c18

I thought it would feel like a decision. Or like flipping a switch. A hard right turn from accepting what the detectives had said, what the Instagram post had said, to pushing for more answers instead. In reality, it's more like holding on to something for dear life, afraid that it will all get worse when I let go. So even though it didn't feel like a decision, I woke up this morning knowing exactly what I was going to do next anyway. I was getting in my car and driving back to Arizona. I was going to see Gavin.

I could have called him, read him the mysterious texts from Ashlyn and grilled him about the interview. But I wanted to see his face, to watch what happens when there is no camera to perform in front of, no captive audience except one person who doesn't like you to begin with. I had given him so much of my patience. I had let the videos play out, the letters to Evie, the pointless search party. I had given him what he wanted: the unchecked time and space to manipulate his audience the way he wanted. And for what? To be the bigger person? To not fan the flame? To not make him mad? I think of how the transcript had ended. What he had implied. He can explain that to my face now.

I drive all morning, and I'm fifteen minutes away from Gavin's house when I realize my hair is matted. It was damp from the shower when I left, and I had had the brilliant idea of air-drying it by opening the window once I hit the highway. I imagined I'd arrive looking unbothered, a natural, didn't-even-think-about-styling-my-hair kind of casual. Instead, based on what I can see in the rearview mirror as I crawl through the innards of a sprawling Phoenix suburb, I look unhinged. The opposite of unbothered. I use one hand to comb my fingers through the mess, desperately trying to tame it.

It's thanks to my paranoia that I have Gavin's address. I had insisted that Evie send it to me when they first started dating, even though she said I was being dramatic. That she was safe with him.

I go as slowly as possible, but eventually, there it is. Gavin's house. I pull into the driveway, my car easing into its looming shadow. I had expected a boxy, ultramodern bachelor pad, all slate-gray lines and minimalism. In reality it's a beige, cookie-cutter McMansion, not unlike my mom's house. Or most houses in these kinds of neighborhoods—huge, grand. It looks more dated than I expected, a symbol of wealth from a different time. But then I see the backside of a white Tesla through the windows of the garage, and I'm sure I'm in the right spot.

I had rolled my eyes the first time I saw Gavin drop Evie off in the thing.

"Please don't tell me he's an Elon Musk guy," I said. "Please. I beg of you."

She rolled her eyes back at me. "It's not like he's endorsing him for public office, Hazel," she said. "It's a car. A very environmentally friendly one, I might add."

"Sure, you say that now," I said. "And the next thing you know he's packing his bags for a long weekend aboard a space shuttle and paying for a little blue checkmark. It's like a Jimmy Buffet song. One second, you're thinking, ‘Hey, that's kind of catchy,' and the next you're tailgating at every East Coast show and using a specialty blender. It happens quickly. And none of us are above it."

"I'm pretty sure some of us are, indeed, above it, Hazel." Evie laughed.

"No one," I said, faux serious, as I watched him pull out of the driveway. "and I mean no one, is above loving ‘Cheeseburger in Paradise.'?"

I almost laugh at the memory now, thinking of how much Evie would have loved this, to see Gavin and me hanging out, one-on-one, bonding, but then I'm panicking again. I think of my sister and remember that I might be the only person looking for her, the only person who believes she's not okay, and I let the horror of that reality pull me forward instead of down, down, down.

I take a final deep breath and step out of the car, making my way across the expansive driveway and sidewalk to the front porch. By the time I get there, Gavin is outside, leaning against a giant Grecian-style pillar on the front steps.

"Hazel," he says casually. "This is a surprise."

I hadn't heard him walk out. Hadn't seen him there when I pulled in the driveway, either. And it would have been hard to miss him. He's shirtless, wearing only a pair of gray sweatpants that are slung low across his hips in a way that feels vaguely pornographic.

"Is it?" I say, forcing myself to seem casual, cool, relaxed. "A surprise?"

He shrugs. "Not really, I guess," he says, turning away from me and gesturing for me to follow him through the front door. "That fucking transcript brought all kinds of weird shit out of the woodwork."

"I bet," I say, letting the implications hang between us.

"Yeah, it didn't make me look that great, I guess."

"You and me both," I say, staring at him.

He stops in the kitchen and leans on the giant island. I perch myself on a barstool on the opposite side, adjusting my posture until it feels confident, but not stilted.

"About that…" he starts, his forearms resting on the cool marble, biceps flexing.

Does he just always…look like this?

"I'm sorry about that. I just…I honestly didn't even realize what I was saying. Not really. I just hated how Buxton seemed to be overanalyzing every single thing I was saying."

"So you gave him something else to overanalyze?" I say. "Someone else?"

"I mean, not intentionally, no," he says. "I was overwhelmed."

