mine, that it felt much better to be in here in this big beautiful space than it ever did to be at home, but that wasn’t saying much. Delia was the one who explained it to me the one time she ever came here. Ryan was out of earshot and she’d leaned over the edge of their giant leather sofa and stared at me in this really intense sort of googly-eyed way that she only did when she was already drunk. “Shit, J,” she said. She was holding one of their very soft throws, stroking it like a bunny. “Why didn’t you tell me that your love-ah was loa-ded ?” But things were already kind of weird between us at that point, so I didn’t say, “Wait, he is ?” which is what I was thinking in my head. Instead I shrugged like it was nothing.
Now I’m on the sofa and Ryan has gone into the kitchen area. I can still see him from where I sit.
“Are you sure you don’t want anything?” He opens the freezer. “You might feel a little better if you eat something.”
I shake my head. I’m underwater.
While Ryan puts things in the microwave, I look down at the phone in my lap, at the tiny icon on the screen – the message from Delia, which I still haven’t listened to. Which I can’t even bring myself to mention.
The microwave dings and Ryan takes out his plate, carries it to the couch, and sits down beside me. He pulls his laptop onto his lap and opens up the Kaninhus website, which is Swedish for “bunny house.” Basically there’s a guy in Sweden who has these two rabbits who live in a penned-in area in his backyard, and the guy keeps a webcam on them all day long. Ryan showed me the site when we first started seeing each other. “I really, I mean, I really, really like these bunnies,” he said, almost like he was embarrassed about it, which was what made it so charming. He told me his friends would think it was super weird if they knew. (His friends have an extraordinarily low bar for what weird is.) The bunnies mostly sniff around and wiggle their noses and eat stuff. We talk about them a lot, as though they are real and have hopes and dreams and complicated interior lives.
“Hi, Adi. Hi, Alva,” he says to the rabbits on the screen. He is using a terrible fake Swedish accent, which is another one of our couple things. “How are you today, bunnies?” One of the bunnies is eating from a little dish. The other is asleep.
I guess he’s trying to distract me, to keep my mind off things, as though somehow that’s possible. Or maybe it’s that he doesn’t know how to talk to me about her, to have this conversation at all. I sure as hell don’t either.
But I’m thinking how it feels wrong to be sitting here staring at these rabbits while Delia is dead.
And I’m thinking how Delia would say, I’m dead, what the fuck do I care? Watch the fucking bunnies if you want to. And then she’d curl up the corner of her mouth the way she did when she knew she was being sassy.
“How’s your screenplay going, Adi?” Ryan says.
Normally I’d join in, ask Alva about her slam poetry or something (because we pretend they’re both frustrated writers on a writing retreat in Sweden). Instead, I’m bursting with everything that I’m not saying about Delia.
I can’t hold it in anymore. My mouth opens up and the words tumble out. “I heard it wasn’t an accident.”
Ryan turns slowly, the smile gone from his face. “Wait, like, are you saying she . . .?”
I nod. “Did it herself.”
“Jesus. How?”
I don’t know. “But . . . there’s something else.” My heart is racing. I need to get this out. “She called me two days ago.” I hate hearing myself say this. I hate so much that it’s true. “But I just let it ring. She left me a voicemail. I didn’t listen to it at the time because I . . .” I stop. I didn’t because I couldn’t. Because I had worked so hard to try and put her out of my mind.
“What did she say?” he asks.
“I still haven’t played it yet.”
Ryan exhales slowly. “Maybe you don’t need to. Maybe it will only make things worse.”
“But how can things be worse than they already are?”
He just shakes his head, looks down, then leans back and holds out his arms in this way that I love, when I’m capable of feeling anything. Which right now I’m not.
I lean against him anyway, and he squeezes me tight. We stay that way, until the front door opens a few minutes later and Ryan’s mother and sister Marissa come in. We spring apart. I stand up.
“Junie, sweetheart!” Ryan’s mother. “We missed you over Christmas.” She puts her keys and her fancy purse down on the counter.
His sister waves to me as she walks up the stairs.
“Marissa told me what happened at your school today,” Ryan’s mom says. She frowns. “Such a terrible shame, a tragic waste. Did either of you know the girl?”
I don’t want Ryan’s mother to make a fuss, the way I know she will if she finds out the full truth. “I kinda used to, a while ago,” I say. “Not anymore.”
“Oh, honey, that’s still awful. I’m so sorry.”
She reaches over and gives me a hug. I know if she holds on too long, I will break apart entirely, because all of a sudden it turns out I am just barely holding myself together. I have to get out of here.
I pull away awkwardly. “I need to use the bathroom.” I feel Ryan watching me go.
Once I’m safely inside, I turn on the faucet and slide down to the floor, my back against the door.
I cannot wait any longer. I fish my phone out of my pocket and dial voicemail. I hold my breath.
First the automated recording. “Message received Tuesday, December thirty-first, three fifty-nine p.m.” And then Delia. “Hey, J, it’s me, your old pal.” Her voice sounds at once completely familiar and like I’ve never heard it before in my life. “Give me a call, okay?” She pauses. “There’s something I need to tell you.”
That’s it. That’s all there is.
Suddenly, I feel the edge of the door pressing into my back. Someone is trying to come in.
“One second,” I call out. My voice cracks.
I slip my phone back into my pocket, pull myself shakily to my feet. I splash water on my face and pat it dry with one of their soft towels.
I’d assumed there would be something in her voice to make this all make sense, but all that’s here is Delia sounding exactly the way she always did. She doesn’t sound like a girl who is getting ready to die.
Except . . . she was. It was the day before; she must have known. Did she call to tell me? Did she call so I could stop her?
I open the door. Marissa is standing there in the hallway, smiling at her phone. “Sorry,” she says without looking up. “I thought you were with Ry. He’s in his room.”
I walk down to the end of the hallway. He’s waiting for me on his bed, his blue plaid comforter bunched up behind him.
“Did
