Laura Dave - The Last Thing He Told Me

“Regular Coke,” she says. “Lots of ice.”

I shrug, a peace offering for Bailey’s shortness. “Diet, please,” I say.

The flight attendant just laughs, unoffended. “Sixteen?” she whispers.

I nod.

“I have a sixteen-year-old myself,” she says. “Twins actually. Believe me, I get it.”

This is when Bailey turns around.

“I’m not hers,” she says.

It’s true. It’s also something Bailey may have said on another day, eager to correct the record. But just now it sounds different and it stings in a way I have trouble hiding on my face. It isn’t just about how it makes me feel. It’s also about the reckoning that’s coming for her on the heels of her comment—the impossible realization that hating or disavowing me is a whole lot less fun when, at the moment, I’m the only person that she has.

Her face tightens as it hits her. I stay quiet, staring at the television screen on the seat in front of me, an episode of Friends playing silently, Rachel and Joey kissing in a hotel room.

I pretend not to notice Bailey’s despair, but I don’t put on my headphones either. It’s the best I can come up with for giving her some breathing room while trying to let her know I’m there if she wants me.

Bailey rubs at the goose bumps on her arms, not saying anything, not for a while. Finally, she takes a sip of her soda. Then she makes a face.

“I think she switched our drinks,” she says.

I turn and look at her. “What’s that?”

She holds out her ice-filled cup, her soda brimming to the top. “This is diet,” she says. “The flight attendant must have given me yours…”

I try not to look too surprised as she hands her drink over. And I don’t argue. I hand Bailey my drink and wait for her to take a sip.

Bailey nods, like she is relieved to have her correct drink. Except we both know the flight attendant delivered us the correct drinks in the first place. And only now—only since Bailey’s gesture, her attempt to relieve the tension—are the drinks mixed up.

If this is Bailey’s way of reaching toward me, I’m going to meet her there.

I take a sip of the Coke. “Thank you,” I say. “I thought mine tasted weird.”

“No worries…” she says. Then she returns to looking out the window. “No big deal.”

We get into an Uber at the airport and I scroll through the news reports on my phone.

Stories about The Shop plaster CNN’s home page, the New York Times , the Wall Street Journal . Many of the recent headlines focus on a press conference held by the head of the SEC, offering up such clickbait as THE SHOP IS CLOSED FOR GOOD.

I click on the most recent article in the New York Times , which covers the SEC announcement that they’re filing civil fraud charges against Avett Thompson. And which quotes a source in the FBI about how senior staff and top executives will most certainly be named as people of interest.

Owen isn’t mentioned by name. At least not yet.

The Uber pulls onto Presidential Boulevard and heads toward the hotel, which is on Lady Bird Lake near the Congress Avenue Bridge. It’s away from the hubbub of the busiest part of the city, across the bridge from the heart of downtown Austin.

I reach into my bag and pull out a printout of our hotel reservation, sweeping over the details. Jules’s full name, Julia Alexandra Nichols, stares back at me. Jules suggested reserving the room on her credit card as a safety measure. I have her credit card and her ID in my wallet, further safety measures, in case anyone is tracking us.

Of course, there is a record of our flight to Austin. Jules put the flights on her credit card, but our real names are on the plane tickets. There’s a clear way to track us here, if anyone is inclined to do so. But even if they track that we’re in Austin, they don’t need to know exactly where in Austin. I’m not helping the next Grady or Naomi to show up at my door, unannounced.

The driver—a young guy in a bandanna—looks at Bailey in the rearview mirror. He isn’t much older than she is and he keeps trying to make eye contact with her. He keeps trying to get her attention.

“Is this your first time in Austin?” he asks her.

“Yep,” she says.

“What do you think so far?” he says.

“Based on the fourteen minutes since we left the airport?” she says.

He laughs, as though she is joking with him, as though she is inviting him to keep talking.

“I grew up here,” he says. “You can ask me anything about this city and I can tell you even more than you wanted to know.”

“Good to know,” she says.

I can see that Bailey is totally tuned out so I try to engage him in case any of it will turn out to be useful later.

“You grew up here?” I say.

“Born and raised. I lived here when this was a small town,” he says. “It’s still a small town in a lot of ways, but there are a helluva lot more people and a lot bigger buildings.”

He pulls off the highway and I feel a clinching in my chest as downtown Austin comes into view. I know this was the plan, but looking out the window at this strange city, it all seems so much crazier.

He points out the window, motions toward a skyscraper.

“That’s the Frost Bank Tower,” he says. “Used to be the tallest building in Austin. Now I’m not even sure it cracks the top five. Have you heard of it?”

“Can’t say I have,” I say.

“Yeah, crazy story behind it,” he says. “If you look at it from certain angles it looks like an owl. Exactly like an owl. Might be hard to see from here but it’s wild if you can make it out…”

I open my window and take in the Frost Building—the tiers on top, like ears, the two windows that look like eyes. There is definitely an owl similarity.

“This is a UT town, but the architects all went to Rice University and the owl is Rice University’s mascot. So that’s like a f-you to our mascot and to the Longhorns in general,” he says. “And I mean, some people say it’s just a conspiracy theory, but look at it. The building looks like an owl! How can that be an accident?”

He turns onto South Congress Bridge and I can see our hotel in the distance.

“Are you guys here looking at UT?” he asks. He directs the question toward Bailey, again trying to meet her eyes in the rearview.

“Not exactly,” she says.

“So… what are you doing here?”

She doesn’t answer. She opens the window in an attempt to discourage further questions. I don’t blame her for that. I don’t blame her for not being particularly anxious to explain to a stranger why she is here—in a city she is trying to remember whether she’s been to before, searching for information about her missing father.

“Just fans of Austin,” I say.

“Right on,” he says. “A little vacay. I can get behind that.”

He pulls up to the hotel and Bailey is opening the door before the car even stops moving.

“Wait, wait! Let me give you my number. In case there is anything I can show you guys while you’re in town.”

“There isn’t,” Bailey says.

Then she shifts her bag higher on her shoulder. And starts walking toward the hotel’s entrance.

I grab the suitcases from the trunk, hurry to keep up. I catch up to her by the revolving doors.

“That guy was so annoying,” she says.

I start to say he was just trying to be friendly, but she isn’t interested in friendly. And since I have to pick my battles, I decide this isn’t going to be the one I choose.

We head into the hotel and I look around the lobby: high atrium, the bar, a Starbucks off to the side. Hundreds of rooms. Just the type of nondescript hotel I was hoping for, an easy place to get lost in. Except maybe I’m looking around a moment too long because a hotel employee catches my eyes.