Page 110 of The False Flat

Pulling at the skin on my forehead, I tried to dislodge events. Had he taken me home? I didn’t remember driving. The last thing I remembered was standing beside a palm tree, him telling me he had . . .

No.

More knocking. Someone was at the door.

Please let it be Grant. I started to move downstairs but stopped. What did I say when he told me? I needed to remember before I faced him.

It couldn’t be true.

Why wasn’t he here now?

I looked around for my phone, threw back the bedspread, the sheets, tossed the pillows, scanned the nightstand and the dresser.

I needed to get to the door.

I ran down the stairs and raced to the front entrance. My fingers slipped on the knob because my palms were so sweaty.

I needed to see Grant.

Why didn’t I remember coming home?

The lock finally relinquished under my fumbling fingers, and when the door was thrown back, my mother stood on the other side of it, wearing a linen suit the color of straw. I looked past her, caring about her only if Grant was tucked into one of her pockets, but they were likely faux pockets anyway.

He wasn’t in her pockets, and I couldn’t do this now.

His car was gone.

“Penelope.” My mother stepped back, my appearance no doubt unacceptable.

Why did she call me Penelope? Didn’t she know that’s what Grant called me, only Grant?

Where is Grant?

I left Aurora standing in my doorway and turned back inside, trying to find my phone. Surely he’d called. If nothing else, I needed the phone to call him. I needed to see him.

I searched everywhere, my mother chasing after me until I finally gave up and faced her. She’d asked me fifteen times what I was looking for, and when I’d finally answered, instead of helping me look for it, she asked how I’d lost my phone in the first place.

Then, she pulled us into the kitchen and over to the table. I sat in the chair she’d shoved me into, vaguely aware of my mother moving around in my kitchen. I didn’t care. I pressed my hands into my eyes.

Think. Think. Think.

I was replaying the events from last night for the fifth time when my mother set a cup of tea in front of me. I stared into the steaming darkness; a few bubbles floated on the surface, popped.

Pop. Pop. Pop.

My mother sat across from me, ruler straight, her hands wrapped around her mug. “What’s going on?”

As my mind fell into my standard background criticism of her primness, I realized I was sitting the exact same way.

“What are you doing here? What day is it?”

She looked horrified. “Day? It’s Friday evening. How can you not know that?”

Friday evening? My date with Grant was Thursday. I’d lost a whole day.

“Why are you wearing that dress?” My mother stood and walked back and forth across my kitchen, concern on her face as she decided what to do with me, her heels clicking like a sophisticated metronome. “I’m glad I came.”

“Why are you here?” I asked again, wanting this over with so I could find Grant or at least my phone.