going to pass until this party ends,” I said.
“Ah,” Joe said. Then, a second later, like he’d had an idea, he said, “Are you okay here on your own for a minute?”
“I am now—and will continue to always be—one hundred percent okay,” I insisted, forehead still pressed to the concrete.
“Be right back then,” Joe said.
A few minutes later, I heard a chunk noise—just as the music cut out and it seemed like my dark corner got darker. Then I heard the ambient sound of a puzzled crowd. Then I heard Joe’s voice. “Power outage, guys. Looks like the party’s over.”
Oh god, he was my hero.
Just knowing they were leaving drained the stress from my body.
By the time Joe came back, I was sitting up, leaning against the brick wall, breathing. Like a pro.
“Did you just flip the breaker and pretend there was a power outage?” I asked.
“Yep,” Joe said.
“And everybody went home?” I asked.
“Yep.”
“And then you came back to check on me?”
Joe shrugged, like, Obviously.
“Did you worry at all that the darkness might freak me out?”
“Nah,” Joe said. “We’ve got the moon.”
I looked up and saw it for the first time. It was brighter than I’d realized. “I guess we do.”
It occurred to me then that I might have to start altering some of my opinions about Joe. Next I asked, “And once the coast is clear, are you going to take me out for that dinner you promised?”
But Joe just shook his head. “No.”
I felt a flash of disappointment. “You’re not?”
“Nope,” Joe confirmed then, turning back to the moon. “Because I already ordered us a pizza.”
Fifteen
WE ATE PIZZA on the roof, cross-legged, watching the city skyline.
I don’t know if it was the breeze playing with my hair, or the receding adrenaline from the panic attack, or the layer upon layer of compassion Joe had offered to me, but I found myself bizarrely relaxed. Scarfing down that pizza with gusto, talking with my mouth full, saying things I would never—ever—normally say.
Like, for example: I told him it was my mother’s birthday.
Did he need to know that information?
Absolutely not.
But I wanted to tell him. I wasn’t going to be able to do my usual thing—it was far too late to go get cake-baking ingredients now, and I was much too exhausted, anyway—but I guess I just wanted to mark the moment of it, even in a tiny way.
“It’s my mother’s birthday today,” I said.
“We should call her,” Joe said, checking his phone for the time.
“Can’t,” I said. “She died.”
Joe’s shoulders fell a little at that, and his pizza slice went askew in his hand.
“It’s okay,” I said. “It was a long time ago.”
“But you still miss her,” he said, reading my expression.
“I do,” I said.
Joe waited to see if I’d say more. But what was there to say, really?
Finally I went with, “Every year, on her birthday, I bake her a cake. And light candles. And watch Cary Grant movies. I tell myself that’s the one day when she can hear me from heaven—and I don’t even care if it’s true. I talk to her, out loud, like she’s there. I just let myself have that. And I try really hard to be happy that I had her in my life at all.”
He was good at listening, it turned out. It prompted me to keep going.
Or maybe this was just something I really needed to say.
“She died very suddenly,” I said. “And when it was all over—weeks later—I found a voicemail from her that she’d left me the day before she died. It was the most ordinary voicemail in the world. But I listened to it and relistened to it so many times that I memorized it. I memorized the words, but also the pauses and the tempo and the musical notes in her voice. I can still do it to this day. When I was really, really lonely at boarding school, I used to go on long walks and recite it over and over, like a poem.”
“Recite it,” Joe said then.
“What? No.” I shook my head. “It’s boring.”
But Joe said, “It’s the opposite of boring.”