Another bubble. He doesn’t write back a rebuttal. He doesn’t need to. The lack of argument is its own shrug.
Eat something.
I look at the cupboards like they might miraculously hold the lunch from the hill, the cherries we didn’t finish, the way he watched my mouth and didn’t say a thing because he didn’t have to.
No miracles. Just pantry staples and a leftover packet of dried pasta. I don’t feel hungry. I know better than to trust that. The body goes quiet after flights and big feelings; it pretends it doesn’t need anything. Then it collapses. I make a note to put something easy in my mouth before bed. A piece of toast. A piece of fruit. Something simple.
I’ll eat something.
The reply is one word.
Good.
The house is quiet in the peculiar way of homes that are waiting to be filled again. I trail my fingers along the edge of the dining table and feel the faint nick where a serving bowl was dropped and made Nonna swear in three languages.
I sit, finally, in the chair that was always mine. My back finds the groove it knows. It shouldn’t be comforting, but it is.
I tell myself to think through tomorrow like a mise en place list. Wake up at 5:00. Shower. Coffee here, not there. Call my mother. Tell her I’m back, that everything is fine, that Italy was beautiful in the way Italy always is, and that I’m tired but happy.
Not a lie, exactly—just not the whole story. Decide what to wear that is clean and professional and does not make me feel like a pretend version of myself. Tie my hair back. Tie my heart back. That last one is harder.
My phone sits where I put it on the table, face up, dark now. I could text him something else. I could make a joke about 5:30. I could say “goodnight” hours early. I could ask him a real question—not the kind that can be answered with an imperative.
I don’t. I stand, wash the glass, set it upside down on the drying mat, and feel ridiculous for the way the small chores make me steady.
The bedroom smells like sheets that haven’t been slept in for a week and a hint of lavender from the sachet in the drawer.The bedspread is tight; the corners are crisp. I loosen them with the heel of my hand. Control has never been my problem. Permission is. I consider unpacking my suitcase, but just sit on the edge of the bed staring at the closet.
My brain offers—helpfully, cruelly—a reel: the hillside under us, the blanket, the sky draining color like it had been wrung out; his palm heavy at the back of my neck; the sound he makes when he slips inside me. I breathe in, breathe out. Shame tries to press a palm against my mouth. Desire presses back. I am not going to referee them tonight.
Time alone. That was the plan. I need time alone. The moment I close my eyes, my brain tries to counterpoint: or you could call him. Or you could ask him to come by. Or you could simply replay him standing in the doorway with a tray and the way your name sounded when it passed his lips. I drag the heel of my hand over my face and let the thoughts shuffle past. No, not tonight.
I check the time on my bedside clock. Early enough to eat. But late enough to sleep without an excuse.
I slice an apple in the kitchen because it’s there, because it’s simple, because it requires a knife, and my hands are always steady when handling one, no matter what’s going on in my mind. The rest of the knives, I put back in the roll and store in the pantry.
I’ll deal with it first thing in the morning, I tell myself as I close the door.
The guilt eats at me a little.
For now, I want to eat this apple, shower, and crash.
The apple is half gone when I hear it.
Not a house noise. Not the little settling sighs old wood makes. This is sharper, newer—something bumping a table leg. It comes from the front of the house, then nothing, the kind of nothing that makes your skin prickle, your hair stand on end.
I grip the little knife tighter in my fingers.
“Hello?” I call because that’s what fools do in horror movies, and I guess tonight I’m a fool.
The house answers with quiet.
I tell myself it’s the boxes. A stack shifted. A hanger slipped. A window draft tipped a frame.
I set the apple down and wipe my fingers on a towel with one hand. Holding the knife tighter, I walk to the doorway.
The entry is dim. I didn’t turn on the hall light when I came in, and now the fading street glow paints everything in that flat dusk color. My suitcase sits where I left it. The garment bag hangs off the banister. The boxes look exactly the same.
I take two steps onto the old runner, and the floor creaks. The house gives away my position like it always has.
