“Hal ditched me for Leen because they have the same sociosexual orientation?”
“No, he probably just wanted to fuck her.”
Houdini punctuates the sentiment with a particularly loud snore.
Rom continues. “My conclusion would be thatyoushould find someone with more of a commitment orientation, since you clearly prefer a defined relationship.”
“Wait.” I sit up straighter. “Since when? Did you miss the part about how my mom wants to banish me without a place to go? My life is a mess. I’m not trying to get in a relationship with anybody.”
She narrows her eyes slightly. “Are you sure about that?”
“Because of Nick? That was an accident!”
I grab the notebook. Underneath the One-Night Stand label, I write Alcohol-Fueled Revenge Hookup.
At work Ifind myself inadvertently placing every couple I serve somewhere on the casual continuum. By some miracle, Hal isn’t working, which leads me to believe that he and Leen have purchased the camper van he promised me and any day I’ll see an Instagram photo of the two of them in Marfa or Arches National Park. I wonder if Leen has her driver’s license. I hope she doesn’t. I hope Hal has to teach her to drive by white-knuckling it in the passenger seat while she slowly circles a Whataburger parking lot.
On my break, I look up information about how to take the learner’s permit test at the Bureau of Motor Vehicles. I won’t be accepting rides from Hal anymore.
I block him and feel a tiny bit more relaxed.
When I get home and lie awake in bed in the dark, I wonder if Shawna has already sent the friend request to Nick. If they’ve already had a nice conversation about their kids. If Shawna asked him what he got up to last night and he replied, “Not much, how about you?” because he doesn’t consider a parking lot hookup “much.” I bet they are sociosexually compatible.
I’m straining to hear any sign of Nick through the wall. Maybe he’s in the other room watchingStar Trek.Maybe he’s asleep. Maybe he’s at Shawna’s.
If you listen hard enough, you can convince yourself that you hear anything. I swear I detect a small mechanical click. A lamp? A light switch? A door latch? He must have entered his room.
I wonder if he has a bed frame. Clean sheets. Multiple pillows? His bedroom door was closed the night Romily and I came over, so I couldn’t check, and holy shit I’m losing my mind right now.
I really want to call Romily and ask about the statistical likelihood that Shawna just entered Nick’s bedroom. But there’s apretty good chance Nick would be able to hear my half of the conversation and it hasn’t even been twelve hours since I last embarrassed myself in front of him.
I tap my fingers against the wall, make a fist, and gently knock: three rapid knocks, three slow, three rapid.
For twenty seconds of silence I feel like an idiot.
Then my phone rings. From a caller that isn’t marked “likely spam.” I’m baffled.
Who was the last man whocalledme? I barely remember how to answer a call. Hal and I have spoken on the phone maybe once in the last three years.
“Hello?” My voice is all suspicion and paranoia. I associate phone calls with flat tires. Mishaps. Panicked pleas for help.
“Hi,” he says. It feels wrong to have his voice this close to my ear.
“Is something wrong?” I picture him pacing outside swinging emergency room doors, raking his hand through his hair, maybe banging a fist on the window while an extremely attractive young resident calls for ten cc’s of something. “Did Kira get hurt?”
“Kira? No? She’s at her mom’s.” He pauses. “Wait, why would you think she got hurt?”
“Why else would you call me?”
He laughs. “Because you just knocked SOS on our shared wall.”
“It’s the only thing I know in Morse code.” Jesus, did I subconsciously send a cry for help? “Wait, do you also know Morse code?”
“Just a little bit.”
“Every time I talk to you, I feel so unprepared for a zombie apocalypse. You’d have built an insulated bunker with a nonleaking dishwasher and I would have perished immediately.”
“I’d let you stay in the bunker.”
