Jasmine Warga - Here We Are Now

T here are people that you never expect to show up on your doorstep. For me, this list begins with the pope, the president, and my second-grade teacher, Mrs. Jenkins, because she absolutely hated me.

He wouldve been somewhere on my Most Unlikely List. Probably top ten. But there was a time, not so long ago, when he wouldnt have been on that list. There was actually a time when I would camp out by the window, willing him to pull up into the driveway. I always imagined him driving a black Mustang with a loud, rumbling engine. I used to picture him in the drivers seat, his sunglasses pushed up in his messy pale corn-colored hair, wearing his mint green plaid pajama pants that had become so iconic thanks to the Rolling Stone photo shoot.

But after three years of unanswered letter after unanswered letter, Id finally accepted that it was never going to happen.

Until it did.

When I heard the first knock, I freaked out. We werent expecting any guests and I have the type of brain that always goes to the Absolute Worst-Case Scenario. And so I did what anyone would do when they believe someone is attempting to break into their house and hack them to death with a chainsawI called for help.

Harlow? I called out. She was in the kitchen whipping up a batch of her pistachio cupcakes with buttercream icing.

Yes? she answered over the noisy whirl of the electric mixer and the Dresden Dolls record that was turned on full blast. Amanda Palmer was crooning about jeeps and betrayal. Harlow was in a phase where she was both nursing a major crush on Amanda Palmer and wanting to be Amanda Palmer.

I think theres someone at the door.

I heard the electric mixer switch off. Yeah. I thought I heard a knock. Are you expecting anyone?

I reclined farther into the couch and pressed pause on Netflix, frantically trying to remember the name of an artsy French movie that I could turn on. If Harlow and I were about to be savagely murdered by a serial killer, I wanted to be remembered for my unimpeachable taste in foreign cinema, not my penchant for reality cooking competitions. No, I answered, this time lowering my voice in case said murderer was eavesdropping on us. Are you?

Harlow walked into the living room. My mothers paisley-patterned cooking apron was draped over Harlows tiny frame, sporting some fresh flour splotches. There was also a sliver of icing on the left side of her face. Harlow was a terrific baker, albeit not a neat one. Nope. I told Quinn she could come over later for cupcakes and pizza, but she doesnt get off work until six. Harlow pulled her phone out of the back pocket of her frayed denim shorts, which she was wearing over polka-dotted tights. What time is it, anyway?

I glanced at the cable box. Twelve thirty-one. Definitely not six.

Okay. So it isnt Quinn. But that doesnt mean its Charles Manson.

Quinn was Harlows girlfriend. And while she wasnt Charles Manson, she did sort of terrify me. Theyd been together seven and a half months, and I still didnt feel confident that Quinn liked me. I worried that Quinn didnt find me edgy or interesting enough, or worse, thought I was a complete nutball. How I responded to situations like the one that was presently unfolding did not bode well for my score on the nutball scale.

Tal, Harlow said, using her knowing, level voice with me. Why dont you just go open the door and see who it is? Ill be right here.

I bit my bottom lip and stared at the frozen image of Gordon Ramsay on the television screen. I hadnt yet switched over to the French new wave film whose title I couldnt remember.

The doorbell rang again.

Tal, Harlow repeated. Answer the door.

But we dont know who it is.

Wed entered our usual call-and-response pattern. I like to think thats one of the hallmarks of Bestfrienddomthat comfortable circular conversation.

She sighed and I watched her flip her phone over in her hands. I had a sinking feeling that she was debating whether or not to text Quinn and tell her I was being a complete nutball. Great.

The only thing worse than my best friend being infinitely cooler than me was that now she had a girlfriend who was infinitely cooler than both of us. And I could feel Harlow slipping awayslowly, but still slipping. Being pulled into the orbit of Quinn and Quinns alluring pack of friends. It terrified me.

In the past few months, something had shifted between Harlow and me. It was difficult to put a finger on. It wasnt like an earthquake or anything that dramatic, but there was a fissure. Before, I had been the first person Harlow told everything to. And of course, I told her everything first too. Really, there wasnt anyone other than my mom who I confided in besides Harlow. Now that Harlow had Quinn, I was Harlows second person. But she was still my first. And that made me feel sad.

No one wants to be in second place.

When Harlow had first come over today, she pretended like everything was normal. But I knew it was a tactic. Harlow didnt ever want to talk about what had changed between us. She wanted to keep on pretending like things were as they always had been, even though they clearly werent.

I wondered if Harlow was only here now because Mom had called Harlow and asked her to come. I could easily imagine the phone call: Harlow, dear, my mother wouldve said in her formal tone that she believed disguised her ever-present accent. Im going to be away for a few days in Paris, giving a lecture at the launch of a new gallery. Would you do me a huge favor and check in on Tal from time to time for me?

Yes. Of course, Dr. Abdallat, Harlow wouldve said, because despite the frayed denim jean shorts and polka-dotted tights and chipped dark nail polish, Harlow at her core was still the authority-pleasing third grader who turned in every book report a week before it was due. She was also one of the few people I knew who referred to my mother as Dr. Abdallat. Yes, she had a degree in art history and theory, but she was a professor, not a medical doctor.

Okay. Fine. Lets just take a deep breath and behave like normal people, Harlow insisted. She marched toward the window. She pulled back the thin lavender curtain and let out a gasp.

What is it? I whispered, my body stiffening.

Taliah Sahar Abdallat, youre going to want to see this.

My throat went dry. Seriously, what is it?

Taliah. Her voice was rigid. Come here.

I pulled myself up from the couch. I walked to stand beside her and looked out the window. The mid-summer daylight was bouncing off the window in a blinding fashion and I had to blink a few times to make sure my eyes were really seeing what I thought they were seeing.

It was him.

Three years too late.

Or really sixteen years too late if were being honest.

But it was him.

Dear Julian Oliver,

I really dont know how to begin this letter other than to say, I think youre my dad. There is so much I want to say, but I felt the need to start with a neat and pretty and direct beginning. Something to get you hooked so youll keep reading this letter until the end.

I like to imagine this is how you feel when you go about ordering the tracks for one of your albums. You select something nice and catchy for the beginning track and then slyly sandwich in some of the more meaningful but less flashy songs.

Now, before you throw this letter away, please hear me out. Im sure you get deranged fan letters all the time, but thats not what this is. To be honest, Im not even a huge fan of yours. I dont mean that in a bad way. I like your music just fine, but its not like my favorite or anything. To be fair, that probably has a lot to do with the fact that my mother doesnt really let me listen to your genre of music much, which, after my recent discovery, is starting to make a lot more sense.