Ah.Fuck.
My tongue ties itself in knots.
“Walk it off,” she suggests. Then she hops in the driver’s seat and closes the door behind her.
Stop it.
Stop thinking about her. Stop wanting her.
Stop wondering what she’s doing. Stop worrying that she’s not drinking enough water. Stop letting her consume your every wakingandsleeping thoughts.
Stop craving things you cannot have.
Stop wishing you hadn’t fucked it up so royally.
My body sways with the motion of the train as it rolls to a stop. Across the platform, the Brooklyn-bound train rumbles in at the same time. If I got on it, I’d be going in the opposite direction of my own apartment.
But it would take me directly to hers.
“Stand clear of the closing doors,” the automated announcer says, and I jump out of my seat and cross to the Brooklyn line.
18
Ophelia.Now.
Spud licks me awake. The pug’s tongue sloppily laps at my cheek and I groan and roll over, out of the splash zone.
“I’m up! Okay, I’m up.”
Spud rolls out of bed with a heavy plop.
The dog of unknowable age has been with me for two years now. After my sister moved out, short term roommates rolled through my apartment as though on a turnstile. Finally, Dove moved in, and the two of us have been stuck at the hip ever since. But before Dove, there was Jake, the theatre-kid who gave Broadway a month before having a breakdown and going back home. He left his dog, though.
I have a habit of adopting strays.
I pull on pants, toss on a shirt, and comb my fingers through the mess of curls that have sprung up around my head overnight. When I exit my bedroom, I’m hit with a very specific, very familiar smell.
Fresh citrus.
Phantom’s been here.
The dishes are gone from the sink, the dishwasher rumbling. The clothes that were hanging out of the dryer like a tongue have now been neatly folded up and stacked on the couch. Spud’s hair has been wiped from the floors, which practically sparkle in the morning light.
There’s a note propped up on my kitchen table, supported by a vase of fresh flowers.
I’m sorry.
In Phantom’s scratchy handwriting.
“Sorry,” I mutter. “Not accepting apologies at this time. Try again later.”
I ball up the note and toss it at the trash. It bounces off the rim of the can and rolls across the floor. Spud sniffs it and wags his curlicue tail.
“C’mon, bud. Let’s go.”
I hook Spud into his bright pink harness and matching leash. We do a loop around the block, which is about all he has the energy for, before going back inside. When I enter my apartment, there’s a man in my house.
I let out a yelp of surprise. Spud follows suit.
