Chapter Twelve
Sal is wearing a green bow tie today. His meaty cheeks squish against his eyes when he smiles. He accosts me as soon as I get to the library.
“Sweetheart! You’ll never believe it.” He shoves his phone in my face. “Look!”
“Wow,” I say, not entirely sure what I’m looking at. Sal is shaking with excitement, so I can’t get a good look at his screen. “Sal, hold it still so I can see.”
“Sorry, I’m too excited.” He thrusts it in my face so close the screen goes blurry.
“Let me hold it.” I grab the phone out of his hands, and finally focus on the picture. All I see is an orange blob.
“What exactly am I looking at here?” I say, tilting my head.
“Ultrasound of the kid! Isn’t he beautiful?”
“Ohhhh.” I squint. How this orange blob can be eggplant baby, I do not know. “That’s amazing,” I say, handing the phone back to him.
“Did you see his hands? You can see his fingers.” Sal pinches the screen, zooming in on a particularly blobby section. “We never could’ve seen something like this back when Marjorie was born.”
I can’t bear to tell him that I can’t make out any human features on his screen, so I smile and nod. “It’s beautiful, Sal.”
“I can send it to you. Are you on Facebook?” He opens the Facebook app and looks at me expectantly.
“Oh, it’s Bennet Taylor. I think I’m the only one.” My phone buzzes when he sends the request.
“I’ll post everything to my wall too so you won’t miss a thing.”
I’ve never seen someone so excited about anything; it would be a crime to shut him down. “I can’t wait to see the updates,” I say with a genuine smile.
“I got him this little sleep sack that’s shaped like a football. You gotta see it.” He starts scrolling through his photos, but his sausage fingers can’t keep up with his brain and he keeps pressing the wrong pictures.
“Maybe we should get to our desk first, Sal.”
“Shoot. You’re right.” He tucks his phone away and whispers, “I forgot we’re on the clock.”
Sal and I settle in at our desk outside the forum—I gather enough information from the people checking in to know it’s some kind of psychology event. We get into such a rhythm, handing out lanyards and swag bags, that I barely notice someone call my name.
“There is no way the world is this small,” he says, stepping up to my desk, a huge boyish grin spread across his face.
Of all people in this world, of all people on this godforsaken planet, Henry.
“What are the odds?” He leans on the table, cheeks pink from the heat outside.
“Are you secretly a psychologist?” I ask, looking him up and down.
He shakes his head and points to my clipboard. “Vendor. I’m here to take photos.”
I scan the clipboard looking for confirmation, and sure enough, there’s his name. “Really?”
He shrugs. “Yeah.”
“Don’t be mad,” I say, “but when you said you were a photographer I assumed it was in a hipster thirty-five-millimeter way and not, like…a real way.”
“Believe it or not, people actually pay me to do this sometimes.” His eyes flick to Sal. “Sorry, hi. I’m Henry. Bennet’s friend.”
There’s two people I never thought would meet each other.
“Nice to meet you.” Sal stands to shake Henry’s hand. He aggressively pats Henry on the back. The man coached high school football for decades, he knows how to pat a guy on the back. “Hey, do you want to see something?”
Henry nods. “Sure.”
Sal shoves the phone in his face like he did to me. Henry’s eyes light up right away. “Who’s this?”
“My grandson!”
He takes the phone from Sal and zooms in. “Wow.” His eyes scan the screen, his jaw hanging slack before he smiles in awe. He takes it in, takes it seriously. He gives a shit. I don’t know why, but it makes my stomach somersault.
He holds the phone up to compare it with Sal’s face. “He looks just like you.”
It’s like he knows what to say to slice through the hearts of everyone around him.
Big, emotional Sal starts tearing up. “That’s crazy that you said that. I was thinking the same thing.”
“You must be so proud.” Henry shakes his hand. “Congratulations.”
“Bennet, I like this guy,” Sal says, half crying, half laughing.
“Everybody does,” I say.
