Perfect Tunes - Emily Gould Page 0,31
were determined to eke out fun wherever and however it might be found. The men hit on her, of course, but there was something in their eyes, even among the drunker ones, that made the most lecherous things they said tolerable. Everyone had to acknowledge one another’s shared humanity, or something. Everyone was just so glad not to be dead.
Even after tipping out the bartenders, she’d made more than she usually did in a week in that one night. For the first time, she allowed herself to hail a cab to get home, even though it wasn’t a long walk. She tipped the cabbie 100 percent of the tiny fare and danced up the stairs to the apartment, feeling only a little bit ashamed of how euphoric she felt. It was unseemly, at a time when so many people were mourning, to feel so happy, especially because it was their misery that had, indirectly, caused Laura to be able to feel accepted and useful. But she couldn’t help the way she felt.
Callie was sitting at the kitchen table in her beautiful kimono, chain-smoking. Laura couldn’t keep the joy out of her voice as she greeted her; she was excited to tell her how much money she’d made. Maybe they could look for a bigger apartment soon, one that actually had a separate room for Laura to sleep in. Callie looked up at her, and Laura saw that her usually immaculate makeup was smudged, black mascara leaving streaks down her cheeks.
“Something terrible happened,” she said.
“Oh my God. Where was it this time?” Laura hadn’t heard anything or smelled anything different, and she hadn’t heard sirens. The streets were still somewhat deserted, but that was normal now. They were under attack.
“They found Dylan. They were staying in a hotel with a pool. He can’t swim, I guess? He didn’t know how to swim, but he was in the pool. Everyone was fucked up, I mean, I’m sure they were. I don’t think he meant to. Oh God.” Callie started crying too hard to keep talking.
“He’s in the hospital?”
Callie’s face was down, her shoulders were shaking. “He’s dead, Laura. By the time they found him he’d been underwater too long. They couldn’t bring him back.”
Her first thought was of the incredibly unsatisfying way they’d said goodbye. Or really, the way they hadn’t; she and Callie had left the house in the chilly early morning, before even Dylan’s parents were awake; they’d had to continually keep feeding and shushing the dog as they waited for the cab to take them to the bus station. It had seemed important to be secretive, mostly so as not to offend Daisy, who might feel that her heroic drive down to the city to get them and keep them safe had been in vain. But Laura had also wanted to avoid a conversation with Dylan about why she didn’t want to stay there any longer. Even so, she hadn’t been able to resist going in at the last minute to kiss his sleeping face. His dirty-blond hair had been greasy and spilling across the pillow like a girl’s. He’d stirred and half woken, tried to pull her back into bed with him, and she’d even thought about letting him, missing the train, staying. But what then? He was going to LA soon anyway; what difference did another day together make? He’d kissed her one last time before slipping back into a doze. She’d had the uncomfortable feeling that he’d been about to say her name but hadn’t quite trusted himself to remember what it was.
She decided to wait for the pain on their building’s roof. She gathered a few supplies—some cigarettes, the Pyrex measuring cup they used for coffee that she filled with water, a warm hooded OSU sweatshirt. Still in her black work clothes, she climbed the small, filthy final flight of stairs to the rooftop and picked a corner facing southeast, then just sat there, waiting.
The sky was beginning to glow purple; the sun was preparing to rise. The noise from the street below picked up a few notches in intensity as the city, which had been oddly still, began to come to life for the day. It had to, despite everything that had happened. It had no other choice. Laura lit another cigarette, more for something to do than because she really wanted it, and smoked it as slowly as she could as the sun breached the lower corner of the horizon, sending neon orange