Page 19 of Anywhere with You

“It’s Grand Canyon day!” Cara announced.

I half opened an eye, just enough to see the bedside clock. It was eight a.m., much later than I’d intended to sleep. I pulled the comforter over my head, but not before noticing that she was already fully dressed.

“Come on, sleepyhead,” Cara said, bouncing on the foot of my bed.

“Do you have a reverse hangover?” I asked, trying to kick her through the comforter and mostly failing.

There was an ominous pause, and then Cara was talking in a different tone. I poked my head out, and her phone was right in my face. I screamed and retreated.

“The rare and glorious Honey only emerges briefly before coffee can be obtained. Did you catch that sound? She may be warning others of her species that there is danger approaching, or she may be producing a mating call. Let’s see if we can determine which.”

My comforter disappeared, yanked away by a traitor.

I growled, coming to all fours and launching myself at Cara, who shrieked, laughed, and dropped her phone under the bed.

She was still laughing as she wiggled herself halfway under the bed to retrieve it.

“You make me act ridiculous,” Cara said.

“Me? Oh no. I’m not taking responsibility for your behavior.” I grabbed my phone and said, “Hey, Siri. Search how to tolerate happy people when you have a hangover.”

I dressed and repacked the little that I’d emptied from my suitcase, then called to check in with Florence while Cara finished arranging her curls. She paused to raise her pant leg and put a new bandage on her scraped knee.

Her capri pants had lace on the back pockets and small, embroidered flowers. I realized I was staring with my phone in my hand and turned away quickly.

“Honey!” Florence answered, her voice full of cheer. “Those hand-painted ukuleles came in, and we’ve already sold three!”

“What?” I couldn’t remember the last time we’d sold three…of anything.

“Doug stood outside strumming one half the morning. Can’t carry a tune in a bucket with a lid on, but it worked.”

Doug definitely had a good ukulele vibe, chill and obviously talented, except for his singing voice. I could hear him faintly in the background, playing “Hakuna Matata.”

It wasn’t exactly on key, but it was fully enthusiastic. A few tiny voices joined in.

“I miss you guys,” I said.

“Stop it. You’re supposed to be having fun. Where are you? What was yesterday’s stop?”

I told her about the cliff dwellings, downgrading our javelina experience to a sighting, and ended with, “Today, we’ll be at the Grand Canyon, but not before dark if we don’t hurry.”

I made eye contact with Cara in the mirror.

“I’ll let you get to it,” said Florence.

We gathered everything and left the room. The plan was to load the car, grab a quick continental breakfast, and get on the road so we would have the whole afternoon for the Grand Canyon.

I paused only long enough to download a dozen Enrique Iglesias songs, which I planned to play when it was Cara’s turn to drive, so I could look at the lyrics and sing along.

I followed Cara into the elevator, a bag hanging from each shoulder, and pushed the button for the lobby.

The elevator doors closed.

And all the lights went out.

For a full minute, Cara and I stood there, staring at the elevator doors, expecting them to open, the lights to turn back on, or for something, anything, to happen.

Nothing did.

“It seems that we are stuck in an elevator,” I said, turning to where I knew Cara must be standing.

“Aren’t there supposed to be emergency lights?” Cara whispered. It was cave dark, blackout dark. I couldn’t remember any other time in my life when I had strained my eyes so hard and got nothing in return, not a flicker, not an outline, nothing.

“I’ll ask the firefighters when they get here. You’re not claustrophobic, are you?”

“No. You?”

“No. I’m hungry, though.”

Cara laughed quietly. “I’m so sorry that we got trapped in an elevator before breakfast.”

“Even before coffee,” I moaned. “Though I’m grateful for an empty bladder.”

“Oh no,” Cara said. “Don’t even say bladder . We should try to call someone.”

“Do cell phones work in elevators?” I asked, but I was already pulling mine out of my pocket.

The light of the display was startlingly bright, as it had been last night, and a second later, Cara’s joined mine.

We looked at each other in the eerie glow, then looked down and both started tapping.

“Nope,” she answered a few seconds later. “Cell phones don’t work in elevators.”

“Super,” I said. “But it’s a hotel. It’s not like they’re not going to notice that an elevator isn’t working.”

“On a Monday morning?”

I turned my phone toward the elevator buttons. “Emergency!” I said, pushing it excitedly. Nothing happened.

