Tahereh Mafi - Find Me

Ian laughs. “You know I’m messing with you, right?” When I don’t respond he says, “Seriously—you look good. We should hit the gym later. I need someone to spot me.”

I nod, only a little mollified, and mumble a goodbye. I head back into my room to grab my shower caddy, but Winston follows me in, leans against the doorframe. It’s just then that I notice he’s holding a paper to-go cup.

My eyes light up. “Is that coffee?”

Winston pulls away from the door, horrified. “It’s my coffee.”

“Hand it over.”

“What? No.”

I narrow my eyes at him.

“Why can’t you get your own?” he says, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “This is only my second cup. You know it takes at least three before I’m even half awake.”

“Yeah, well, I have to be downstairs in five minutes or Warner’s going to murder me and I haven’t had any breakfast yet and I’m already exhausted and I really—”

“Fine.” Winston’s face darkens as he hands it over. “You monster.”

I take the cup. “I’m a goddamn joy .”

Winston mutters something foul under his breath.

“Hey”—I take a sip of the coffee—“by the way— Did you, uh—?”

Winston’s neck goes suddenly red. He averts his eyes. “No.”

I hold up my free hand. “Hey—no pressure or anything. I was just wondering.”

“I’m still waiting for the right time,” he says.

“Cool. Of course. I’m just excited for you, that’s all.”

Winston looks up. Shoots me an uncertain smile.

Winston’s been in love with Brendan for a long time, but I’m the only one who knows about it. Winston never thought Brendan would be interested, because as far as we knew, he’d only ever dated women, but a few months ago Brendan was linked, briefly, to this other dude from Point, and that was when Winston opened up to me about the whole thing. He asked me to keep it to myself, said he wanted to be the one to talk about it when it felt right, and he’s been trying to build up the courage to say something to Brendan ever since. The problem is that Winston thinks he’s a little old for Brendan, and he’s worried that if Brendan turns him down it might ruin their friendship. So he’s been waiting. For the right moment.

I clap him on the shoulder. “I’m happy for you, bro.”

Winston lets out a breathy, nervous laugh that’s unlike him. “Don’t be too happy just yet,” he says. And then he shakes his head as if to clear it. “Anyway—enjoy the coffee. I need to go get another one.”

I raise the coffee cup in a gesture that says both thank you and goodbye , and as I turn away to gather my things for a quick shower, my smile slips. Somehow I can’t help but be reminded, all the time, of my own solitude.

I kill the coffee in a couple of quick, deep pulls, and toss the cup. Quietly, I make my way to the shower, my movements mechanical as I turn on the water. Strip. Lather. Rinse. Whatever.

I’m frozen for a moment, watching the water pool in my upturned hands. I sigh, press my forehead to the cool, slick tile as the hot water pelts my back. I feel a measure of relief as my muscles begin to relax, the heat and steam releasing knots of tension under my skin. I try to focus on the luxury of this shower, on my gratitude for this miracle of hot water, but my less gracious thoughts keep circling me, pecking at my heart and mind like emotional vultures.

I’m so happy for my friends. I love them, even when they piss me off. I care about them. I want their joy. But it still hurts a little when it feels like, everywhere I look, everyone seems to have someone.

Everyone but me.

It’s crazy how much I wish I didn’t care. I wish, so much, all the time, that I didn’t give a shit about this sort of thing—that I could be like Warner, a frozen, unforgiving island; or even like Adam, who’s found his happiness in family, in his relationship with his brother—but I’m like neither. Instead, I’m a big, raw, bleeding heart, and I spend my days pretending not to notice that I want more. That I need more.

Maybe it sounds weird to say, but I know I could love the shit out of someone. I feel it, in my heart. This capacity to love. To be romantic and passionate. Like it’s a superpower I have. A gift, even.

And I’ve got no one to share it with.

Everyone thinks I’m a joke.

I run my hands down my face, squeezing my eyes shut as I remember my interaction with Nazeera last night.

She came up to me , I try to remind myself.

I never approached her. I didn’t even try to talk to her again, not after that day on the beach when she made it clear she wasn’t even a little bit interested in me. Though it’s not like I would’ve had a chance to talk to her after that, anyway; everything got crazy after that. J got shot and everyone was reeling, and then all that shit with Warner and Juliette went down, and now here we are.

But last night I was just minding my own business, still trying to figure out what to do about the fact that our supreme commander was slowly marinating in half a pint of Anderson’s best whisky, when Nazeera came up to me. Out of the blue. It was right after dinner—hell, she wasn’t even present at dinner—and she just showed up, like an apparition, cornering me as I was leaving the dining room. Literally backed me into a corner and asked me if it was true, that I had the power of invisibility.

She looked so mad. I was so confused. I didn’t know how she knew and I didn’t know why she cared, but there she was, right in front of me, demanding an answer, and I didn’t see the harm in telling her the truth.

So I said yes, it was true. And she looked suddenly angrier.

“Why?” I said.

“Why what?” Her eyes flashed, big and wide and electric with feeling. She was wearing a leather hood, and the lights of a nearby chandelier glinted off the diamond piercing near her bottom lip. I couldn’t stop staring at her mouth. Her lips were slightly parted. Full. Soft.

I forced myself to look up. “What?”

She narrowed her eyes. “What are you talking about?”

“I thought— I’m sorry, what are we talking about?”

She turned away, but not before I saw the look of disbelief on her face. There might’ve been outrage, too. And then, lightning fast, she spun back around. “Are you just pretending to be dumb all the time? Or do you always talk like you’re drunk?”

I froze. Pain and confusion swirled in my head. Pain from the insult, and confusion from—

Yeah, I had no idea what was happening.

“What?” I said again. “I don’t talk like I’m drunk.”

“You’re looking at me like you’re drunk.”

Shit, she was pretty.

“I’m not drunk,” I said. Stupidly. And then I shook my head and remembered to be angry—she’d just insulted me, after all—and I said, “Anyway, you’re the one who came after me, remember? You started this conversation. And I don’t know why you’re so mad— Hell, I don’t even know why you care. It’s not my fault that I can be invisible. It just happened to me.”

And then she shoved her hood back from her face and her hair shook out, dark and silky and heavy, and she said something I didn’t hear because my brain was freaking out, like, should I tell her that I can see her hair? Does she know that I can see her hair? Did she mean for me to see her hair? Would she freak out, right now, if I told her that I could see her hair? But then, also, just in case I wasn’t supposed to be seeing her hair right now, I didn’t want to tell her that I could see her hair because I was afraid she’d cover it up again, and, if I was being honest, I was really enjoying the view.

She snapped her fingers in my face.