Unfriended (21 page)

I was aware, on some level, that time was passing.

My father had knocked on my door on Tuesday morning, surprised to find me still in bed, and I’d murmured something about having the flu. My mother, if she’d been
at home, would have insisted on taking my temperature to check my story. She had been disinclined to believe me when it came to matters of illness ever since she’d figured out, sophomore year, that the days I’d had the flu had matched up precisely with the days I had Chemistry tests. But my father, always more trusting, just took me at my word. He had been headed to the library, and offered to stay home to take care of me. But I’d muttered something about just sleeping anyway, and he’d finally left, telling me he’d call in and check on me throughout the day.

I was glad that he was going. All I wanted was to go back to sleep. I changed into actual pajamas, got back into bed, and pulled the covers over my head once again.

Days went by. My father knocked on the door occasionally, and though I could hear him and murmured responses back, it was as though he was miles away
and I could only dimly make out what he was saying. Every time he was standing in my doorway, talking to me, it seemed to be a massive imposition on what I really wanted to be doing, which was going back to sleep. Underneath my covers, it was quiet and still and there was no outside world that I would have to think about for too long, if I could just drift off again.

When my father had asked me about work on Wednesday morning, I had remembered, as though from a different lifetime, that there had been a smoothie shop I had once worked at. I sent texts to Kavya, Daryl, and John, and elusive manager Gary, telling them that I was sick and should stay home until I felt better, for public health reasons. Then I put my phone down—but not before I saw that I had twenty-three new voice mails. I scrolled through the numbers, but didn’t listen to any of them. None of them had been from Nate. And I really didn’t think I could bring myself to listen to what anyone else had to say.

It got dark outside, and it got light again. I stayed where I was, curled in a ball underneath the covers. Thankfully, I didn’t dream. Or if I did—because Ruth had told me once that we were always dreaming, whether we recalled the dream or not—I didn’t remember. Which was what I wanted. I wanted to forget—about the past, both recent and distant, and about the future I was going to have to face at some point, and about the fact that I knew I wasn’t going to be able to stay in bed forever.