“Everybody?” Henry glances at me, smirking.
I roll my eyes. “Don’t push it.”
“Hey,” Sal says, shoving his phone at Henry. “What’s your Facebook? I’m going to put you two in a group chat.”
Henry joins the group without a second thought.
Sal practically squeals as he sends us the ultrasound photo over Messenger. Both of our phones light up at the same time, and I find myself smiling in silent thanks at Henry.
“Here,” I say, handing Henry a vendor pass. “The event is through the doors behind us. Have fun.”
“Thanks.” Henry slides the lanyard over his neck and adjusts the large camera bag on his shoulder. He disappears into the forum behind me, and I feel suddenly off balance.
A real photographer. Henry is a real photographer who gets paid real money to take real pictures. I imagined him failing at his goals like me, but he’s not. He’s doing it. It’s equally admirable as it is depressing.
···
After an hour or so, the flow of check-ins slows down, and Sal and I are left to twiddle our thumbs. Of course, to Sal, that means sending Henry and me a constant stream of ultrasound photos in the group chat.
Despite being on the job, Henry responds to almost every one of Sal’s messages with enthusiasm. I find myself wanting to watch him in action, see how he works.
“Hey,” I say, leaning toward Sal. “Would you mind if I snuck inside to watch for a bit?”
Sal shakes his head. “Go ahead, sweetheart, I got it under control here.”
“Thanks,” I say, scooting out of my chair and through the door of the forum. When I enter the room, I’m still caught off guard by its beauty, despite seeing it once before. It feels like standing in an observatory, inches away from the stars.
Henry’s on the far side of the room, watching the speaker intently, camera at the ready. I follow the line of his camera lens toward the stage, where a tall man with a salt-and-pepper beard is speaking.
I hold my breath when I see the name of his talk on the screen behind him:
Helping Patients Heal through Grief
Keynote Speaker, Dr. Carlos Barrera, PsyD
Everyone is scribbling in their notepads vigorously, retaining everything he says. Henry’s camera clicks in the distant background of my mind. I swallow hard. My heart thunders against my rib cage as I zero in on Dr. Barrera.
He’s in the middle of telling a story about a patient he calls Ross, who lost his wife after fifty-two years of marriage. Ross felt physical pain in his chest after his wife’s death that led to several trips to the hospital. Turns out, Ross was carrying a suitcase of guilt with him wherever he went. Guilt that he wasn’t in the room when his wife passed, guilt because he felt like he deserved to die first, guilt because he didn’t tell her he loved her one last time. The guilt distracted him from the pain, and the pain manifested itself physically in his chest.
I’m mesmerized by Dr. Barrera, by his words. I can’t move.
Sam, Sam, Sam is all I hear.
My throat tightens and my teeth clench. I try to hold back the inevitable tears spilling out of my eyes, but I fail miserably. My lungs start to burn, and I let out a puff of air in a desperate sigh.
“You okay?”
Henry’s voice shocks me back to reality. He’s right next to me, and I have no idea how long he’s been standing there, how much he saw.
I turn away, taking a deep breath to clear away the moment. “I’m fine.” I dash toward the exit, hiding my face.
Sal is at the desk, scrolling on his phone, when I bluster through the door.
“Sweetheart,” he says, concerned. “What’s wrong?”
I shake my head and swallow the knot in my throat. “I just need a second. Can you watch the desk?”
“Of course,” he says, the crinkles between his eyebrows deepening with concern. “Take your time.”
I splash some water on my face in the bathroom and compose myself. Now is not the time to fall apart. Now is not the time to miss Sam. As if I have a choice. As if missing Sam isn’t a part of my DNA. As if I weren’t just reminded of how much I ache. How I feel like a weight thrown into the ocean, sinking slowly down, and no matter how hard I kick, no matter how many life preservers I’m thrown, I can’t help but fall farther and farther into darkness. How badly I wish I could jump out of this life into another one. Another one where Sam is still here and maybe I’m not. I’d trade. I really would.