I pushed it seventy more times with the same effect.

That was the moment when it stopped being a funny mishap.

I pounded on the door and shouted for help until my fist hurt and my voice was hoarse.

I had this image of someone opening the elevator doors to find me and Cara, dehydrated and wide-eyed, covered in cave dirt for some reason, reverting to grunts because we’d lost our ability to understand human language.

It was absurd. I knew that, even as my hands hit the door, but I didn’t want to paint a realistic picture. I didn’t want to think of the realities of being in here for five more minutes, let alone how many hours it would take before someone rescued us.

When I gave up, winded, heart pounding, I turned around and leaned against the closed doors, letting myself slide to the floor.

I had a sudden, vibrant memory of the night before my wedding, sliding down to the thick rug in the bedroom Bridget and I shared.

It was our first apartment, an absolute shithole.

The heater didn’t work. The dishwasher door had to be braced closed with a broomstick or it wouldn’t run. Every single windowpane had a crack.

But at twenty-five, it was the most we could afford and still get takeout once a week.

Bridget had a thick white rug that I always said looked like someone had skinned a yeti. That’s where I was standing, the night before our wedding, when she told me that she wasn’t sure she could go through with it.

I don’t think it was a sign or a premonition. I don’t even think the feeling stayed with her long. In any case, at ten the next morning, I was sliding a ring onto her finger, and she was laughing through tears as she fumbled to find my ring in the pocket of her voluminous tulle dress.

But that moment in our room—with her confessing her doubts and worries about what married life would be for us, whether we were too young to make a commitment, whether we would resent each other or feel trapped after a few years, whether having an official, legally wedded wife would impede her career in an industry dominated by middle-aged straight men in Texas—that moment I slid to the floor and put my hands in the yeti fur rug and wanted nothing in the world more than to share that shitty apartment with Bridget for the rest of my life.

My life. My life now would’ve been unimaginable to twenty-five-year-old Honey. Even aside from being trapped in an elevator, it would’ve been a nightmare to me then.

Maybe what was really unimaginable is how much I would change in the next fourteen years.

Cara sat beside me, getting herself situated and untangled from her bags before turning her phone display off. I did the same. It made sense, conserving the battery, though I couldn’t have said what we were conserving it for.

I listened, my eyes closed in the dark, but I couldn’t hear anything except my breathing and an occasional shifting movement from Cara.

She found my hand and held it. It was starting to be a daily thing with us, enough that it was beginning to feel natural. I gripped her hand hard and didn’t let go.

Neither of us wore our wedding rings. I’d taken mine off almost as soon as Bridget walked out the door, even though it was my favorite ridiculous tradition.

I didn’t care that we’d spent five years paying them off.

It was a row of sapphires in white gold, and it was the most beautiful thing I’d ever owned.

“I’m sorry,” I said to Cara now, feeling her soft fingers move comfortingly against the back of my hand.

“I’ve been told that it’s okay to have emotions.”

“Huh. Really?”

“That’s the rumor. I think I have granola bars.”

“I saw those. They’re hard as bricks, and I’m not that desperate yet,” I said. I could hear the faint rasp in my voice from the screaming. “You know what I want?”

“Coffee?”

“And tiramisu.”

“Interesting breakfast choice,” Cara said. “I think I’d prefer French toast at this hour.”

“Powdered sugar?”

“Nope. Syrup. The real stuff, straight from the tree.”

“I’m pretty sure there’s a process before—”

“Nope,” Cara said. “Drill it, tap it, pour it on my plate.”

I laughed, even though I wasn’t feeling amused. But the action of laughing did calm me a little, and I managed a deep breath.

Now that my eyes had adjusted, I could see faint light in the edges of the door. I took that as a sign that we wouldn’t suffocate, at least.

“Did you know,” Cara said, “that the rivers that created the Grand Canyon have revealed nearly two billion years of the Earth’s geologic history?”

“You really do find joy in teaching me things, don’t you?”

“I really like to share things that I find amazing.”

I nodded, though she couldn’t see me. “That is amazing. Are there javelinas at the Grand Canyon?”

“Definitely not.”

“Are you lying to make me feel better?”

“Yes. Also, there are giant hairy scorpions, but we probably won’t see any.”

I closed my eyes again. “I feel pretty confident in my ability to outrun a scorpion.”

