Merry was nowhere to be seen. “And Merry?”

“Useless. Went off with Grant and hasn’t answered her phone, even though I called her, like, fifty times. I know it’s unfair to call you, since you don’t even know Viv, but, like . . . I don’t know what to do about her.”

Her was Rose, who had finally hung up the phone and sat with her head in the crooks of her elbows, sobbing. I set my fingers gently at the little knob at the base of her neck, pushing her damp hair out of the way, and let my hand rest there. I expected her to duck away or slap my arm aside, but instead, she sagged farther into her seat and let the phone dangle from her fingers until it clattered onto the table.

It was weird to see Rose like this, completely vulnerable, all of her hard edges softened with tears. If anyone needed a hug right now, it was her.

I leaned in close and let her soak one side of my shirt. It was a little awkward, leaning in like that, with one foot braced against her chair and one of my hands accidentally tucked under her damp armpit. My other hand clutched against her head and I found myself patting her hair. Words jumbled in my head and I realized I’d never been in a position like this before, comforting a friend who was in near-mourning. What do you say? My mouth was up against one of her ears. I smoothed her hair and murmured, “It’ll be okay. It’ll be okay.” I rocked her back and forth as she cried.

Yumi didn’t say anything; in fact, I’d almost forgotten she was there. All that mattered right then was Rose and her fear and my fingers in her hair and her smell—her warm head and hours-old conditioner and perspiration and that earthy smell that you can sometimes sense when there’s been a fresh rain, only it was Rose’s tear-laden breath. Her hands scrabbled for something to hold on to and she found me, found my back, squeezed my hips, hugged me tighter.

“It’ll be okay.”

She pulled away, dashing at her pink-rimmed eyes with both hands. Her nose was clogged and she breathed heavily from dry lips. “Th-thanks, Cass,” she wavered, and Yumi snagged the paper towel roll and passed it along in lieu of a tissue box.

We listened to the refrigerator tick in the silent apartment.

“I want . . . ,” she said slowly. I pushed a lock of hair out of her face to see her better. “I want to see Viv. Yumi, will you go see Viv with me?”

Yumi laid down on the couch and dropped an arm off the side. “I get that you’re worried, but it’s a fever. You want to risk Peter’s ire for just a fever? We have work to do today.”

Rose’s eyes swiveled to me and she said entreatingly, “A fever can mean anything. Infection. Recurrence. Will you take me to see her? And my mom?”

I hesitated, but one glance at Rose and I knew I couldn’t say no. “Are you sure that’s what you want?”

She gave a tiny nod.

“Okay . . .”

Rose’s new BMW was parked outside and she handed me the keys. “Are you sure you don’t want me to call Gus or someone?” I said. She was unnaturally quiet, drawn into herself with worry.

She shook her head. “I want to ride with you.”

I fingered the keys as a flicker of doubt traveled through me. Despite all that we’d been through together so far, I didn’t think that we knew each other all that well. And I didn’t think I was a better driver or roadside companion than a professional. And I was tired, having fallen asleep late and woken up early. But she was already gathering her purse and waiting expectantly for me to join her. So I did.

17.

September 2001

San Jose

Cassidy

The drive to Oakland from L.A., even without traffic, is a good five hours. We told security to take the morning off and to stick with Merry, who’d probably need them more, counting on the unexpected nature of our visit to be anonymous enough.

The car was so new, it smelled like sweet leather and there were no fingerprints or smudges on any of the glass or mirrors. The California state map tucked in the glove compartment had never been unfolded. Rose hadn’t had time to personalize the car in any way—load the six-disc changer with CDs, find any dangly rearview mirror tokens, stuff a blanket in the back seat—so there was nothing to listen to except the radio, which we kept switched off. The day was just beginning; sunlight slanted in an unnaturally crisp and white way across the passenger-side window as we headed north, bathing Rose and her rose-tinted chapped nostrils and rose-rimmed raw eyes in a light that made her almost translucent. She was quiet, grasping her phone in two tight hands, looking between it and the view out the window every few moments, as if she were afraid she would miss an important call.

We’d been on the road for several hours when I glanced over at her, this petite girl with her arms crossed over her chest, though she insisted she wasn’t cold. In the year and a half that I’d known Rose, she had never shown much of herself to me. Behind her narrow face and large, unmatching eyes, I had the sense that she was always calculating her next move—our next move. She was the leader of the group, the mouthpiece, even though we had said over and over again that we were all equal members. We’d never seen her with a guy, and she’d never expressed interest in one. But somewhere underneath her thin breastbone, a heart beat there.

She gave me a sharp look. “Why are you slowing down?”

“Hmm? Oh.” I’d decelerated without realizing it. I mashed the pedal down again with new resolve. The 5 rolled beneath us, a smooth curve. We were quiet for another long stretch, and Rose flipped on the radio, which played a countdown of the Top 40. “Wake Up Morning” had slipped to number six, but “What Did U Say” was still number one. I asked, “Do you think you’ll be moving soon?”

“Maybe. I found a really cool spot right above the Sunset Strip.”

“What’s it like?”

“Big. Six bedrooms, a pool, lots of glass. It’s gorgeous.” A small, excited huff that could have been a laugh. “It’s a little much, but I fell in love with it. And the location is perfection.”

“A little much? How much?”

“A few mil.”

The idea that a house could be anything but a particular number of “mil” was astonishing. I mustered a “wow” as I followed signs for 580 toward San Francisco. My hips hurt from sitting so long and it’d been hours since we’d eaten anything.

“What about you? You think you’ll move out? Well, obviously you will, but any idea where? Hold on.” Her phone was ringing. “Yeah? Okay.” She listened quietly, then said, “Okay, see you tomorrow.” She clicked the phone shut. “Cassy. There’s been a change in plans.”

“What do you mean? We aren’t going to Oakland anymore?”

“Oakland? Well . . . About that.” A note of hesitation crept into her voice.

“I’m going to pull over.” I pulled the humming BMW over to the shoulder and set it in park without cutting the engine. I asked, “Where are we going?”

“We’re not going to Oakland.”

“What?” I took my hands off the wheel and turned in my seat to look at her. She was fidgeting with a ring on her right hand, hair draped over her eye like a shiny brown curtain.