But beneath the happy, there was another, more familiar layer: low-level panic. Because it felt real now. Bailey knew Adam and I were hooking up. He was coming over tonight. We both had emotional baggage that could fill the Grand Canyon, and something changed tonight. We were being honest. And that scared the shit out of me.
The automatic lock on the lobby door was busted, as always, so I had to give it a hard yank. The vestibule smelled like Murphy Oil Soap and the kind of slightly mildewed rug that came standard with buildings of this age. Mrs. Finch, was sitting at her usual spot in the window nook, eating something out of a mug and watching for signs of life. She was a retired school librarian, with the stamina of a prison guard and the memory of a federal prosecutor.
“Evening, Billie,” she called, her voice a strange combination of bored and hungry—for gossip, not food.
I paused, dreading the conversation but knowing resistance was futile. “Hey, Mrs. Finch.”
She eyed me over the rims of her glasses. “How was your fancy fashion show?”
“It was actuallyThe Vowmagazine launch,” I corrected, and immediately regretted it—never argue semantics with a former librarian. “But it went great. My sister won designer of the year.”
Mrs. Finch lifted her mug in a solemn toast. “Sláinte!”
I lifted my empty hand in an imaginary toast. “Sláinte.”
“Well, if it was such a rip roaring success, why does it look like you just found out your dentist moonlights as an axe murderer and half your family is missing.”
“I um, I just, I have a lot on my mind.”
“Well, you ever want to talk about it, you know where to find me. Cocoa.” She lifted her mug again then dipped her head toward the stack of crossword puzzle books on her lap and waved her hand in a shooing motion, dismissing me as if she sat on a throne and I was her lady in waiting.
As I waited for the elevator and then climbed on, I thought about what I wanted from my relationship with Adam because I knew that’s where the conversation would go.
He said I didn’t want kids, and that was true, or it had been, but what about him? He left and came back with kids andnowhe wanted to be with me. Something had been bothering me, nagging at the back of my mind, and I think that’s what it was. He had twenty years to figure out he loved me, but it took him becoming a dad overnight for him for that epiphany to strike
Did he just want that because I’m the person he felt safe to have his kids around? I knew better than most his issues around his mom leaving. What if his sudden “love” for me was really just because he knew that I was so devoted, so madly in love withhim, that I would never leave? What if it didn’t have anything to do with him having feelings for me?
But he did have feelings for me. I felt it when were together. When he was touching me, kissing me, fucking me. But that was just physical. I still wasn’t sure how I could reconcile him being so madly in love with me and never once picking up a phone.
I hated to think like that, but facts were facts. Maybe him coming over tonight wasn’t such a great idea. Maybe I needed a night to think about things, to clear my head.
I pulled out my phone and texted him.
Billie
going to bed. talk tomorrow
I tried to make is sound casual, but I felt anything but. I was tied up in more knots than Birdie’s tangled wired headphones, she refused to go wireless, something about feeling grounded. When I got off the elevator on the fourteenth floor, I was hit like a slap in the face with a wave of exhaustion. I’d been telling everyone I was going to bed, and now that was the only thing I wanted to do. I could barely keep my eyes open as I made my way down the hall and opened my door.
My apartment greeted me with its usual blend of lavender diffuser and day-old coffee from this morning’s rush. I didn’t bother with the lights—I liked the city-glow that filtered through my windows, the way it made everything look soft and romantic and slightly unreal. As soon as I stepped inside, I tossed my bag onto the console, slid off my shoes, and froze, soaking in the silence. It should have been a comfort. Instead, there was an itch at the back of my neck, the sense that something was off.
I shut my front door and rushed to turn off my alarm. It was still armed, no signs of any forced entry or disturbance. I pulledout my phone and scrolled to Dt. Ramos’s contact. With my thumb hovering over his name, I walked forward.
My heart was pounding against my rib cage and I was finding it hard to breathe, but that was okay because I didn’t exchange any oxygen the two steps it took to enter the kitchen. I was one hundred percent certain there would be a note sitting on the island. But when I stepped into the kitchen, the marble countertop was clear.
The entire apartment was silent except for the mechanical click of my fridge cycling on and the whooshing of my labored breaths. I flicked on the under-cabinet lights, flooding the kitchen with a weird, surgical glow. Everything looked normal. Exactly as I’d left it. Nothing was out of place. I walked through the living room and checked the balcony door that led to the fire escape. Locked, as always. I exhaled.
“Get a grip,” I whispered, but my voice sounded small.
I made my way to the bedroom, and halfway down the hall I got another wave of something not quite being right. I paused in the hallway to listen, but all I could hear was the heater kicking on and a pipe rattling from my neighbor doing laundry. But the closer I got to the bedroom, the louder and faster my heart banged around in my chest. My hand was now shaking as I held the phone with Dt. Ramos’s number cued up. With each step I took my certainty grew that there was going to be a note waiting for me in the middle of my bed.
With more force than necessary, I pushed open the door and flipped the switch. To my shock, the bedroom was the same as I left it: bed made, laundry basket full of folded-but-unput-away clothes, a single can of empty LaCroix on the nightstand. No sign of forced entry, no ominous notes, no ski-masked villain crouched behind the dresser.
I exhaled a second, long, shuddering breath, and let my shoulders relax.
“You’re being ridiculous,” I chastised myself as I dropped the phone on the bed and took off my dress.
The zipper stuck for a second, and in that moment of struggle, I actually laughed at myself. If there was a serial killer in my apartment, I’d die half-naked and covered in static cling. At least the detectives would have a good story to tell. Once untangled, I quickly changed into my favorite oversized t-shirt, now threadbare with love and too many washes. I tugged it over my head and instantly felt better.
