Free Falling Under by Danielle Younge-Ullman Page B

ah, tired.”
    “And it made you cry?” She puts an arm around my waist and starts walking us forward again.
    “I guess I’m just a bit overwhelmed.” “But you’re all right?”
    “I’m fine, good as ever,” I say.
    She sighs with relief. “Okay,” she says, and squeezes me close to her. “Let’s get you home then.”
    “Thanks.”
    “I’m sorry, I forget you’re so sensitive sometimes.” “It’s okay, I’m fine.”
    “Listen, dude,” she says. “You fucking scared me.” “Please don’t call me dude ,” I say. “Because that scares me .”
    6
    Normally a day in bed wouldn’t be a big deal.
    I could hide here until the world seemed safe again. But tonight Hugo is waiting for me and I can’t get up, can’t do anything. I am overwhelmed, exhausted, neurotic. I hate it, hate myself for it.
    And do I have his phone number so I can call and cancel? Do I even know his last name? No, because I am a paranoid, difficult, ridiculous fool.
    I sigh. Failure is inevitable. I will lay here staring at the ceiling, shuffle to the bathroom to pee, and watch the minutes and hours go by as my chance at love passes me by. My imagination could spiral into variations of worst-case scenario, but I might already be there.
    Good-bye Hugo.
    I pull the covers up high so they tuck under my chin. The sheets feel cozy, the comforter soft, but I can’t get comfort- able and every second that goes by, I feel worse.
    He is there by now, waiting at the usual table by the front window. Perhaps he’s ordered his Bloody Mary and my soda and is sitting watching the bubbles rise past the ice cubes to the top and then burst into the air. The bubbles will come slower and slower the longer he waits, until finally the carbonation is gone, the drink flat, the evening over.
    He is there, he is there. Without me. Wait a sec... He’s there .
    I sit up fast, exposing my upper body to the chilly bedroom air. I don’t have his last name or phone number, but HELLO!? Sappho is a business. Businesses have telephones.
    I reach my hand out to the bedside table and grab the receiver.
    Don’t think too much, Mara, don’t think about it, just...
    I dial 411.
    I don’t even have to leave my precious bed.
    Crazy adrenaline rocks through me as I dial Sappho, count the rings till they pick up, and beg the bartender to find the only man in the bar and ask him to come to the phone.
    “It’s a matter of life and death,” I tell her.
    She puts the phone down and I wait. And then, some shouts among the roar of the bar, a clunking sound in my ear, and there he is.
    “MARA?” he shouts. “Yes! Hi!” I say.
    “I CAN’T HEAR YOU, I’M NEXT TO THE SPEAKER.”
    “YES! YES, HUGO, IT’S ME.”
    “OH GOOD! I THOUGHT MAYBE... WHAT’S UP? WHERE AREYOU?”
    “HOME. I, UM, I’M NOT FEELING WELL.” “HANG ON, THIS IS BRUTAL. IF I GIVEYOU MY
    CELL NUMBER WILL YOU CALL ME BACK IN TWO MINUTES SO I CAN GO OUTSIDE?”
    “YES.”
    “YOU HAVE A PEN?” “YES.”
    He hollers the number out and I write it on the back of my electric bill envelope.
    “OKAY,” I say, “I’LL CALLYOU BACK. BYE.”
    “WAIT!” he says. “WHAT?”
    “YOU PROMISEYOU’RE GOING TO CALL?” “YES.”
    “CUZ OTHERWISE I’M GOING TO HANG MYSELF.”
    I laugh, but he has reason to think I might chicken out. “YOU GIVE MEYOUR NUMBER TOO!” he says. “OKAY.”
    I could give him the Pizza Pizza number, but I don’t. We hang up and I start counting. The phone rings before
    I reach sixty.
    “Have some faith!” I say when I pick up.
    “Is this the elusive woman I’m supposedly not dating?” he says.
    “Yes.”
    “Is she ‘not there’?” “Very funny.” “Hi.”
    “Hi.”
    “So what’s up?” he says.
    “I’m sort of sick,” I say. “I’ve been in bed since yes- terday.”
    “You contagious?” “Um.. .”
    Do I tell him? Maybe I should try to explain.
    Sure. Oh, Hugo, by the way, sometimes I can’t walk down the street without losing my mind and