You Have Seven Messages by Stewart Lewis Page B

and nods. I notice that he has very blue eyes. “I could spare a couple.”
    Back inside the coffee shop, a bunch of people are crouched over their laptop screens, and it smells like cinnamon. The sun has overwarmed the place, so I take off my sweater. We sit down at a corner table.
    “This is Luna,” Oliver says, “and from what we understand you were close with her mother.”
    When Cole realizes who I am, he looks at the floor, then out the window, then at his fingernails—anywhere but into my eyes. Oliver excuses himself to go to the bathroom and I start to talk softly.
    “Look, I just want to know what happened. Were you with her at Butter the night she died?”
    “Yes.” He finally looks me in the eyes. “I can’t believe how much you’ve grown. I met you once but you were … little.”
    I plop the cuff links down on the table.
    “Are these yours?”
    Now he looks a little scared. He picks up the cuff links and turns them around in his cupped hand as if they dropped from the sky.
    “Were you there when she got hit by the cab?”
    He looks at me again, his bright eyes burning into mine.
    “How did you find me?”
    “What does it matter?”
    He sips his coffee and his phone rings. He hits muteand puts it in his pocket. I try to see what my mother saw in him. He’s attractive, but maybe he’s like a smooth stone that when turned over reveals darkness underneath. Oliver comes back and sits close, fortifying me.
    “Look, it was no one’s fault. Your dad, he was very distraught.”
    “Duh,” Oliver says.
    “Listen, are you two allowed to be …”
    “No, we’re skipping kindergarten,” I say.
    His phone buzzes again.
    “Luna, listen … your mother was a … friend of mine. I am so sorry about what happened.”
    “Just a friend?” Oliver is skeptical.
    “It’s complicated,” he says. “I’d be happy to talk to you about this further but I have a meeting.” He stands up, bows slightly, then leaves in a daze.
    Oliver and I don’t say anything for a while. Cole has left us calculating in silence. Oliver’s phone rings again and I see it’s his father. He makes a grunting noise and answers it. He walks to the corner and I can tell he is very frustrated. When he finishes the call, he looks up at the ceiling for a minute, as if praying.
    On the way uptown our subway car is empty. I rest my head on Oliver’s shoulder and he brushes his fingers along the underside of my wrist. I listen to the rumble and try to let it drown out the thoughts in my head.
    The last time I saw my mother was the day I left for camp. I came into her room and she and my father were sitting on opposite sides of the bed, facing away from each other. She turned and motioned me toward her, hugged me a little too desperately.
    “Make sure you keep in touch while you’re up there,” she said with damp eyes. She was wearing a wispy red scarf tied loosely around her neck. I wasn’t sure if her fragile state was because I was leaving, or if something had happened before I walked into the room. Had they been talking about Cole? Then my father abruptly stood up and said, “Let’s get this show on the road.” It was not the sort of thing he would say, and even though I could sense something was wrong, I was too wrapped up in my own world: the anticipation of camp, who my counselor was going to be, which kids were going to return, whether I had packed everything I needed. Now, as the train continues to barrel through the dark underground, I wonder how I could’ve been so immune to those moments, those signs that I can only see now, after it has all happened, after she’s gone. For the most part they were happy, and I guess I bought into all the good stuff so much that I was in denial about what was underneath. It’s like that line Richard quotes about Mrs. Dalloway, “Always throwing parties to cover the silence.” My parents did entertain a lot, and that is when you put on your game face. I am just so curious now.