I look around the room. The cabinets and shelves are lined with the kind of vaguely Italian-looking items that you buy in the clearance section of an extremely American home décor store. There are tall glass bottles filled with bloated vegetables suspended in what I think is supposed to be olive oil, though I have my doubts about that. There are four metal roosters of various sizes. There is one small sign that says BON APPéTIT! and a larger one that features no words but instead a wooden carving of a giant fork.

"Not what you expected?" Gavin looks up at me through dark lashes, his torso leaning farther over the marble now. He's smiling, like a part of him is loving this, that I'm surprised, or confused. A dimple peeks out from one side of his face. How had I not noticed this before? How had Evie never mentioned it? It's the kind of thing you mention.

I shiver from the air-conditioning, and I suddenly have absolutely no idea how he's not wearing more clothing in here. I cross my arms in front of myself, sitting up straighter again. His smile deepens, like he can read every thought that's going through my head.

"Not…exactly," I say. "I mean, it's nice. It's…huge."

The smile's still there, but he bites his lip and narrows his eyes in my direction now, like he knows exactly what I really mean but won't say. Like I'm a kid at dinner who turns down broccoli by saying, "I don't care for that," as if the manners make the meaning less obvious. He's amused by me.

He looks around and laughs. "It certainly is that."

I glance around the room for a third time, desperate to avoid eye contact, suddenly too uncomfortable and disarmed to ask the questions that really brought me here. It feels better to let the conversation happen naturally. Safer.

"You smoke?" he says, opening a drawer and pulling out a joint.

I shrug instinctively, in a way that says sure, though I instantly regret it. Because the answer, really, is no. Not for years. And even if it wasn't, the answer should be no, anyway. I came here to get answers, to tell him how angry I was. And now, what, five minutes and one shirt later, I'm saying sure to smoking a joint with my sister's boyfriend? Ex-boyfriend? I'm not sure which now. A smoother, rational part of my brain speaks up: Maybe this will help you relax. Maybe he'll be more likely to open up.

Gavin lights the joint and brings it to his lips as he walks around the island to where I'm sitting, taking the barstool next to me. I have to hop off of mine to move it farther away, so our foreheads aren't practically touching if I turn toward him to talk. It's undeniably awkward, the chair clanging across the tile floor as I drag it over, but he only smiles, like he's not bothered by any of it. When I'm seated again, he hands me the joint, and I take a drag, feeling him watch me the entire time. I blow the smoke out and away from him, aiming for one of the giant metal roosters, trying to distract myself from the odd intimacy of the moment.

"You know, you look like her," he says, and I choke. I cough wildly for a minute before the air finally settles in my lungs.

"Sorry, is that a weird thing to say?" he says. "It's not even really what I meant. I wouldn't know you were related if I had to pick you two out of a crowd or something, but…you both have this…this light about you, I guess."

What is he talking about? I ignore the part of me that deflates because he took back his slightly creepy, quasi-compliment and said something corny.

"Uh-huh," I say. "Right. I get that a lot on Hinge lately. ‘Great light, but unfortunately I see us more as friends.'?"

He laughs, and it seems genuine.

Then he's quiet for a minute, staring out one of the windows in the room behind us, like he's deep in thought.

"What I meant," he continues, "was something more like: There's attractiveness. Features. Body type, whatever. And then there's beauty, like actual beauty. The kind that makes us stare at nature or art or poetry, I don't know. That kind. Those are two different things, don't you think?"

Yes, I think, nodding.

"I think I just meant, before I managed to say it like two different equally weird ways," he says, smiling in a self-deprecating way, "is that whatever made her beautiful is what makes you beautiful too, even if it resulted in two people who don't really look alike on the surface."

Something he's saying peels a layer away from me, exposes something, but I don't let the feeling stay.

"Right," I say, handing the joint back to him. "In other words, Evie is beautiful, and I'm beautiful on the inside."

He shifts on the barstool so he's facing me now, one arm resting on the island. One of his knees brushes mine, and I stare at my own leg, willing it to move, but it stays.

"No, Hazel," he says, and his voice is deeper than it was a moment ago.

The smile is gone, but he doesn't look angry, either. "That's not at all what I'm saying."

We make eye contact for a second, and it takes me what feels like two minutes to look away first. The weed must be dulling my reaction time. How has this thing gone so wildly off the rails?

I'm about to get up and run to the bathroom, splash some water on my face or throw up or both, when Gavin starts talking again, like he knows we need to change the subject.

"It's not my place, by the way," he says. "It's my parents'."

I snort; the weed has dulled my social graces, too. "You still live with your parents?" I ask. He'd never struck me as the type to live at home for longer than he had to—especially not when he has as much money he does. Then again, neither did Evie.

"No, actually, I'm house-sitting. I sent my parents on an around-the-world cruise." He goes to the pantry and pulls out a bag of kettle chips, then sits down next to me.

