I messaged her.Hey. Can I come see you?
“Pop over anytime,” she’d told me more than once. But there was no answer. I checked the clock. Almost nine. She would be home soon, right? By the time she responded to my message, I could be there.
She had to be there.
But she wasn’t.
I stood on the landing outside her apartment, my energy draining away. I felt deflated. Stupid. Obviously, Reeti had a life and friends of her own. She couldn’t put them on hold to wait on my personal messes. I turned and blundered into the newel post, smacking my elbow.
“Ow! Crap. Ow ow ow.”
A door opened—not Reeti’s, one of the first-floor apartments—and there was Tim.
“Can I help you?” he asked, sounding like Darcy at Netherfield.May I inquire after your sister, Miss Bennet?
I jumped. “Tim. Hi. No, I’m fine.”
“You pressed my buzzer.”
I rubbed my elbow, heat scalding my face. “I may have. Sorry. I was in a hurry. I’m here to see Reeti.”
“She’s out.”
“I know.”
“Her parents are in town.” A pause. “I believe they went to dinner.”
I tried to imagine it, having the kind of parents who took you out to eat. Em and Henry came occasionally to campus—for Family Weekend my freshman year, and move-in day for two years after that, and for my graduation. But they never stayed for dinner. They had to get home to the farm.
I swallowed. My elbow throbbed, matching the ache in my heart. Animallike, all I wanted now was to get away. To hide. “Right. Thanks. I’ll just...”Wait? Come back?The prospect of dragging myself on the bus—twice—suddenly seemed more than I could face.
He stood regarding me for a long moment. “Is there something I can do?”
My throat closed. Tears blurred my eyes. “No. I was just... We were just going to watch TV. Sometimes we do that. I don’t have a television.”Shut up, shut up, shut up.
“What program?”
My arm tingled. I wiggled my fingers. “Sorry?”
“Which program,” he asked patiently, “were you going to watch?”
“Oh. Um.” I sniffed. “It doesn’t matter. Reeti likes cooking shows, mostly.”
So did I. Comfort TV, where the greatest tragedy was an overcooked filet or a soggy bottom.
He opened his door wide. A large TV was mounted on the opposite wall, glowing with scenes from a kitchen.
“Great British Menu,” Tim said. Another pause. “You should put ice on that.”
“What?”
He nodded to my elbow. “Your arm. I have ice. If you’d like to wait inside.”
He could have been asking if I took sugar in my tea. There was no pressure. Nothing to suggest he was a serial killer who lured his victims home with the promise of TV and ice packs and then cooked them into pies.
“If you don’t mind,” I said in a small voice.
He stood back from the door. Inside, his apartment was as neutral as a hotel suite. Somewhere to hide. Even the pictures on the walls looked like someone had purchased them by lot. No pizza boxes or game controllers, no plants or family photos. A grown man’s home, functional and a little boring.
