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When the elevator doors open on our fourth-floor apartment, I wait for Bitsy to step off. She doesn’t move. Looking down, I see her eyes are closed and her bee-stung lips are parted slightly. Her breathing is deep and even. The girl’s so tired, she fell asleep standing up.
I lift her to my chest. She wraps her arms around me and whispers something…something like I love you. I’m glad to be home.
My weak, stupid heart swells. I carry her to the apartment and manage to open the door without dropping her. Her bedroom is in the same condition as it was when she left four years ago. The white and gold mirror over her desk still has a pink crepe paper ribbon wrapped around the top. There are pictures of us stuck into the side, and on the table rests a hairbrush, notebook and pink pen.
Her pillows are plumped and her green and pink comforter is smoothed over the mattress. A guy comes to clean the apartment twice a month, but this room is off-limits. I dust things with a cloth, straighten the comforter, punch the pillows a couple of times until they look fresh from the store. No one comes in here but me.
I lay Bitsy on the bed still dressed in her leggings, boots, and puffy coat and that’s how I leave her. I can’t risk my hands on her bare skin. Even taking her boots off seems too intimate.
I fish the phone out of my pocket. An alert shows on the front screen.
I’m coming home, the message says. I missed it. The phone company must’ve screwed up. I sink down next to the bed and rest my head against the side of the mattress. Inches away are her fingers, splayed out and relaxed. I’d like nothing more than to bury my face in those fingers and drink in her warmth. In my hand, the phone buzzes. It’s probably Beefer. The notification is a good reminder of why Bitsy can’t stay.
I get to my feet, but my body doesn’t want to move. You should stay, my inner voice says. She might need you. I force myself to leave. I can’t get used to her being here. It would be too dangerous.
The weekly visits to her room, the texts, the rare video calls—that’s how I survived these past four years.
It was enough then and it’ll be enough in the future. It has to be.
26
Bitsy
It’s dark when I wake. There’s barely a sound in the room other than the low hum of the furnace. When I roll over to check the time, I discover my clock is missing. I flick my eyes over to Audie’s bed and see a door instead. Then I remember. I’m home. I’m really home.
With a satisfied smile, I starfish on the bed, stretching my sore limbs and muscles that were cramped from sitting in a car for eight hours. It takes the weird sound of nylon against cotton to make me realize I’m still in my coat. I prop myself up on my elbows and take stock.
I’m in my bedroom, still wearing my coat, yoga pants, long-sleeved navy and white striped Splendid T-shirt and my white Timberlands. Underneath my butt is the same white comforter with the pink and green accents. The overwrought gilt-edged mirror that I thought was the bomb when I was thirteen hangs over the matching desk. I have to get rid of that. My small carry-on suitcase rests just inside the door with my little Dior clutch perched on the top.
I vaguely remember the doorman offering to carry all my shit up from the car. That was decent of him. None of my boxes are present, but I suppose Leka didn’t want to wake me. They’re probably sitting outside the door.
I find my phone in the pocket of my coat. I have a few messages from Audie and one from Ms. B who writes that she hopes I made it home safely. I shoot off quick replies to both of them.
After, I toss the phone onto the empty nightstand and get up. I listen for any sounds in the apartment but hear nothing. It’s nearing midnight, which could mean Leka is sleeping or he’s out doing his thing for Beefer.
Or he could be at a woman’s place.
I wrinkle my nose at that thought. No. Even if he did have a woman, he wouldn’t go to her the first night I was home. I kick off my boots and pull the coat off, tossing it onto the bed.
It’s weird that Leka didn’t remove my coat and boots. Was he concerned I would feel he was taking advantage of me? I suppose that’s a good thing. It shows he’s a decent guy, although I already knew that.
I should shower. My clothes feel gross from the long drive, but it would be good to unpack a few things. As I reach for my suitcase, my stomach rumbles in reminder that I haven’t eaten anything but fast food, and that was hours ago.