My eyebrows shoot up. I just listened to a podcast about these types of cruises and know the tickets could be upwards of $50,000—sometimes much more.

He offers me the bag and I take a handful of chips. "Wow," I say. "That's…so nice of you."

I pop the chips into my mouth in what feels like slow motion, trying to ignore the new edge of paranoia that's cut into my thoughts. The one that says that it seems convenient, too, that his parents haven't been here during the investigation, the detective interviews, the nonstop social media frenzy.

"Well, anything for some good old-fashioned validation." He shrugs. "Daddy issues, you know?"

I smile, but I know it looks tense, forced.

"My dad has early-onset Alzheimer's disease. I wanted them to have the experience while he's still somewhat okay. The symptoms aren't debilitating yet. But time is not our friend, as I'm sure you know. It's pretty scary."

"I'm sure," I manage. I don't know what else to say, so I eat some chips with an embarrassingly loud crunch. I didn't expect this kind of depth or self-awareness from him.

"So now you know a little more about me, right?" he says, with a wry smile. "There's no reason to tiptoe around each other. And I guess, weirdly, we do have something in common."

"What do you mean?"

"Last time I checked," he says, standing up so I have to tilt my chin upward to see his face, "she left us both."

I swallow. He walks around me to the fridge, grabbing a protein shake from the fridge.

He offers me one and I shake my head no.

"It's taken me a while to accept it, though. To be rational about it. At first, I literally refused to believe it," he says. "It didn't make any sense. We had this entire project going on, we were on the same page about a lot of stuff. We were happy. But then…I don't know, the sightings, the Instagram post, what the detectives said…at a certain point I just started to feel…"

"Pathetic." I offer.

"Bingo," he says, spinning the bottle cap on the counter. "That's exactly it. Pathetic. I mean, who am I to doubt what she literally posted, what she said, what the detectives said, who do this for a living. At a certain point I just started to feel like the boyfriend who can't take a hint that he's been broken up with. Who can't let it go."

He feels real to me in this moment—authentic, refreshing. Maybe I was reading him wrong, through the lens of his YouTube channel. Maybe this is why Evie liked him so much.

"It still doesn't make sense to me," he says. "I doubt it ever will unless Ev suddenly comes back from wherever the fuck she is and explains it all. Even then, I'm sure I'd still have questions. But things happen all the time that don't make sense. That doesn't mean they're not reality."

He has a point, of course.

He shakes his head. "I miss her like hell, all the time. But what am I supposed to do? I don't even know what there is to do except just…move on."

I say the only thing that feels true. "I miss her too."

"Would you look at that," he says, and there's that hint of a dimple again. "Now we have two things in common."

I smile too, and to my horror, I realize I'm blushing.

"Would you look at that," I repeat back to him.

"I guess I get it now," he says, leaning back against the countertop now, feet crossed in front of him. His hip bones jut out slightly, creating the tiniest gap between his skin and waistband.

"Get what?" I ask, leaning forward. I feel myself licking my lips.

Jesus Christ, Hazel. Really?

"Why she thought we'd get along," he says. "She always said that we'd hit it off. That on paper it didn't make sense, but in person we'd click."

"Is that what this is?" I laugh, even though he seems serious now. "Clicking?"

He picks up a tangerine from the counter and starts to peel it. "Could be."

The smell of citrus hits my nose and it steadies me just enough to remember: Whatever this is…cannot happen. Will not happen. And yet I feel like I'm watching him eat this piece of fruit at half speed, eyes hovering at his mouth. My brain feels warm and liquid, like all I'd have to do is lean an inch right or left and it'd all shift. I'd be propelled toward him.

I can see it: The way he'd fuck me. The heat and need and particular kind of release that comes from doing The Bad Thing. The tiny sliver of time when you've already chosen it, it's already decided, there's no going backward. You're all in, consumed with only the knowledge that it's happening, so you might as well enjoy it. You might as well do it again and again and again, luxuriate in the obliteration. You might as well bleed the pleasure out of it until there's nothing left, before the guilt hits you and you have the clarity to remember that you're the type of person who does something like this. Who knew they should say no but didn't.

I stare at him, a challenge.

I tell myself that he'll make the choice, the move. And if it happens, it happens. It won't be my mistake, not really.

He walks toward me and my pulse races, my skin electric. But then he stops short of where I'm sitting, eyes narrowing at me, considering something.

And then like a candle that's run out of wax, whatever was happening is burned out and done. Whatever was there is gone.

"So what did you really come here to talk about, Hazel?" he says, but it might as well be, You didn't actually think that was going to happen, did you?

And I hate myself for a minute, not for entertaining a fantasy but for believing that giving up control is ever worth it. Ever truly satisfying.

"I want to talk about what you and Evie were working on before she disappeared."