I step out of the bathroom, pausing before returning to my desk. I breathe in through my nose, trying to force my body to go back there, but, as if on instinct, I turn the other way.
I pick a stairwell and I climb. I hear the clacking of my shoes echo against the marble walls, the monotonous sound rattling around in my brain. I explore hallways, turning down different corners, not bothering to refer to a map as I lose myself in the labyrinth.
Eventually I get spit out in a room that feels like a Gothic cathedral. I let my eyes take in the beauty, the intricacy of the large wooden tables lined up, row by row, each with a lamp in the center, the stacks of books lining the walls, the massive arched windows letting light from the outside in. Paintings of rosy clouds on the ceiling are surrounded by deep brown and gold carved panels. Light-encrusted chandeliers hang from the sky in rows. Long shadows slant over the floors like fingers reaching from the windows to the books. Even the shadows want to grab the beauty and hold on. Some people sit at the tables, heads slumped over a thick book or a laptop, typing or reading or staring off into the distance.
I walk down the center of the room, trying not to disturb the stark silence in here. I breathe in the scent of paper and dust and wood—listen to the periodic turning of a page, the muffled click of a keyboard. My body thrums with adrenaline, as if it knows I’m not supposed to be here. I’m not a scholar. I’m not anyone. But the silence, the beauty, the proudness of this room make me pause, make it hard to leave.
Sam would’ve loved this.
I sit in a chair at an empty table, massaging my temple with my fingers as I breathe in and out, slowly, steadily. I don’t know how long I sit here, but it’s enough time that when I get up to leave, I don’t feel like crumpling anymore.
···
I gather my things at my desk. Sal and most of the other conference people have left by now—turns out I missed the end of the session. Probably missed Henry too.
I duck my head low as I make my way toward the door, but his voice stops me.
“Bennet, wait.” I turn around to see Henry hauling his bag over his shoulder, heading toward me. “You disappeared,” he says. “I asked Sal where you went and he didn’t know, so I waited.”
My insides brighten a bit. “Why?” I ask.
“I wanted to see if you wanted to hang out,” he says, adjusting the strap of his bag on his arm. “So…want to hang out?”
I’m shaken from the grief talk and tired from working, which normally would lead to an afternoon spent refilling my social battery at home by myself…but suddenly spending the day with Henry seems safe. Almost as good as being alone.
“Sure,” I say, nodding, “okay.”
As we step outside onto the busy sidewalk, the sun beats down on us. Sweat collects under my arms.
“It’s gorgeous out,” Henry says as he blocks the sun with his hand.
“We could go to the park,” I suggest.
“I’ve got to stop at my apartment and drop off all this stuff, but it’s right near my favorite spot.” My stomach drops at the idea of his apartment. Going inside. Seeing if he’s messy or clean. Seeing his shoes stacked up at the door. Knowing what kind of soap he uses.
“Your apartment.” I shudder. “So intimate.”
“Not for normal people,” he says.
“Not normal, Henry,” I remind him.
“True,” he says. “Still.”
Henry’s apartment is in the nosebleeds of Manhattan, all the way up in Inwood. It’s a small neighborhood, lined with corner stores and red brick. No tall buildings. It’s nice.
“This is me,” he says when we stop at his stoop.
“I’ll wait outside,” I say as I watch him dig in his pocket for his key.
“Come on,” he says, jamming the key into the lock. “Two seconds. That’s all you have to endure.”
I roll my eyes. “Fine.”
We head up a couple creaky, carpeted stairs to his apartment door. Inside is a tiny studio, jam-packed with heavy furniture and photography equipment. There’s a full-sized bed with an olive-green comforter and two sets of pillows, a small bedside table, a dresser, and a desk with a monitor. On the other side, there’s a tiny kitchenette with a microwave, mini-fridge, sink, and an oven next to a bathroom door that’s slightly cracked open. The white walls are bare except for a framed picture of a mountain range. There’s a pair of fuzzy slippers haphazardly tossed on the floor by his bed.
