As I made my way back toward the bus stop on Wisconsin, I acknowledged that Patricia had been right; I was worried about Wallis and the scene she’d make if reunited with Blake, but I did need to change views. The touchstones of my old DC life were no longer recognizable. P Street, my job, even Wallis and Atlas were transforming, and all the while, what was I doing? Eating fried rice and doing laundry and playing Minecraft and burying the truth about my father. That is to say, nothing worthwhile.

I pulled out my phone. Pack your bags, I texted Wallis. We’re going to Charleston.

Twenty-One

“That’s a nice dress,” Wallis said. We were on the jet bridge, bags wheeling behind us. Mine had a crack in its shell, Wallis’s a bright green ribbon around its handle. These details encapsulated our different states of mind pretty well, I’d say. “Is it new?”

The dress was cream with ruffles around the shoulders. I’d bought it yesterday at the last minute upon realizing that Wallis was right; my wardrobe was mostly workwear. Inside I was tense, but at least outwardly I could try to mask it with some frill.

“The clearance racks are always full of size twelves,” I said, as we shuffled forward. “I got a few new things.”

“Wow,” Wallis said, tucking the label into the back of my dress.

“Why are you surprised? You said to go shopping. I listened.”

For about the hundredth time since we’d arrived at the airport, she drew her phone from her jean jacket pocket and checked her texts. “I say so many things.” There didn’t seem to be anything that required her attention, so back the phone went. I could sense her gazing at me, wanting me to respond, perhaps to ask: How’s Blake? Or is Blake excited you’re coming? But when I couldn’t, she said, “Okay, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” I said, staring at the back of the blue-suited business traveler in front of us. “Why would something be wrong?”

“You seem, like, blah,” Wallis said. “I know you were on the fence about this trip, but I’d hoped you might have come around by now. This weekend will be so fun.”

Her words reminded me that a text from Atlas awaited my response. He’d messaged me that morning, asking about my weekend plans, what I was up to that night. But in the frantic pre-airport hours filled with last-minute packing and a ride share that canceled last second, I’d forgotten about it. I fished through the contents of my overpacked purse, found my phone and his text, and a more recent one, too. Keen to catch up, he’d written just an hour ago, an addendum to all the ones from earlier.