The firm purpose and conviction that filled Zoe while she listened to Alex’s CD at three in the morning last night lasts right up to the moment she’s sitting alone in the Book and Bean as their appointed meeting time comes and goes.
Every time the bell on the door dings, her head snaps up, hoping it’s him, knowing it’s not. Her composed determination of the night before seems so ridiculous in the light of day. So she knows he loves her (she thinks, anyway). So what? What the hell good does that do when he’s stuck in jail somewhere?
She just wants answers, and she hates that she doesn’t matter enough in the scheme of things to demand them. She hoped the police would call her back, maybe ask her to come down to the station to give her statement in person, mostly so she could feel like she was doing something, anything really. But they hadn’t. Cynically, she wondered if her call to the police yesterday had done anything at all, if what she’d seen had even been communicated to anyone who held Alex’s future in their hands.
It’s almost three, and she’s been here for nearly two hours. She orders a second drink that she doesn’t really want because she’s not willing to leave. As long as she sits here, here in this place where he could conceivably find her, she doesn’t feel quite so helpless.
At 1:30, she pulled her computer out and put her headphones in, and for the last hour and a half, she’s been listening to his letters (which have absolutely not been uploaded to her iTunes and labeled and organized according to most important content, that’s a ridiculous idea) because she’s masochistic and pathetic, in equal measure.
She’s in the middle of his six-hour letter when the door dings. Her head pops up. And then, her heart starts pounding. Because while it’s not Alex walking through the door, it might just be the next best thing.
Zoe recognizes Alex’s stepmother from their very brief encounter at Cuppa Joe’s seven months ago, when Zoe asked for permission to put her Sociology letter up in the shop. And now . . . sticking around here was kind of just an exercise in futility, but now . . . she might be able to get some answers.
She has to play it mature and professional, though, because the last thing she wants is to come off as creepy or a lunatic.
She stands by her table as Rachel talks to the lady behind the counter briefly. Rachel looks tired, like she hasn’t gotten a lot of sleep lately, and stressed — Well, yeah, Zoe’s inner monologue points out. What did you expect? — but she doesn’t look too worried, exactly, so . . .
Zoe’s trying not to hover, but when Rachel crosses by the table, Zoe calls out hesitantly, “I’m sorry, but are you Rachel Carter?”
“Yes,” she answers, and she sounds as tired as she looks. “Can I help you with something?”
“I’m Zoe Ballard, and you probably don’t remember this, but we met briefly about seven months ago? I asked to put a letter on a table in Cuppa Joe’s for a school assignment?”
Rachel nods. “Yes,” she says slowly, “I remember you. What do you need, Zoe?”
Zoe takes a deep breath. “I’ve actually been writing to Alex since then, I don’t know if he ever mentioned, but he and I were supposed to meet here this afternoon, and well, I — I know what happened yesterday, I was at the mall and I saw it, but — Mrs. Carter, I know it’s not any of my business, and I’m not trying to pry into your family affairs at all, but I was wondering if . . . if there’s anything you can tell me, about what’s going on.”
She catches herself tugging at her fingers, and forces herself to let her hands hang by her sides, waiting to see what, if anything, Alex’s stepmom is going to say.
Rachel watches her for a long moment, seeming to struggle internally with something. “I’m sorry, sweetie,” she finally says, and tears of frustrated disappointment spring to Zoe’s eyes. “I know you and he are close, but I can’t say anything.” Zoe sets her jaw in an effort to blink the tears back. She is not going to cry in front of Alex’s stepmom. Rachel pauses briefly, then says with a tight smile, “But try not to worry, okay? I’m sure it’ll be fine.”
Does she know something, or is that just wishful thinking? Zoe wants to ask, but she doesn’t. She needs to get control of herself, because she is not going to be the crazy stranger who cried over this when Rachel tells this story to whoever she might tell this story to. “Okay,” she says, trying to sound like it’s no big deal. “Okay, thank you. I’m sorry.”
And she turns back to her computer, because she’s sure Rachel’s busy, but then, she can’t let it go at that. She can’t. “Can I — can I give you my phone number?” she asks in a rush, forcing Rachel to turn back to her. “In case there’s anything you can tell me later?”
