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I unlock the door and flick on the kitchen light, surveying the empty space with something close to disappointment. This will become a more and more frequent occurrence, I realize, as Leo grows older and more independent.
I keep walking through the kitchen and toward the living room. Sweatpants and a glass of wine are calling my name.
A glimpse of movement in the corner of the room captures my attention and stalls my heart.
I swallow the scream that crawls up my throat, dropping the keys and pulling out the gun. My grip is steady as I raise and aim the weapon, removing the safety before I point directly at the dark shadow sitting in the armchair next to the fireplace.
“Late night at the office?”
Relief hits me in a staggering wave at the sound of the familiar voice, making my fingers shake. I lower the gun, worried I’ll accidentally pull the trigger. “What are you doing here?”
“I had some business in New York. I thought I’d come see how you’re settling in.”
Nick stands, strolling over toward me slowly, like a predator approaching prey. He takes the gun and flips the safety back on before setting the firearm on one of the side tables.
“Nice draw.”
He manages to make the compliment sound like an insult. Annoyance fills the words instead of pride.
“Leo isn’t home. He’s at a sleepover.”
“Okay,” he replies. And then he keeps walking toward the front door.
It takes me a few seconds to realize he’s leaving. “Wait. Where are you going?”
“Not sure.”
“Nick!”
He keeps walking.
“Nick! What are you doing? You break in and then walk out?”
He spins, his expression a thundercloud. I can feel the anger rolling off of him, an intense, dangerous buzz that vibrates through the air like a silent storm. “Breaking and entering is defined as the act of entering a building using force with the intent to commit a crime. I used the key I have as the building’s owner, and the only thing I’ve done since I arrived is sit in this damn chair.”
Some anger of my own sparks in response to his haughty tone. “Of course you’d be well-versed in criminal codes and their loopholes.”
He scoffs and starts walking again.
“Nick!”
His shoulders stiffen, and he stops, but he doesn’t turn around.
“What are you doinghere?” I ask again, hoping I’ll get an actual answer this time.
“Are you fucking him?”
“I…” I flip through a carousel of emotions. Shock, annoyance, confusion, uncertainty. “I-I thought you’ve been sitting in the chair.”
Another scoff. This time louder and angrier. “I didn’t damage the curtains. Don’t worry.”
“I wasn’t worried.” I spit the words, irritation hurtling them out like sharpened arrows.
“You weren’t?” He tilts his head, expression dark and mocking. “Well, isn’t that a fucking first?”
My molars grind together. “Why. Are. You. Here?” I enunciate each word, hoping it will keep him from evading an answer for the third time.
It doesn’t.
