SUNLIGHT WAKES ME, POKING IN THROUGH THE WINDOWS. Isqueeze my eyes tight, hoping to drift off again, but as my brainregisters the dull ache in my lower back, I remember that I’m on the couch—and the reason why.
My eyes shoot open, and I inhale deeply. There’s no trace of any smoky smell.
Kicking off the bedspread, I struggle off the couch, and before I even turn on the coffee machine, I do a quick look around the three first-floor rooms, hoping to find a clue that I missed last night in my hyper state, but there’s nothing.
I slide into one of the chairs at the dining table and do a search on my laptop, trying to determine what caused the smell and also how concerned I should be. I learn that electrical fires that originate in walls can take hours, even days, to advance, but the odor they give off is an acrid one, caused by the burn of the plastic coating on the wires. That’s definitely not what I noticed. The only explanations I find for a trace of woodsmoke are charred log remnants in a fireplace or a wooden utensil accidentally left in an oven, neither of which fits.
Before fully giving up, I click on one more link for mystery smells, which ends up taking me to an online article called “Eight Signs Your House Might Be Haunted.”
My god, I can’t believe we’re back to that. What am I supposed to do—call Ghostbusters and explain I now have three indicators of a poltergeist on the property? No, what I really need to focus on today is the Liam problem and how to handle it. I can’t believe Sam never called.
But when I retrieve my phone from the coffee table, I’m surprised to see that I missed a text from him last night—sent just after eleven, when I was already asleep.
Sorry to be out of touch. Had to drive back to NY today to handle a work issue. Left messages for Drew. Still no word. Will let you know when I hear.
It’s a relief to know that he hasn’t dropped the ball, but I also feel an unwelcome twinge of disappointment that he’s in New York, and no longer minutes away. There’s been an unexpected sense of security in having him close.
Thanks for letting me know, I write back.I have something incredibly important to talk to you about. Can we speak on the phone?
He might not even be checking messages this morning, but I hold my breath with the phone in my hand. A second later I see the three dancing dots, and then:
I’ll be back in CT this afternoon. Why don’t I stop by.
I respond saying Ava and I are having an early dinner and I have a few work calls scheduled, but mostly I’m around.
He sends a one-word reply:okay—without even a hint of a time frame. I hate how eager I feel to see him regardless of when it will be.
After a shower and breakfast—and hauling my bedding back upstairs—I settle in again at the dining room table. I’m in a holding pattern until I talk to Sam, and in the meantime, I just have to pray Liam isn’t wise to my efforts.
My phone rings from its spot on the table, and I almost jump when I spot Tori’s name on the screen, as if she’s been eavesdropping on my thoughts.
“Kiki, how are you?” she asks.
“Getting by, thanks,” I say. “How about you?”
“Like you, I’m sure, doing our best to come to terms with things,” she says, then clears her throat. “Listen, I’m sorry about the other day. I should never have been so blunt with you. I just haven’t been myself since this happened.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I say, and leave it at that. I need to keep this as brief as possible because I can tell I’m not sounding very natural.
“So, what are you up to today?”
“A couple of client calls and then an early dinner with Ava at the club.”
“You’re still here, then?”
“Uh, yes, but I’m heading home soon, probably tomorrow,” I lie. “I need to get back to the city.”
“Well, let’s stay in touch, okay?”
“For sure. Thanks for calling.”
Did she sense the wariness in my voice? I hope her main takeaway will be that I’ll be gone soon.
For the rest of the morning, I prep for two client Zoom sessions in the afternoon, finish the article I was struggling with—though the result seems less than scintillating—and finally pay a little attention to my social media accounts. Later I get through the first client call well enough, but the second—with an arrogant twenty-three-year-old male job seeker whose parents are paying for his sessions—goes off the rails almost immediately.
“It sounds like you’re doing well lining up interviews, Keaton,” I tell him after he’s offered a brief rundown of his efforts. “But unfortunately they’re not leading to any offers. Here’s something that might help: try sitting toward the edge of your seat the next time you’re being interviewed.”
He scrunches up his face in distaste. “That sounds like somethinggirlsdo.”