“Only if you see it coming,” Cara said. “I mean, yes, good point, no need to worry about scorpions.”

“You are a horrible person to be stuck with in an elevator,” I said.

There was a long, quiet moment. I almost thought I was going to have to apologize, but when Cara spoke, her voice was calm and thoughtful.

“If I’m going to be stuck in an elevator with someone,” Cara said, “I’d rather it be you than almost anyone I know.”

“Really? Why?” I was still a little embarrassed about screaming and hitting the door. I worried it had come off more as a tantrum than an attempt to get help.

“Do you remember, a year or so ago, when…when Bridget was in that car accident?”

Of course, I remembered. I was at Cara and Lorenzo’s apartment, awkwardly waiting for Bridget to show up.

She was late, and I was irritated because that meant I was the one who had to pretend to have social skills while our hosts were finishing one of the too-elaborate meals they always made when they invited us.

So when my phone vibrated, I answered, thinking I could show Bridget my irritation without Cara or Lorenzo noticing. I had the words and the tone ready.

But when I put the phone to my ear, I heard Bridget crying so hard she couldn’t speak.

On the floor of the elevator, I felt Cara move and imagined her leaning her head back against the wall. “You said, ‘Whatever happened, I love you and I’m here for you. But you have to tell me right now because I can’t stand hearing you cry without knowing if you’re okay.’ ”

“That’s a lot of words when what I really meant was Pull your shit together and talk to me. ”

“It’s not, though,” Cara said. “You said exactly what you meant, and when Bridget said she’d been in an accident, you left without saying a word to us. To Lorenzo or me. We didn’t know what happened for days.”

I sat up straight. “Oh no, Cara. I’m so sorry.”

“No,” she said, nudging my foot with hers. “That’s not the point I’m making. The point is that there wasn’t room for anyone but her, when she needed you. And that’s amazing. Do you know what Lorenzo said when my father died?”

I nudged her foot in answer.

“He said, ‘I guess that’s one less stop we have to make at Christmas.’ ”

“What? No way. I mean, I know he’s sleeping with my wife, but I didn’t know he was that big an asshole.”

Thankfully, Cara laughed at that. She said, “I told you that I didn’t have a good relationship with my father, but that wasn’t what I needed from my husband after news of his death.

What I needed was Whatever happens, I love you and I’m here for you.

Nothing too hard. Nothing too complicated.

Sometimes…sometimes I’d wonder, what if I’d married my Enrique Iglesias, what would he say?

What would he do? But that’s not fair. He could’ve grown up to be a complete asshole, too. ”

I listened and thought about what she said, but while I thought, I finally let go of Cara’s hand while I felt around for the latches on my guitar case. I opened the lid and pulled it onto my lap, strumming at a whisper.

She went on, “So when all the mess with Lorenzo and Bridget came out, part of me thought how disappointed she’s about to be, after having been loved the way a person should be loved, for such a long time.”

“Our marriage wasn’t all like that,” I protested. “I said some snide shit too over the years.”

“Oh, that doesn’t surprise me at all.”

I kicked her and heard her snicker.

“But the point is,” she went on, “Bridget had those lovely moments as, I don’t know, as points of comparison. When you said snide shit, when you said true and wonderful things to her, she got to pick which to believe.”

“But from Lorenzo, you only got the snide shit. And the hurtful shit.”

“And not much else,” Cara agreed.

I took a deep breath of the stale air. “So what does that have to do with us being stuck in an elevator?” I asked.

“Honey,” she said, and there was softness in her voice that I hadn’t heard before.

Before I could wonder about it, the elevator jolted, taking my breath away.

We were definitely going to die. I reached out for Cara’s hand and only found it because she was reaching for me, too. We held on tight.

Then the lights flickered and stayed on.

Cara and I gasped, and I stood, pulling her up with me. I reached over and immediately started pushing the door open button repeatedly.

And it did.

Cara let out a sigh of relief, and I honest-to-God cheered.

I put my foot out to hold the door while I returned my guitar to its case, and we gathered our bags, throwing straps over our shoulders and shoving phones back in pockets.

Cara stood between the open doors like she’d be willing to let them crush her rather than leaving me to be stuck inside again.

I gave her a quick hug in the elevator doorway before we stepped into the hallway and into our freedom.

We stopped, looking left and right at the long hallway of closed doors. We were still on the third floor.

We wheeled our suitcases down the stairs.