31. Maya
Maya
I didn’t bring his sweatshirt to class. I didn’t bring it because I knew I couldn’t stand to be face to face with him and not ask how he’s doing.
I try my best to go back to normal, go to work and go to class and pretend like this huge, depressed elephant isn’t looming in the back of every room I walk into.
My days run together as I fade in and out of my sorrow.
Some times, I feel all right—I can go to work and fake a pleasant conversation with a client.
Other times, though, I realize I haven’t eaten a meal in over a day.
I catch a glimpse of the “memento vivere” on my ribcage and I want to cry.
I feel horrible for taking this as badly as I am, but it’s like there’s a clock in my mind counting down the days until he goes back to California.
There’s a clock in my head, driving me crazy, taunting me with the fact that I won’t be there when he needs someone most.
Dani and Chloe distract me. They bring me dinner; we have wine and movie nights.
One night in particular, we get caught up in a web of theories about the missing girls.
“It has to be why your step-dad moved here,” Chloe says to Dani, taking a sip of her moscato.
“I’m telling you, I seriously don’t know anything about Paul’s job or this case,” Dani answers in defense.
“Did they ever find that girl from Halloween?” I ask Chloe, remembering our conversation from a few months ago.
“Not that I know of,” she says.
“What about PAUnsolved?” I continue.
Chloe pulls out her phone, searching the anonymous account I shared with the two of them. Since the initial video about the Hanover, the account has uploaded a handful of videos about various missing girls in the last few months—the freshman who went missing on Halloween night being one of them.
The most recent video was from two weeks ago, where the voice-modulated narrator talks about some past cases that they think are involved in this whole mystery.
One of them is Beau Warren’s sister.
“Guys, stop. We can’t go digging into his business like this,” Dani says when Chloe switches to her browser app and types Gracie Warren in the search bar.
“It’s not his business if it’s all public record,” Chloe argues, clicking a news report from when the Warren girl first disappeared.
“It says she also went missing after a party—only she was in high school, not college,” I say, only slightly guilty as I read along.
“I wonder if she’s the youngest to go missing,” Chloe murmurs, thinking out loud.
She switches back over to the video, letting it play through. After each name, she pauses and searches the girls online, checking their ages and last known locations.
“Okay, yes, look!” Chloe says, excitedly.
She’s types all the girls initials down in her notes app, along with their ages, date of disappearance, and locations.
The narrator was right in his first video: all the more recent girls mentioned in the video are from the Hanover and southern Pennsylvania area.
However, some of the girls who went missing longer ago—closer to the ten year mark that the original video mentioned—actually lived in or around Baltimore, Maryland.
“Holy shit. It really could be a serial killer,” Dani says, voice low. “Paul moved us toward a serial killer who likes college-aged girls.”
“Not necessarily,” I say. “Gracie was only fifteen. And a few others were older.”
“This is insane,” Chloe says, clicking play and finishing the video. The narrator goes to explain that they still believe there’s an inside source keeping this case from being solved, and that they will keep posting updates as they uncover information.
“I’ve got to hand it to whoever made the account; they’ve got balls,” Chloe says, and I nod. “Publicly accusing someone in the federal government of being a serial killer or whatever…that’s bold.”
Living with Dani these past few weeks has been good for me emotionally. She was right, and a change of environment helped to pull me from my funk a little.
“We should probably go to the grocery store at some point today,” I recommend. We’ve officially lived in our new apartment for three weeks, and have identified all of the random little things we forgot to get on the first big trip to the store.
“Do you want to go now?” she asks. “I don’t have work until four.”
“Yeah, sure.”
Thirty minutes later, Dani and I are rounding the corner of an aisle, and my heart stops in my chest when I see Jamie, not three feet away, lifting a package of bottled water onto his shoulder.
“Shit,” I not so subtly whisper as I try to halt the momentum of my shopping cart, and Dani runs into my back.
Jamie’s head turns toward us, hearing the crashing sounds of all the items I have in the basket falling over. Our eyes connect, and he freezes, unsure what to say after I very nearly ran him over.
“Damn, Maya, what—” she looks up, and her words are abruptly cut off when she sees who I stopped walking in front of. “Oh.”
“Um, Dani, this is Jameson Booker. Jamie, this is my new roommate, old friend, Danielle.” I gesture between them awkwardly.
Jamie clears his throat, readjusting the heavy package of water on his arm. “Hey,” he greets, a small smile playing at his lips. “We met in Denver last year.”
“Yes,” Dani replies, “we did. How are you?”
His gaze bounces back to my face, and regret flickers behind his silver eyes before he masks it with a polite expression. “I’m good. How are you?”
“Good,” she returns. “Getting settled in after the move.” She shoves her shoulder into mine, and I remember the sweatshirt in my car.
“Jamie, I have the clothes you let me borrow in my car, if you want them back.” I try to keep my voice neutral, my words impersonal, but we both know it’s a facade.
“Oh…okay. I can meet you out there in a minute…if you want?” he suggests.
I nod, and Dani chips in with, “I can finish up here, Maya, if you want to go ahead.”
I look back to Jamie, to see what he says. “That’s fine. Let me go pay real quick.”
In the parking lot, I spot the Camaro near the back. After grabbing the sweatshirt and sweatpants from my car, I make my way over to wait for him to emerge from the store.
My stomach knots at the awkwardness and hesitation that had been coming off of him. He blocked my number; I tried to call and text him after everything happened, and nothing went through.
He’s successfully obliterated all the progress we’d made, and it makes me nauseous.
Yet, as I spot him walking toward me, I can’t stop the way my heart stutters in my chest.