“These are cute.” I compare one of the slippers with the size of my own foot. It’s considerably larger. “They look like something my grandma would wear.”
“I’d like to meet your grandma,” he says as he digs in a dresser drawer for a change of clothes.
I turn my attention to a small pile of rocks sitting on top of the dresser. “Oh my god. You weren’t kidding. You actually have a rock collection?”
“Mm-hm.” He bends down to open another drawer.
I walk toward him and peer over his shoulder to view the collection of little rocks, which are more like pretty little treasures than pet rocks with googly eyes glued on. I let my eye wander briefly to the open drawer he’s rifling through. He slowly turns his head toward me, raising a suspicious eyebrow. “Curious about my underwear drawer?”
My whole body gets hot. “I wasn’t looking at that.” Lie.
“It’s okay, weirdo,” he says, closing that drawer and opening the one below it.
I pick up a bright red rock. “Where’s this one from?”
“Sedona.”
I’m standing too close to him, and the blood in my stomach buzzes with energy. There isn’t any space to breathe in this apartment. My apartment is small and stuffy and dark, but at least we have more than one room. Henry’s is just a tiny cube, all for him.
“Does it have a name?”
He smirks. “Darth Maul.”
I set it back in its place next to the others. “I’m embarrassed for you.”
“If you keep making fun of me, I’m not going to show you my bug collection.”
“You have a bug collection?”
He smirks, tapping his finger on the top of the dresser. “No. Although I did see a silverfish in the bathroom once.”
I exhale, relieved. “When did you move in here?”
“When I came back from Denver.”
“I’m surprised you live alone.”
He shuts the dresser drawer with his hip. “Why?”
“I don’t know, you seem like you like to be around a bunch of people all the time.”
“Just because I like being around people doesn’t mean I don’t also like being alone.” He tucks the clothes under his arm and heads toward the bathroom. “You can sit down if you want. I’ll only be a minute.”
The door shuts behind him.
There’s a desk chair, but it’s currently holding Henry’s photography equipment, which leaves me with the only option of sitting on his bed. I perch on the corner with about a quarter of my ass cheek. My quads are on fire.
“Quite the commute to the restaurant,” I call out.
“It’s a pain in the ass, but I like it there,” he responds from behind the door.
“I saw a movie with Sarah the other day,” I say.
“No way.” He bursts through the door in his change of clothes. His blue T-shirt is tight against his shoulders and highlights the contours of his muscles. I notice myself staring at him a second too long and snap my eyes away.
Muscles don’t feel like a completely platonic thing to notice about someone.
“She’s friends with my roommate’s girlfriend, Jamie.” I get up from his bed, hoping I didn’t leave too big an indentation. “She said she knew you.”
“You talking about me when I’m not around?” he asks, crossing his arms.
“No, I just—do you know her?”
“Jamie?” He scratches his chin, frowning. “I don’t think I know a Jamie.”
I tuck my hair behind my ear, feeling the heat rise in my body. “She said that you worked together before you moved to Denver. Remember? Jamie?”
Henry pauses, looking away as if he’s collecting his thoughts. Then he returns to me. “Wait, Jamie Kiernan?” he asks, head tilted. “Short hair? Always wearing a leather jacket? I know Jamie.”
“Yes. Jamie Kiernan.” I squint at him. “How long did you work together?” I ask.
“Um…” He bites his bottom lip. “I don’t remember. It was a long time ago. The staff is all different now.”
“Oh.” I reach for my bag on the floor, tossing it over my shoulder. But Sarah knew Jamie and Henry both, and so did Kevin, so the staff can’t be all that different. “Should I tell her you say hi?”
“Sure!” he says, enthusiastic. “Yeah. It’s been a while.” He reaches into the fridge and grabs a couple of spiked seltzers and then hands one to me.
“Ready?”