And I know she ignored it, because today I followed William to a waterfront seafood place here in Boston and watched him and Sam Vetiver being seated outside and knew I had a few hours to return to her apartment in my Bugs R Us exterminator suit, which is really just a coverall I got from the hardware store bargain bin and sewed a custom patch onto—you can get anything on Etsy—with my cover story ready just in case: that Sam Vetiver had hired me to spray for a cockroach infestation. No neighbor is going to question that.
But nobody was around, so I just let myself in.
And that is how I know how f*cking easy it is to get trapped in this closet, that a person could be just innocently planning a special surprise for Sam Vetiver and then get distracted by going through the refrigerator, way too much tofu but I finally found some mac and cheese way in the back, and maybe checking out some makeup, a little Sephora addiction going on there but the copper eye shadow was surprisingly flattering, and perhaps trying on Sam Vetiver’s clothes, like the most elastic of the red shifts, which I got halfway on even though she’s like a size negative 12. And I may or may not have been sitting in Sam Vetiver’s desk chair grinding my teeth and thinking, How dare she. How dare she? How dare she, because she has the life I want, the only life I’ve ever wanted. Lanyards from every writing conference ever, signed first editions from all my heroes, photos of her with her arms around authors whose words saved my life. InThe Stand, one of my favorite books, an inscription:To Sam, Keep swinging for the fences. Love, Stephen King.The photo on her desk of a man typing: When I turned it over, it said,Dad, 1979. Sam Vetiver was born to this life, has probably never questioned it for a second, has everything I ever dreamed of, and now she wants William too.
How dare she. Greedy little b*tch.
I may have been running my thumb over and over the Stephen King inscription when I heard the key in the front door and Sam Vetiver say “Honey, we’re home,” and the only thing to do was throw myself in the closet, and here I sit, wondering who the f*ck spends a f*cking evening indoors on a night like this, a beautiful evening when all Boston is outside?
Sam Vetiver, that’s who.
And William. The greedy little b*tch had the audacity, after all my warnings, to bring him to her house. And a f*cking evening is exactly why.
Another thing I know: It’s about ten thousand degrees in this closet. I know I can survive this. I’ve done it before. If anyone knows how to pass time in a closet, it’s me. Thanks, Mom. But it’s a pain in the @$$, and the first thing I’m going to do when I get out of here is pee like a f*cking racehorse in the back alley.
Which please God will be soon, let them go up to her sleeping loft, super comfy mattress BTW, and do the other thing people are supposed to do there, as opposed to in the living room where I can hear them now. Which is why I’ve been trapped in here for . . . I risk a look at my phone . . . 2.14 hours now.
Comeon. I know William is f*cktastic, but the man is practically a sexagenarian! Which PS means sixtysomething, not marathon f*cking machine.
But no, I can hear them talking and laughing now, after the other noises I am all too familiar with from the fort, and William’s house, and long ago. They must be done with the f*ckfest for the moment, because to my dismay I hear their voices coming into the study where the closet is. The door is open a crack and I don’t dare shut it, so I see William’s long flipper feet with the broken third left toe and Sam Vetiver’s much smaller ones, her toe ring and nails like little pink shells, that woman is groomed for a new lover for sure. They stop right outside the closet.
“Nice ego shelf,” I hear William say. “But where’s the rest of it?”
As stealthily as I can, I push myself backward verrrry slowly until I’m pressed against the wall behind the clothes, inhaling dust and Sam Vetiver’s perfume. Their voices are muffled, but when I strain I can just make out that they’re discussing the book she’s not writing and what she should do about it. “I’m completely blocked,” I hear her say, and even through the fabric I can hear how sad she is.
Boo-hoo, poor you, I think, rich writer girl problems. But actually it is terrible to be a writer who’s not writing. I should know. I wouldn’t wish it on anyone. Not even Sam Vetiver.
Then I hear William offering to help, which of course he does, he’s such a giver, and sure enough a few seconds later he says, “I’m a giver.” I’m so f*cking sick of hearing him say this. I’m wondering whether she will take this bait when they start arguing about the card I taped to Sam Vetiver’s door and the note inside it. “Maybe we should stop seeing each other,” William suggests, and I think: Yes.Yes. Now’s your chance, Sam Vetiver. Pull the cord. Jump. But stupid girl, she doesn’t do it. Nobody here is surprised. He’s sunk in her like a fishhook already.
They seal the deal with another f*ckfest—don’t these people ever use a f*cking bed?—rhythmic slapping and sighing and moaning and William’s voice, low and intimate and guiding her through it, the way he does, the way I can’t forget and wake up mornings still feeling in my body, sometimes. He says something about her back and angel wings.
And then I can’t. I just can’t. I make myself into a little ball, as small as I can, hands over ears. I cry without making a sound. I’m good at that.
Can’t I just give this up? What if I can’t do this anymore? Because this is no way to live. Whatever I’ve done, I don’t deserve this. Do I? It hurts. It hurts so much. What if I just walk away? What if I just stop this now and become somebody else?
But I can’t. I made a promise a long time ago that I swore I would never break.
I also made a promise to myself, and although many promises have been broken to me, I will not break this one.
So I will wait. I’ll wait until they’re done with their selfish f*cking and get their filtered water and take it up to the sleeping loft to sleep naked in each other’s arms and I will slink out of here like a cursed thing in a fairy tale and go back to my lair and make my plan. What I did with the last girl, what I’m doing with Sam Vetiver now, it’s obviously not enough.
I’m keeping my promise.I can’t give up now. I’m in for the duration.
I’ll do whatever it takes.
Chapter 13
Do Not Panic!
From: Mireille Levenge
To: Sam Vetiver
Date: August 27
Time: 11:31 a.m.
ChèreSam,
