Page 143 of 72 Hours of You

“Who orders mushroom?” I ask when it’s just the two of us again.

“Fungis.”

“Wow, now I wish I had a clock over my head.”

Peter laughs. “Sometimes my dad’s voice is too loud in my head. It can’t be helped.”

I nod like I get it. But I don’t. I wish my mom’s voice was still in my head. But she’s barely a whisper anymore. Just little snippets. A laugh. The impression of lips on a hot forehead. A perfume I can’t place. A Sydney, do you have your water bottle? We’re going to be late for dance. But even those little bits get slipperier each year. Like trying to pinch water between your fingers. I’m not even sure if they’re real.

“How was your camping trip?” I ask, trying out this thing where I’m normal and talk to people about normal things.

A shadow crosses Peter’s face. “It was fine.” Now he’s the one who looks like he wants to smash the flower vase (which I’m actually pretty sure is plastic).

“Wow. I feel like I was there. You really know how to describe a scene.”

“It’s because of all the books I read.”

“Yeah, what’s up with that, by the way?”

“What’s up with all the books?” Peter looks surprised by the question. “Reading is cool. Haven’t you seen the posters in the library?”

“Yeah,” I say. “But the sheer number you consume. And the genre-hopping. It’s kind of … affected.”

“Damn.” Peter laughs. “I thought it was charming.”

“Could be both,” I say. Out loud.

Peter’s smiling at me like he won the lottery. It’s obscene. Only he could get this high off a half insult. He doesn’t even look up when Nose Ring drops our pizza off.

“Don’t try to make me out to be the weird one,” Peter says. “I’m not the one furiously annotating Martin Heidegger during every free period.”

“That’s …”

“No, I’m just kidding,” Peter says. “I get why you’re so obsessed with him.”

“Oh, do you?” No one gets why I’m obsessed with him.

“Sure,” he says, easily. “His theory on death.”

“I …” I’m about to say something sarcastic and horrible like Nah, Jews just really get off on reading books written by arrogant Nazis, but for once in my life I stop myself. Instead I just say, “Yeah.”

“He makes the whole dying thing seem … almost ideal,” Peter goes on. “Like hey, in that moment, the moment of death, you get to finally be your true self. It’s like …” He takes a bite of mushroom pizza. “It’s like all of life is actually leading up to death as the prize rather than the punishment.”

The cheese pizza is getting cold on my plate, but I can’t do anything but stare at Peter. Because holy shit, it’s like he can read my mind. Or I guess, at least read Heidegger. “I don’t even know if I think he’s right,” I say, finally.

“Yeah, but he could be,” Peter says. “He could be.”

“You guys doing okay?” Zia says. “Can I get you anything else?” She reaches out and touches Peter’s shoulder. “Anything?”

But Peter’s eyes are locked on mine. “Syd, are you okay?”

And no, no I am fucking not. Because a man has just walked in with a booming laugh and a gold watch glinting under the dim pizza lights, a blue button-down straining at his wrists.

Charles.

Fifteen

HE’S HERE. HE’S AFTER ME AGAIN.