nine
After carrying four heavy loads of groceries into the house, I’m still not done. Worse, I’m an asshole for not having brought reusable shopping bags, like the ones my mom uses. So, now, I’m both a failed environmentalist and an active food hoarder. I stomp out to the car and retrieve the rest of my groceries, more of the ones that I have no real idea what to do with. So much food to place in a tiny kitchen with crap storage and all for a totally inexperienced cook to ruin.
It’s fine,I tell myself. Because I am going to learn to feed myself real food, dammit.
Just not tonight.
I pour a bowl of cereal and milk and muse while I grab bites and put away my ridiculous mass of food. What I’m realistically going to do with these seemingly panicked purchases is beyond me—because I do not have anactualarmy to feed—but I stock the pantry and fridge and do my best not to cringe at my lunacy.
What in the shit am I going to do with fennel? What even is fennel? Why a large bag of Mexican cheese? Six avocados? And why do I now have two pounds of flour and a jar of yeast? I’m a fucking baker all of a sudden?
When I finally cram the last item into the fridge—a jar of capers that miraculously does not shatter—I am spent. Presumably, a week from now, I’ll be cleaning out a fridge full of rotten food.
While I might have decided that vodka is not my pal, white wine could be a more docile friend. I pour a glass and chill it by swirling it in ice cubes for a minute—surely not a move a true wine drinker would make, but I’m a newbie. Even though fatigue has taken over, I’m scared that I won’t be able to sleep without my recent vodka-blackout method of passing out.
My old room used to be so safe and comforting, so I’ll stay in there tonight. I cannot sleep in my parents’ room again—that’s for sure.
After I’ve had my second full glass of wine and texted a ton with Marlena, I go upstairs and crawl into my twin bed. The freshly washed sheets smell of orange and basil, and while they’re lovely smells, they’re foreign to me. I wander into Erica’s room and drop against the floor. This used to be such a fun space, a safe space.
Suddenly, I pull up her Instagram page, and I like a slew of her posts.
Then, I text her a picture.
Was wondering if you’d like to see your old room?
Over twenty minutes later, she replies.
Wow! I haven’t thought about that in years. Brings me back. Send more pics.
Will do!
But I cannot sleep here either.
After I try crashing in my parents’ room with no luck and when I have been up for hours, I angrily throw back the bedding and wander downstairs and outside to my dad’s old Pathfinder.
As always, the keys are behind the visor. It’s so cliché, but here, no one locks their cars or their houses, so I’m not at all surprised. But Iamsurprised when the engine turns over. This car didn’t sit here for years and start up this easily without help. The sound is soothing, and I root through the car, looking for…well, I don’t know what. Something. Anything. Then, I laugh because I find CDs in the glove compartment with titles written in Sharpie.Driving Mix. Mellow Mix. Oldies Mix. Everything Mix.
This issomy dad.
Years ago, when burning mixed CDs was still a thing, he was a fan. I pop in hisEverything Mix.
Def Leppard’s “Photograph” and then Aerosmith’s “Dream On” scream through the speakers. Later, Sam Cooke’s rousing live version of “Bring It on Home to Me” plays, and I lean back the seat and close my eyes while I listen to one of my dad’s favorite songs. The crowd sings along and hollers, and I almost cry because my dad would never have chosen to, as Sam sings about, leave me behind.
My musical fog is interrupted by brilliant headlights and the sound of a pickup truck that rumbles over the gravel driveway. It’s enough to rouse the dead, and I shield my eyes as I step from the car to see who is coming my way. This is not a normal time for visitors, and I can’t think of anyone whomighteven visit me here at any hour.
So, clearly, someone is here to kill me.
It’s past two in the morning, but I’m now wide awake. It’s good that I’ve rewatched all seasons ofAlias’cause I could channel Jennifer Garner right now. She might look all sweet and shit, but if her character, Sydney Bristow, can kill creatively, so can I. I’m sure something can be done with a mixed CD whipped to the neck. Casually, I slip aBest of the ’70sCD into my hand and exit the SUV.
The mysterious truck comes to a halt, and the door opens, but the headlights stay on. At first, I can only make out a baseball hat and a sleeveless shirt on the guy who casually wanders my way.
Given that he doesn’t seem to be wielding an ax or anything, it now seems unlikely that this person is here for murderous reasons, so I turn off the engine and walk toward him.
“Sam Cooke is everything,” he says.
Cautiously, I agree, “Yes.”
“I heard you were back in town, Callie. Sexy BMW and all.” His wink is visible, even in the dark. “You probably don’t remember me. I’m Danny.”
