The Lost Story

by Meg Shaffer

“Jesus.” She popped out her earbuds and stared at him, wild-eyed. “Wrong guy,” he said. “But I think I saw him over there.” He pointed to a white marble statue of Jesus by the maintenance shed. “Not funny,” she said. “You said you had a flight.” “I lied.” “Oh great. Thought you were some big hero.” “I am, apparently. I’m also an asshole. They’re not mutually exclusive.” She stared at him, trying to decide if she was glad to see him, terrified, or both. “What are you doing here? You scared the shit out of me.” “If you hadn’t been blasting music directly into your ear canals, you might have heard me calling your name.” Yes, definitely could be a bit of an asshole. “My birth mother took drugs when she was pregnant with me. It made me very fussy as a baby, and only music calmed me down enough to sleep. Stevie Nicks—probably because she’s literally the fairy queen of rock—works better than any other music.” She paused for a breath. “Sorry, I didn’t need to tell you that, but the doctors said the drugs probably wired my brain a little differently. To quote my seventh-grade teacher verbatim—‘Emilie has trouble self-censoring.’ ” “I find that refreshing actually.” He glanced around at the center grounds. “Are you Catholic?” “I’m nothing. What are you?” “I’m everything,” he said.