The Opposite of Loneliness: Essays and Stories Read Online Free PDF Page A

it?”
    “Why?”
    “Because he wouldn’t want his parents to read it.” I paused and we let silence hang between us again. “I’ve thought a lot about this. It meant a lot to him. His parents will clean out his room and they’ll read it and it will upset them and . . . him.”
    “Why don’t you take it?”
    “Because . . . I don’t have any reason to go over there.” I thought about this for a moment.
    “Ask William to take it.”
    “I don’t want William to read it.”
    “But you want me to?” I was genuinely confused. She paused and I heard her inhale again.
    “You’re not going to,” she said. It was a command, not a question, and I didn’t like the way she was talking to me. I’d always thought she was shyer, soft. “Call William and tell him you left some clothes there you want to pick up . . . you did sleep there, right?”
    I didn’t say anything. Neither did she. I kept the phone pressed to my ear but it sounded like she’d moved it away from her face and I wondered again if she was trying not to cry.
    “Listen,” she said finally. “Just. He wouldn’t want his parents to read it, okay? They wouldn’t want to read it. There’s shit in there about them and him and—if you can’t do it I’ll just figure something else out.” I imagined for a second the way I’d first seen her: singing in that basement with the ukulele and red-pepper lights. She’d seemed so cool, so nonchalant. I wondered if she’d hooked up with someone after that show. Not Brian, obviously, but some other boy with an unshaven face. I wondered if he was in her life now. If she had some guy whose bed she looked forward to when everything was boring. If he knew where she’d been that morning and how he’d felt about it.
    “Fine,” I said. “I’ll do it.”
    “Thank you.” There was silence again and I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to hang up. I wondered if she knew I was speaking at the vigil, but figured she must have. I thought about saying something but didn’t, and we stayed on the line for a while longer, cross-legged on our beds.
    “Bye,” she said suddenly, and hung up before I could respond. I meant to go to bed but I couldn’t sleep—and found myself clicking through all seven hundred of her Facebook photos before I passed out with my hand on my laptop.
    * * *
    The question of whether or not I was going to read it wasn’t a question. As soon as I had the worn leather journal—slipped out, as predicted, from his third dresser drawer—I went into our central library and up into the stacks. I’d taken a sweater as well, a plain green one he wore a lot but that wasn’t distinct enough to be recognized as his, and put it on, which made me feel both sad and safe. I sat at an old desk and opened it from the back, flipping until I saw my name for the first time. His sentences were short, unembellished, repetitive, and it was clear he wasn’t lying to anybody. I scanned quickly, eyes sliding back and forth across the pages, reading paragraphs, excerpts, lists:
    I’m acting weird. I know I’m choosing to distract myself. The Claire thing feels uncertain. A distraction. Re: Lauren, I feel like I’m still not comprehending it all. I act like everything is fine and even now I choose to deal with Claire stuff instead of . . .
    Lauren on Saturday: I sent her a g-chat to which she didn’t respond (she was at band rehearsal), then texted her. She responded upon leaving, then I responded, then she either didn’t respond or did while my phone was dead. Then I e-mailed her and she may or may not have seen it but didn’t respond and . . .
    Lately I’ve felt a kind of numbness. Like this feeling like I’m faking it all—but maybe it’s just because I’m used to being in love. Like I can hug her and move my fingers along her neck but it’s not real. There’s no emotional desire for closeness. She feels it too I think but it’s funny because I wait for her text messages, hoping