Then You Were Gone Part 6

No. "Sort of." No slow drift. We were inseparable and then we weren't.

"Any idea why she reached out to you?" He waits, his face frozen and unreadable. I shake my head as he shifts his weight, uncrossing then recrossing his legs. "Well, what's she like?"

Loves Bowie, Blondie, Red Vines, and brownie batter. Sleeps with a night-light. Loves old horror (The Exorcist, Suspiria, The Omen) and the West Side Story movie sound track. "Um, I don't-it's been a while, you know?"

"That's okay." He drops his clipboard. "Did she have anyone special? A boyfriend?"

"I-" I freeze up.

"Okay, you know what?" He waves a hand dismissively, as if to say, none of this matters, when we both know that's not true. "What about her band?" He checks his notes. "David Gibbons, Julian Boyd, Gian Colangelo? Know any of them?"

No, yes, no. "Julian." I nod. "I don't know him well. He's in my lit cla.s.s."

"Do you know if he and Dakota were involved? Romantically? s.e.xually?"

Yes and yes. "I don't-I just-I don't know that much about him. Or their relationship, really . . ."

"Okay." His smile droops. Then, "It's okay, Adrienne. You're doing great."

This freaks me out. "Oh yeah?" I look down.

"Yes." And after a beat: "Anything else? Something you can think of that might help us find your friend faster?"

I keep my head down. "Sorry," I say.

"Okay, well." Walsh gets up. "You've been helpful."

"Have I?"

Alice Reed is naked, her knees tucked to her concave chest.

"Get in! f.u.c.k, it's freezing, feels great!" Teddy says this, screaming and splashing and clinging to the pool's edge. Lee cannonb.a.l.l.s off a large rock. Kate wiggles out of her dinner dress and does an elegant side dive into the deep end. Everyone's drunk. I'm dressed, halfway sober, sitting on a patio chair nursing a small gla.s.s of limoncello.

"Adrienne Knox." Kate swims up. Puckers her painted lips. Spits water at my feet. "Get naked, get in."

"No."

"Yes." And when I don't disrobe: "Prude."

She's gone. Lee waves; I salute. Alice giggles, geisha-style, covering two b.r.e.a.s.t.s with one hand and whipping water at Lee with the other. I can see one of her nipples. Lee dunks her head underwater. Everyone laughs but me.

"Knox, pa.s.s me my drink, will you?"

There are five unmarked cups of Chianti on the patio. I get up, grab one, and pa.s.s it to Margaret Yates.

"Thanks." She downs it, facing Teddy. "Okay, I'm ready."

He kisses her, like couples kiss. They do this sometimes. Get drunk and screw around. Teddy likes boys but hasn't been with any yet.

"Again." Margaret whispers, her nose grazing Teddy's. I'm back on my chair but can still read her lips. "Keep going, okay?" She puts his hands on her huge b.o.o.bs. She loves him. She has zero interest in clothes but lets Teddy dress her like a doll for dinners.

"Stare much?" It's Lee, one wet limb reaching out of the water. He's playfully batting my bare feet.

"I like to watch," I say. "Flirt much?"

"You're not serious." He pushes out of the pool and onto the patio.

"You look so cute together."

"Knox, seriously?" He's smiling, shaking water from his ear. "You're jealous?"

Alice is doing water acrobatics in the shallow end. She does a back flip, flashing a skinny patch of peach pubic hair. "Not really," I say, a little let down by my own apathy.

"Take off your clothes." He grabs at me with icy fingers.

"Put yours back on." I toss a towel over his crotch.

"Why aren't you swimming?"

"Big dinner. Might drown." Do I stay? Go? Being home feels the same as being here. Crummy. "Have you tried Molly's limoncello?" Molly: Kate's mom.

"Gimme some." He takes my gla.s.s and guzzles what's left.

"It's not Jager," I say, annoyed, grabbing it back. "You're supposed to sip it."

He winces, grinning. Then he gets up, lobs me with his towel, and does a running leap back into the night.

Lit. Murphy's back. He doesn't look any different-glowy or proud or more like a parent. He looks like he's always looked: messy, exhausted, a little lopsided, preppy. Babies should change you, right? Make you seem more mature, more legit or, like, brighten your complexion?

"Essays . . ." He's walking up my aisle now, dropping papers on desks. I look quickly at Julian, who's looking back, impa.s.sively, while fondling the corners of his three-ring binder.

"Stick around after cla.s.s, please?" Murphy says this. He's talking low and knocking the back of my chair with his wedding ring.

"Will do," I say, darting my eyes back to Julian. Has he talked to anyone yet? Officer Walsh? He looks a little green. Is that guilt? Gloominess? His head is down, so I look away at the wall, not sure what I was expecting to leach out of three seconds of lingering eye contact.

"I know," I say to Murphy moments later, without prompting.

"So where is it?" he asks, kicking the seat of an empty inst.i.tutional chair. My essay, he means. "Sit."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize, just turn your work in on time."

"No, I know. I've been a little-I'm not-" I stop, start again: "I'm preoccupied."

His face darkens. He kicks the chair again. "Sit."

I sit. I look down at Murphy's loafers, which are splattered with something yellow and thin. Baby formula? Baby vomit? "You had a baby," I whisper, mindlessly.

He laughs. "I did."

I slap a hand over my mouth, mortified. "Sorry . . . Jesus."

"No, no-no apologies. I had a baby, yeah. A girl, Adeline."

"Sweet name." I drop my hand, straightening up. "Congrats."

"Thanks." His expression settles into something earnest. "Adrienne."

"Hmm?"

"This isn't you."

"What?"

"You've never not turned in work."

I touch my chest as if to say, Me? So silly and insincere. Not sure why I do it.

"If you need to talk to someone . . ."

"I don't need to talk to anyone." Then, "That sounded s.h.i.tty-I-s.h.i.t." Another hand over my mouth. "Sorry. Sorry about the swearing . . ."

He waves it off, leaning back.

"I'm okay, I just-I need an extension. On the essay."

"Okay. So . . . what are we talking? Another week?"

I nod, shrug, push my luck: "Or, like, a week and a half?"

"Get up," he says.

I get up.

"Okay." We shake on it. "So . . . a week and a half from today is . . . what?"

"Monday? I mean, not this Monday, but the following Monday? . . . ish?"

"A week from Monday. The . . ." He's doing the math in his head. "Seventeenth? Don't quote me on that."

I smile, thanking him breathlessly, heading for the exit.

"Adrienne."

I stop. "Yeah?"

"Do me a favor? Just-check in with your counselor? Please?"

I wave one hand high, as if to say, sure, absolutely, but I give him no verbal commitment.

Me, Lee, and Kate are at some ma.s.sive party off Mulholland, just above Runyon Canyon. I don't know whose house this is, but it's big and beige: blank walls, cream-colored carpet, vertical blinds.

"Happy!" Kate screams, shaking my shoulders, smiling psychotically. "Be a happy little bunny!"

I laugh. Kate's crazy. Lee's elsewhere fetching drinks. "Trying," I say, and really, I am. I want to like my life. I want to like my friends, myself.

"Know what you need?"

I tilt my head sideways. Kate leans forward and plants a small, soft kiss on my cheek. Tickles. "Cute, right? Tiny kisses. My new move."

"Totes. Super cute."

Then: "What're you wearing?"

I look down. Long, black jersey knit. "New dress."

"So serious," she says, wiggling one eyebrow. "Weren't you having, like, a Francophile moment just last week? Baguettes, berets, Frenchy tunes?"

"I was."

"And this?"