“Umm,” is all I say. I almost tell him, I have a boyfriend, but instead look around the store, both feeling its hollowness and wondering when I’ll see that boyfriend again. My body feels him. “People died here today,” I say.
Mr. Blue Apron is quiet, and I’m quiet back. I don’t know what he thinks. I try to remember the shooting victims, who were alive this morning, today, when we ate Chinese with ski-society Peg, this crabby woman I’ll probably never see again even if we had shared one meal and she’d ignored me through it. But my brain jars off in other directions, like an amusement park teacup ride. For a minute I think Mr. Blue Apron might be one of those guys who says, Can I at least get a hug?, but he isn’t, and I like him more for that.
“You’re right,” he says finally. “Well, thanks for talking to me.” He walks up the aisle, around the corner, and is gone. I want to call after him I’m sorry, but instead I’m left with Muzak and the long walk to the parking lot. The store manager himself mans the register, probably because the usuals were afraid to come in. Or worse. The manager nods at me like a school principal. I feel guilty for not buying anything and mostly, for not offering any real help to anyone.
In my car, Delia has the heat on high and is telling her mom “fine” on the phone. Candles flicker by the flower bouquets in the parking lot. For a second I imagine them whooshing up in flames, burning so brightly you’d see them from space.
“What did she say?” I ask her.
Delia turns slowly, horror movie possession victim-like. “He’s hot for you.” (I groan.) “It’s fine,” she says. “You work Ernie into a jealous rage over Albertsons guy.”
“What about your mom?” I say, turning down the radio. Isn’t one jealous rage enough for the day? The heater hisses, and waves roll in my stomach again.
“Don’t turn that down,” she says.
I slap her hand. “It’s my car.”
Delia puts her feet on the dashboard and stares outside. “I can’t believe that didn’t freak you out.” She drops her forehead to her knees, muffling her voice. “I almost threw up in there.”
“No, you didn’t,” I say, but I’m not sure. Maybe I should have thrown up, but I was too busy dwelling on Ernie. I play with the door locks then tell myself to stop.
“You get it, right?” she says, head still on her knees. “Why I’d be upset?”
“Yeah,” I say. “It’s so weird in there.”
She’s quiet a second. “My dad?”
“I know,” I say. And I did. I’d just forgotten for a minute. And wondered if she ever did. “I’m sorry.”
“Meatballs,” she says to her knees. “I don’t know if I can eat, but now Gregory wants meatballs. We should go to King Soopers.” She looks up. “But first, we should go see Ernie.”
“No. I’ve tried him already,” I say, “Like thirty thousand times today.”
“Lindsay,” she says.
“What’s the point?” It’s all messed up, I want to tell her. Something is wrong. I did something wrong. “Aren’t I supposed to make him chase me? Not run after him like a maniac?”
“He’s already your boyfriend,” Delia says, tracing a finger through window steam. “We have to tell him it’s not okay to ignore you.” She lowers her voice. “How was the ‘movie’ last night?”
“Nothing happened,” I lie.
“You’re lying.”
“I’m not,” I lie again. Last year she told me several times she had slept with some guy at summer camp, though it seemed she was making it up. I want her to remain the expert because I need someone to go to for advice. “I wasn’t ready,” I say.
We pull onto Kipling Blvd where traffic lights rock in the cold, same as last night and the nights and nights to come.
I don’t see Ernie’s car when we drive through the Bowles Crossing parking lot. His co-workers say he’s been missing all day. Sorry, they say, offering free popcorn. It takes half an hour to reach Ernie’s dad’s apartment, but the living room light flashes off just as we pull up to the front sidewalk.
“Go in,” Delia says.
“I can’t,” I say. I can’t chance a conversation with his dad. It’s irrational since he worked an all-nighter last night, but I’m sure he knows everything. Or what if the light flash is Ernie himself, seeing my car and ducking away? But Ernie’s car isn’t there, his unmistakable “babyshit green” Volvo. Such an ugly car but I like it.
“Go in,” Delia says again.
“What’s the point?” I say, driving back towards 285. We weave through his dad’s neighborhood—all-night taco stands and liquor stores, shoebox apartments lit by billboards and fried chicken signs. Then blocks and blocks of small brick homes, yards scattered with bikes, doors dark and locked up for the night, only guard dogs and those watching Letterman still up.
Delia sees him first, huddled with a few guys our age smoking under a chain basketball net. Someone unschooled may think drug deal or gang, but these are kids I’ve seen in the hallways, just never talked to. Maybe kids with parents working night shifts or not home at all, believing when their kids tell them they’ll be elsewhere studying. Not sitting in the dark in 30-degree weather.
Then there’s Ernie, shadows sliding down his face, his profile looking skeletal in its hardness. And his expression when he first sees me, before he thinks to tailor in any way what comes naturally, is blankness, even annoyance. Definitely annoyance. That hollowness I felt at Albertsons returns, but iced over and freezer-burned.
“Lindsay?” he says.
He isn’t happy to see me. I can tell by his face. He doesn’t even stand but sits within his mound of friends.
I hear Delia close the car door behind me. “We stopped by your dad’s place,” I say. “I was worried.”