When Rachel shakes her head, she looks genuinely apologetic. “I’m really not supposed to talk about it.” Zoe nods, eyes on the ceiling, lips pressed together, but her impression of a person not on the edge of tears is not apparently not very convincing because Rachel says, “Honestly, I’m sure it’s fine.” She hands Zoe a napkin with a macaroon on it, and Zoe tries not to think uncharitably about being placated with baked goods. “He’s a good kid, and he knows how to take care of himself.”
“I know,” she says softly. She knows the answers Rachel is giving her are fair and valid, and she’s being a lot more polite about it than she has any reason to be, but still. Zoe wants answers so badly and to be so close and not get them is the worst kind of torture imaginable. And she just needs to communicate with him, somehow, so she pushes her luck just a little bit more.
“Can you at least,” she asks in a rush, “if you talk to him, can you tell him I said — that it’s okay? That I don’t, um –” She breaks off, shaking her head, because she has no idea what to say to Alex that is safe to pass through his stepmother and doesn’t sound insipid or condescending. This was a stupid impulse. “Sorry. Just, can you tell him I asked?”
She’s trying not to sound desperate or lovesick, but she’s not sure how well she’s managing it, because from the look on Rachel’s face, Rachel knows something is up. Zoe can feel her cheeks burning.
“Yes, of course, dear,” she says softly. “I… I’m probably not going to see him, but… Knowing him he’ll probably ask.” She smiles for real, and Zoe can’t help but return it (if half-heartedly), pathetic as that is, because Rachel thinks Alex will ask about her. And Zoe’s first impulse is to scold herself for thinking that means anything, an impulse that dies a slightly confused death as she remembers that it does mean something, and she’s right to read that into it.
And her face had to have just cycled through the strangest set of emotions because Rachel is looking at her with that knowing look again. “Eat up,” she says, gesturing to the pastry, “they’re fresh.”
“Thank you,” Zoe says, looking at the pastry in her hands, feeling suddenly embarrassed by this whole thing. “I’m sorry I’m bothering you. I’ll let you get to whatever you’re doing. Thank you.” And she turns back to her table, trying to hide how ridiculous she feels.
And then she feels a light hand on her shoulder. “It’s no bother,” Rachel tells Zoe. “I’m… I’m glad Alex has a friend like you.”
Zoe can only nod because the tears aren’t just close to the surface anymore; they’re spilling over. She turns away to wipe furiously at her cheeks. Rachel squeezes her shoulder once, and when Zoe turns around again a few seconds later, Alex’s stepmom is gone, and the back door to the work room is swinging shut.
Feeling taut and tight and ready to break, Zoe gathers her things and bolts for the bathroom. Shutting herself in the stall, she lets the tears spill over, trying to cry at least without sobbing, to maintain that much dignity. She can only imagine what Rachel is going to say to her husband tonight about this. I met Alex’s little wannabe girlfriend today. She’s an odd one — started crying in the middle of the coffee shop over a macaroon — but at least she hasn’t landed our son in the hospital or a jail cell yet, so I guess she’s better than the alternative!
Zoe stays in the bathroom until she feels that her face doesn’t definitively say “I’ve been crying in a bathroom for ten minutes” anymore. It’s still clear she’s been crying, and will be for ages (curses upon her fair-complexioned ancestors), but if she moves fast and keeps her head down, it might escape notice until she can get home.
At which point, she’ll, God, she doesn’t even know. Do her homework, go to bed, and go to school in the morning as if she’s not waiting desperately to find out if her best friend and the guy she loves is going to spend the next few months of his life in juvie? If anyone will even tell her anything?
It’s February and the Broken Wrist Silence all over again. She just wants to know. Yes, there’s a specific outcome she’s rooting for, but more than anything else, she just wants to know.
Hang in there, Alex, she thinks as she drives home, wishing desperately that she could say the words to him, now that she’s figured out what to say. Somehow, this is all going to work itself out, and I’m going to be right here waiting for you when it does. I promise. I’m not going anywhere.