Parallel

good,” I tell him. “You should call her.”
    “Yeah, maybe,” he says. But I know he won’t. It’s hard to know how to feel about it, especially since neither of them seems unhappy about how things ended up. Tyler has a new girlfriend at Michigan that he’s crazy about, and Caitlin can’t stop talking about the guy she met last week at STARRY, Yale’s astronomy club, who’s probably just a Ben replacement but a welcome one. Who knows, maybe Caitlin’s right. Maybe it’s better this way, maybe Caitlin and Tyler weren’t meant to be after all. I’m not sure I buy it—Tyler’s girlfriend calls her girl parts “the V-train” and Caitlin’s Astronomy Boy wears multiple shirts with popped collars (all pastel and all polo and all at the same time)—but I beat myself up less if I pretend that I do.
    “Ilana’s in town,” Tyler says then. “Visiting her parents for Thanksgiving. I ran into her yesterday at a gas station.”
    “How’s she doing?”
    “Pretty well, I think,” he replies. “Better.” My spirits lift just a little. “She told me to thank you for the journal you sent,” he says. “She said she’s been writing in it every day.”
    With all the drama of Halloween and its aftermath, I’d forgotten I’d sent it. I found it at a bookstore off campus, misshelved in the religion section, wedged between Kempis and Kierkegaard. It was pink, Ilana’s favorite color, and had the word REMEMBER imprinted on the cover. I sent it with a purple pen and a note telling her that no matter what her doctors were saying, she shouldn’t be discouraged. There are always anomalies.
    “Think she’d mind if I stopped by to see her while she’s here?” I ask him.
    “I think she’d love it,” Tyler replies. “But seriously? You and Ilana?”
    “We have more in common than you’d think,” I say, and smile.
    I follow Tyler down the basement stairs. Josh is muttering angrily at the TV screen, immersed in a game of Street Fighter. He doesn’t see me at first, giving me thirty unadulterated seconds to assess. Bags under his eyes. Bedhead hair. The makings of a scruffy straw-colored beard.
    He looks like hell. But even unshowered and unshaven and unrested, he’s cute. Cuter now, like this, than he ever was in my head. I feel my pulse quicken just looking at him. Get a grip, Abby.
    Tyler looks at me, waiting for me to say something. “Hey, Josh,” I offer. Josh’s head jerks up at the sound.
    “What are you doing here?”
    “Uh, I—”
    “She brought me Thanksgiving leftovers,” Tyler interjects, holding up the half-eaten container.
    “I did! Leftovers.” I bob my head for emphasis.
    Josh tosses the controller on the couch and stands up. “I should probably take off,” he tells us, not looking at me. “I told Martin I’d help him with something.”
    This is most definitely a lie.
    “Can we talk?” These words fly out, followed by a rambling flurry of unnecessary explanation. “I know you hung up on me last night, which I guess means you don’t want to talk to me, but I really want you to. You don’t have to, of course. It’s not like you owe me anything. But I hate the way we left things yesterday, and I thought that maybe if we could just talk . . .” I trail off, imploring eyes locked on his flat gaze.
    “You want to talk .” He says this like it’s a joke, his words laced with irony.
    “Yes. Please?”
    He eyes me, unblinking. I blush under the weight of his stare. “Okay,” he says finally. His shoulders rise and fall in a dismissive shrug. “Let’s talk.”
    “Should I go upstairs?” Tyler asks, a deviled egg in each cheek.
    I look at Josh. “Are you up for a walk?” He doesn’t respond but reaches for the maroon fleece slung over the arm of the couch. There’s an oar and the words USC CREW stitched in golden thread on the lapel.
    “You kids have fun,” Tyler says, plopping down on the couch. “I may be in a food coma when you get back. Don’t wake me.”
    Josh follows me upstairs and out the front door. No particular route in mind, I just set off down the street, which is still wet from last night’s rain.
    Josh falls into step beside me. When I look over at him, he’s staring straight ahead, his expression blank. Totally unreadable. Is he always like this? I wish I knew him well enough to know. All I have are a couple of months’ worth of year-old memories that aren’t even mine.
    We’re halfway down the block before I realize I left my sweater