Parallel

door is closed.
    “What time is it?” my mom yells from the sink.
    “Eight nineteen,” Dad and I say in unison.
    “Could I do what now?” he asks.
    “Forward Josh’s email. I really need to see it.”
    “Sure,” Dad says. “Lemme just go get my BlackBerry.” He disappears into the living room.
    “What did happen between you two?” Mom asks as she studies her to-do list. “Was it the distance?”
    I feel nauseous. If my mom is asking about the distance, it means Josh and I must’ve still been together when I left for Yale. Never did I consider that Caitlin might have been wrong: that Josh and I might’ve lasted beyond prom, and even past graduation. Okay, maybe I considered it, but I told myself it wasn’t possible. Only a certain caliber of high school relationships last past high school. The word “LOVE” is pressing in on me, but I will it away.
    “Uh, yeah,” I tell her. “The distance.” Too bad I don’t even know what kind of distance we’re talking about. I rack my brain, trying to remember where Josh said he wanted to go to school. West Coast somewhere. For crew.
    “Does he know about Michael?” Mom asks as she disappears into the pantry.
    Another wave of nausea. The idea that there might’ve been an overlap makes my chest hurt. Is it still considered cheating if you don’t know you’re dating the guy you’re cheating on? “Not yet,” I manage.
    “Well, he’ll hear about it eventually,” she calls from the pantry. “I’m sure he’d rather it come from you.”
    Dad reappears with his BlackBerry. “Where am I sending it?” he asks.
    “Hotmail,” I tell him, surprised that he’s even asking. He knows I only use my Yale address for school stuff.
    “Done,” he says, and sets his BlackBerry on the counter. “Now back to Michael. What’s he studying? Am I allowed to ask him about that?”
    “Sure,” I say, distracted by the email that’s now waiting in my in-box. “I should get into the shower. I’m supposed to pick him up in an hour, and I still don’t know how far away he lives.”
    Taking the stairs two at a time, I book it to my bedroom. My dad’s email is the only unread message in my in-box. The subject line is “Alice in Coxswainland.” I click on it.
    Josh’s second reply message is the first one I see, sent from [email protected].
    University of Southern California. Yes, distance would definitely have been an issue.
Hey Mr. Barnes,
Abby stopped returning my calls and emails a few weeks back. So no, I don’t think I’ll see you over Thanksgiving. Hope you and Mrs. Barnes are doing well.
Take care,
Josh
    Holy terse. No pleasantries, no euphemisms. Just: Your daughter is a bitch. I keep reading. The message right below that one is from my dad.
Josh—Glad you enjoyed it! I thought you might. Will we see you at Thanksgiving? Anna is already scouring the internet for recipes.
Hope you’re doing well.
Best,
RB
P.S. Tell that daughter of mine that it’s rude not to respond to witty emails from her dad.
    I keep scrolling. At the very bottom is my dad’s original email, addressed to Josh and to me at [email protected], an address I’ve never seen before today.
    My heart is pounding as I type abigailhannahbarnes into the Gmail username box. Holding my breath, I type w-o-n-d-e-r-l-a-n-d in the password box and hit enter. Two seconds later, I’m staring at my sixty-eight unread messages. At least half of them are from Josh. I hover over the earliest one, sent October 31, 2009 at 7:08 a.m. PST.
    I take a breath and double-click.
Abby,
I just left you a vm. I really need to talk to you. I have a plan! Call me when you can. My cell’s not working, so call my landline. 310-555-1840.
J
    My rib cage contracts. Those calls on Halloween were from him. He’s the L.A. phone number I couldn’t place, the voice message I couldn’t retrieve. Even though I’ve only ever heard his voice in my head, I imagine how it would’ve sounded on my voicemail that morning, asking me to call him back and expecting that I would. But of course, I didn’t call him back. Not that day or since. I’m struck with a deep, hollow pang of regret. If I hadn’t lost my phone that morning, I would’ve eventually listened to his message. I’m not sure how I would’ve handled it, but I certainly wouldn’t have frozen the poor guy out. But now I have. Not for a day or a week, but for nearly a month.
    Chest tight and getting tighter, I click on a more recent message,