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I board with first class to North Carolina (the highlight of this whole event—Lou Ann being able to afford first class tickets for us), decline the meal, but ask for a tequila and lime.
“Rough day?” the passenger beside me asks, a chubby man with a round face and even rounder cheeks when he smiles. He’s balding and sweaty, despite his air vent being open and the A/C blowing on him.
“You could say that.”
“Same here. Only the people who can handle the rough travel at midnight.”
I laugh at that and raise a toast to him.
Once the plane lands, I book an Uber to take me home, tip the driver, and when they pull off, I stand in front of my condo building in Courtney Village with a relieved sigh. Looking left, I spot Bad Daddy’s in all its rambunctious, late-night glory. It’s one of the more popular hangout spots for a late drink and a burger. I don’t have the urge to eat, and what I want to drink needs to be stronger than a couple of beers.
I drag my suitcase up the stairs, unlock my front door, and step inside. My place is just as I left it, clothes scattered all over the furniture, thanks to my last-ditch effort to pack for my trip. I overslept and was lucky I didn’t miss my flight. The sink still has the two glasses from when I shared drinks with Faye, as well as a bowl I’d used for cereal, and plates from a few days prior. I sniff the air and wrinkle my nose. Something smells but I’m in no mood to figure out what it is right now.
With a sigh, I drop my suitcase by the door, kick off my shoes, and make my way across the studio to get to the kitchen. My liquor is lined up on a shelf on one of the walls, and I choose tequila again, pouring some into a glass tumbler, then retrieving a lime from the fridge to slice.
I carry it to my bed, which faces a window overlooking a parking lot. The lot is sparse, but seeing as it’s four in the morning, I expect nothing less. Security drives by on a cart, the green lights flashing ever so slowly, alerting this side of the complex of its arrival.
I sip my drink. Suck the lime. I could grab salt, but not tonight. Tonight, I need the potency of the tequila swimming through my veins, the tanginess of the citrusy fruit to shock me.
I should be grateful to be alive, but lately I’ve felt nothing but sadness leaking in. After all, I have a roof over my head and I’m close to working my dream job of event managing. Sure, my boss takes my ideas and acts like they’re her own—and yes, maybeI have an estranged father and my brother is missing, and my mother wanted nothing to do with me as a baby—but at least I’m alive. I should be happy, right?
Only…sometimes this life of mine doesn’t feel worth it. Living, to me, is pointless if there’s no one to share lifewith. There’s always my best friend Faye who’s there whenever I want to hang out, but there’s still an emptiness inside me.
I miss my brother and my past life with him, laughing, joking, and grabbing chocolate brownie milkshakes on Sundays. I miss him telling me about the dumb girls he hung out with who he never understood or felt a proper connection with. Warren was always looking for love, always wanting someone to nurture and care for him. Someone who looked deeper than just looks and material things.
“Girls these days, Willow,” Warren said one night over milkshakes. “They’re weird, man. None of them talk like regular people. And what the hell is with them always saying something isgiving?” He gestured to his milkshake, fluttering his fingers toward it. “This brownie and ice cream shake isgiving! Let me put this on the gram forerrbodyto see, honey!” he said in a high-pitched voice, and I laughed so hard a chunk of brownie slipped out of my mouth. He couldn’t help laughing either as I cupped my mouth, trying to contain the laughter. “Like, what does any of that shit even mean?”
I laugh at the memory, then take another swig of tequila while carrying my gaze over to the nightstand. I put my focus on the orange prescription bottle with the white label. I pop a pill out and shove it into my mouth, downing it with the tequila.
“You shouldn’t take antidepressants with alcohol, Willow,” Faye would say. She hates when I do it, but at least I’m taking them at all.
I lie back on the bed, staring up at the vaulted ceiling. The wood beams appear closer, the room spinning, and I close my eyes, breathing in and out.
What happens if I go missing too? Who would miss me? Like really, really miss me?
It’s a thought so fast, so fleeting, that it terrifies me. My eyes pop open and I stare at the ceiling, but there’s something different about it now. A purple streak of light is spread across it, waves bouncing on it like rippling water.
I narrow my eyes as I stare at it, and the purple streak forms into an oblong circle. It wobbles, the waves fading, as if someone is shaking a light onto the ceiling, and I sit up to look out my window. A projection or a person with a flashlight, I assume, but there’s no one out there—no purple lights or flashing objects pointed my way. Not even security is nearby. I look up at the ceiling again, where the purple light still stretches.
I believe it’s time for you to stop wallowing and pull your shit together.
I gasp when I hear a man’s voice and shoot off my bed, peering around my apartment.
“Who the hell is that?” I shout. My pulse thumps in my ears like the foot of a rabbit. There are no corners to hide behind in my studio. It’s an open floor plan and I can see everything, even the bathroom door, which is ajar, but there is the closet, and my eyes land right on the closed door of it.
I make my way to the kitchen, pulling out the biggest knife
and holding it in front of me, then grab my phone from the counter.
“I’ll call the police right now if you don’t come out!” I move closer to the closet door, the knife shaking in my hand. I try steadying it, but with the tequila swimming through me and my nerves fried, it feels damn near impossible. It’s not odd to think there’s someone camping out in my apartment. After all,I’m hardly home and there are plenty of squatters looking for a warm place to crash.
I wipe my forehead with the back of the hand that’s holding my phone and stand in front of the closet.
The police? Is that some kind of authoritative figure? If so, fuck them.
“Oh my God.” I breathe out the words and build up the courage to grip the doorknob and open the closet door, ready to stab whoever is behind it, but I only end up stabbing air.
There’s nothing inside but clothes and various shoe boxes stacked on the top rack. I turn on a light, shuffle through the line of clothing frantically, but it’s empty. Completely empty.
