Ellie is Cool Now

Chapter 24

David and Stephen burst through the doors behind us. David's eyes are firmly focused on his phone screen as Stephen steers him around the bench next to the front door and the cigarette disposal can. Stonybrook, smoke friendly since 1917.

I fold Roxy's jacket over my arm. It smells like her, which means it smells like cigarettes and Kat Von D perfume. Francie (admittedly, I'm still not sure about the name) and her friend wave as they climb into her Mazda. Apparently, their interest in our former classmate doesn't extend to late night stalking.

"The internet is pretty quiet about Rachel," David says, looking up from his phone. "But she's a celebrity trainer, not a full-fledged celeb, so maybe we'll need to dig deeper."

"Instagram," Stephen says, "People always think they're being vague AF on there, but it's easy to read between the lines." He takes David's keys out of his hand. "I'll pull your car around while you search."

I lean around to look at David's phone, trying to put Roxy and Brock out of my mind, but I just keep imagining him pawing at her with those big, clumsy creep hands, whispering pornographic slurs in her ear as they drive to some secluded back road to fuck before he drops her off at her mom's house, sprays himself with some Hugo Boss cologne, and returns to his marble mansion where Barbie-Christine is fast asleep in their California king.

Makes me sick to my stomach.

And not because they're cheating bastards – hello, kettle, you're black – but because I'm disappointed for Roxy, not in her, which is what I would expect. I just can't seem to muster it. Yes, it's wrong in every way imaginable, but also, doesn't even Roxy deserve better than Brock "Bathroom Assaulter" Crawley?

"Jackpot," David says, and Mark reaches out to pull the phone away from David's eyes so he can get a good look.

Illuminated is a photo of Rachel, black and white, taken at a sharp angle. The caption below says: "Trust no one." It has been five days since she last posted, and from the look of her Instagram, she's normally a once-a-day kind of poster. I am a chronic once-in-a-blue-moon poster, preferring my primary online presence to be captured through Vic and Tina's joint "LA Vibes" account, all about the way to be truly LA, which they are trying to grow for monetization (and to fund matching Louis Vuitton Mon Monogram bags).

"What do you think it means?" Mark asks, looking between us like we are obviously better at decoding Instagram speak than he is.

"Cry for help?" I say.

"Confession?" David offers.

Stephen pulls up in David's car and rolls down the window. "David, sorry Ellie—" He looks at me apologetically. "I have a little family emergency, and I'm afraid I need a ride." His eyes convey everything without another word from his mouth. In a split second, David's expression goes from bemused speculation over Rachel's Instagram post to heavy-lidded concern . I envy that kind of deep, immediate understanding with someone.

I hope one day soon they won't feel the need to hide it.

"Okay, one sec," David says, turning to me. "I trust you will call me with a complete update once you have decoded the Great Rachel Bumpass Mystery of 2018."

I grin. "You have my word."

I send myself a text from his phone so I'll have his number, and watch as he climbs into the passenger seat of his own car, his hand momentarily resting on Stephen's. A look passes between them just as Stephen rolls up the window and puts the car into drive.

"I hope everything's okay," I say quietly. We aren't really friends, but I kind of wish that we were.

Mark pulls out his car keys, the sound drawing me from my concern and wistful wondering over David and Stephen, back to him, the now almost-deserted parking lot, and the just-the-two-of-us stakeout looming in our future.