I watched her pack her suitcase two days before they left. She was sitting cross-legged on the carpet, piles of bold colors all around her. I was jealous. I wanted to go, but she was taking Darius, not me. I’d made a joke about it, and she’d turned to me and very seriously said: “I’ll take you on my next trip. Have you been to Europe? You have to go to Europe. It’ll change your life.” I was still recovering from that one, imagining us walking through the streets of Paris together, when she dropped a bomb on me: “Darius wants to have a baby.” She was looking down at the pair of jeans she was folding, and I was glad. If she’d seen the look on my face she would have known.
What the hell?
“What do you mean he wants to have a baby?”
“Just that. He wants to start trying.”
She said it so matter-of-factly, so calm. There I was, wanting to throw up the egg rolls I’d eaten for lunch, and she was talking about babies like it was a trip to the market.
“You’re not going to do it, are you?” I asked.
“Well, why not?” she said. “It’s probably time.”
“A baby will ruin your life,” I blurted. “He thinks it’s so easy. It’s not. It’ll put more pressure on your relationship. You think he’s distant now, wait till an infant comes along, then you’ll really know what distant is.”
She was staring at me from her spot on the carpet, her eyes blinking so languidly I thought for a minute the world was moving in slow motion.
“How would you know that, Fig?” she finally asked. “How would you know what it’s like to have an infant?”
“I … I’ve seen it—with my friends.”
She put what she was holding into the suitcase and stood up. “We’ve already had a baby. Have you met Mercy?”
I frowned at the sarcasm. “Yeah, but she’s older now. Becoming self-sufficient. Do you really want to start again?”
“It’s what people do. They have children and build lives together.”
Right, I thought. But not with the person I’m in love with.
“I have to go,” I said. “Enjoy your vacation.”
“Yes, I will.” Her voice was icy.
Something bad was coming. I could feel it. The air around me was tense, filled with the static of all the things I’d done. Was I sorry? I wasn’t sure. There was time to stop, but I hadn’t, had I? Maybe I was just sorry I was caught, that it had to be over. I liked the thrill of it all, the dangerous way it made me feel. And now I hadn’t heard from him and I was too scared to reach out. What if he told her? What would I do then? My business was tied with hers.
I fretted. I didn’t eat. I sat at home and imagined all the ways this could turn out. I drank.
When my phone pinged one morning, telling me I had a text from Darius, I sprang out of bed. Wouldn’t do to get in more trouble. I went to the kitchen and put on the kettle, banged mugs around to sound busy. I read what he’d sent while sitting at the table, my mug of tea in hand. My hand shook. I should probably eat something.
Jolene was pickpocketed, it read. Need your help.
At first I was disappointed. Then I rallied. He texted me for help. That meant he trusted me, that he knew he could turn to me when he needed something.
How? What happened? I sent back. And then…
I’ll do whatever.
They got her while she was taking a selfie in front of the Eiffel Tower. Where was Darius when it happened? He said he was distracted, taking his own photos. Jolene said eight girls surrounded them and he just edged his way out of the circle and walked away, leaving her alone with them … not looking back. Who do you believe? Jolene was a storyteller by career, so my vote went to Darius. The problem was money. The pickpockets had taken her entire wallet and then dispersed in different directions to confuse the victim. She hadn’t known which one of them had dipped their hand into her purse and stolen everything she had.
Why can’t you use your cards? I asked him.
I cut them all up, he sent back.
Why?
There was a long pause before he answered. They were all maxed out. Trying not to use them. That was odd, but I didn’t press him. Why couldn’t they just pay them off? Did Jolene know they were maxed out?
I wanted to ask, but that was none of my business.
So, what do you need me to do?
Wire money, he sent back.
Well, shit. He didn’t even have his bank card. What the hell was going on?
Okay, I sent back. Just tell me where.
Jolene’s freaking out, he said. She’s blaming me.
Of course she was. How was it his fault that some delinquents had made her the target of their crime circle? Besides, everyone knew you had to be careful when you were in touristy places like the Eiffel Tower. I highly doubted Darius had just left her to fend for herself if a group of thieves surrounded her. That didn’t seem like him at all. I had to protect Darius from her. I knew what she was like when she was angry. Poor guy. He didn’t deserve that. I grabbed my purse from the kitchen table and texted him as I was walking out the door.