The silence of my apartment was a physical thing. It rushed in the moment I closed the door, pressing against my eardrums like water pressure.
I took off my sneakers, leaving them in their usual haphazard pile by the entryway, and padded into the kitchen.
The apartment was fine. Small, clean, safe. A one-bedroom with beige walls and decent afternoon light. I'd rented it eleven months ago, right after the divorce papers were signed, because it was close to my mother's place and because I couldn't stand looking at the house Drew and I had shared for another second.
"Practical," my mother had said, nodding her approval when she'd helped me move in. "Sensible."
That was me. Practical Charlotte. Sensible Charlotte. Charlotte, who always made the responsible choice and ended up alone anyway.
I poured a glass of water from the tap, leaning against the counter as I drank. The evening sun slanted through the blinds, painting tiger-stripes on the laminate floor.
My phone buzzed. I glanced at it without much interest, expecting a work notification or maybe a spam text about my car's extended warranty.
Beth
You're coming Saturday. Not a question.
I stared at the message, my stomach having its usual fit from anxiety.
Charlotte
Hello to you too.
Beth
Greetings are for people who aren't avoiding my calls. You're coming.
Charlotte
I haven't decided yet.
Beth
Liar. You decided a week ago, you're just too scared to admit it.
I hated that she knew me so well. It was deeply inconvenient.
Charlotte
Maybe I have plans Saturday.
Beth
Your plans are a glass of wine and a true crime documentary. They can be rescheduled.
Charlotte
What if the documentary is really good?
Beth
Charlotte Marie Huston.
She'd pulled out the middle name. That meant she was serious.
Beth
I'm not letting you rot away in your apartment while everyone else misses the chance to see how hot you look at 35. That would be a crime against your cheekbones.
