I keep a straight face and say, “Because I have this theory that when we die, every animal that we’ve eaten has a chance at eating us back. So if you’re a carnivore and you add up all the animals you’ve eaten—well, that’s a long time in purgatory, being chewed.”
It’s funny to see Ashley’s perfect features contort into a grimace. “Really?” she asks.
I laugh. “No. I’m just sick of the question. I mean, I’m vegetarian because I think it’s wrong to eat other sentient creatures. And it sucks for the environment.”
“Fair enough,” she says.
I’m not sure I’ve persuaded her.
Maybe over time I can, I think.
Then I think, What?
I shouldn’t be thinking of anything over time. It’s just one day plus another day plus another day. Maybe.
When things get bad with Justin, the question I find myself asking is: What’s the point? Like, why put ourselves through all this? Why try to squeeze two people into the shape of a couple? Are the things you gain really worth the things you lose?
Now I’m asking myself the same things about A. We’re talking about favorite foods, and the best meals we’ve ever had, and the foods we hate the most—when she asks me all these questions, I enjoy answering, and when I ask her questions back, I enjoy the answers she gives me. If this were a date, it would be going really well. But there’s a part of me that’s standing outside of it, that’s looking at it as it happens, and that part is asking, What is this? What’s the point?
When we’re done eating, we pack the leftovers in the hamper and return it to the trunk. Then, without discussing what we’re going to do next, we walk into the woods. The paths aren’t obvious—we find our way through the trees by heading into them, looking for the widest distances, the clearest ground.
When we’re alone, when we’re walking like this, all of the conversation that’s been happening on the outside moves to the center of our minds. What is this? I know I can’t answer it alone.
“I need to know what you want,” I say.
She doesn’t seem surprised by the request. If it were Justin, I know I’d get a What’s gotten into you? But A answers without missing a beat.
“I want us to be together,” she (he?) tells me.
She says it like it’s easy. But there’s no way my mind can turn it into something easy. Not when she’s in a different body every day. I can have a conversation with any of them, I’m sure. But when it comes to chemistry, when it comes to making that part of me come alive—I know some days are going to work and some aren’t. Like now. She has to see that.
“But we can’t be together,” I say. I’m amazed by how calm I sound. “You realize that, don’t you?”
“No,” she says. “I don’t realize that.”
Frustrating. It’s like talking to a child who still believes that proclaiming something out loud can make it real. I wish I could believe like that.
I stop walking and put my hand on her shoulder. The truth hurts to say, especially because she looks so unready to hear it.
“You need to realize it,” I tell her. “I can care about you. You can care about me. But we can’t be together.”
“Why?”
“Why?” It’s exasperating to have to spell it out. “Because one morning you could wake up on the other side of the country. Because I feel like I’m meeting a new person every time I see you. Because you can’t be there for me. Because I don’t think I can like you no matter what. Not like this.”
“Why can’t you like me like this?”
“It’s too much. You’re too perfect right now. I can’t imagine being with someone like…you.”
“But don’t look at her—look at me.”
I am. I am looking at her.
“I can’t see beyond her, okay?” I say. “And there’s also Justin. I have to think of Justin.”
“No, you don’t.”
This makes me angry. Whatever Justin and I have, it can’t be dismissed in a single sentence.
“You don’t know, okay? How many waking hours were you in there? Fourteen? Fifteen? Did you really get to know everything about him while you were in there? Everything about me?”
“You like him because he’s a lost boy. Believe me, I’ve seen it happen before. But do you know what happens to girls who love lost boys? They become lost themselves. Without fail.”
I don’t want to hear this. “You don’t know me—”
“But I know how this works!” Her voice is loud, certain. “I know what he’s like. He doesn’t care about you nearly as much as you care about him. He doesn’t care about you nearly as much as I care about you.”
I can’t hear this. What good is hearing this?
“Stop! Just stop.”
But she won’t. “What do you think would happen if he met me in this body? What if the three of us went out? How much attention do you think he’d pay you? Because he doesn’t care about who you are. I happen to think you are about a thousand times more attractive than Ashley is. But do you really think he’d be able to keep his hands to himself if he had a chance?”
“He’s not like that,” I say. Because he’s not.
“Are you sure? Are you really sure?”
“Fine,” I say. “Let me call him.”