Before I can say anything more, Alis steps toward me, presses a kiss to my cheek, and says, “I have to go. Good luck tonight. You’re going to be great. He’s a fool if he says no to you.” Then she straightens my tie and brushes a hand through my hair — no doubt smoothing where I’ve pulled on it in frustration. She offers me a soft smile, a reassuring smile that communicates everything will be alright and I’ll talk to her in the morning.
The moment she’s gone I know everything will not, in fact, be alright. She didn’t say anything, but I’m certain Alis just lied to me for the first time. She may have withheld information about her past and cut off conversation when it veered into uncomfortable topics, but she’s never straight-up lied to me until tonight.
Her kiss. Her smile. The affectionate way she adjusted my tie and smoothed down my hair. Those were the lies. And I fell for them.
TWENTY-NINE
Dexter
Eight days.I haven’t heard from Alis in eight. fucking. days. The dinner party continued without a hitch after Alis left, no one acknowledging her disappearing act or the shrieking woman from the living room’s overreaction to what was clearly an accident.
I sat next to Dr. Ryan at dinner and he didn’t mention Alis again, nor did I, instead diving deep into conversation surrounding the upcoming seminar, his lecture series, and future opportunities for collaboration. I should be ecstatic, but instead of reveling in the bliss of knowing my academic dreams are coming true I’m sitting in my recliner, in my pajamas, watching playbacks of this week’s hockey matchups and wondering why the fuck my girlfriend refuses to answer my calls, ignores my text messages, and has all but fallen off the face of the earth since the second she rode away in the cab. Even Otis can feel my misery. He’s curled up on his bed near the fireplace, staring at me with so much pity I want to throw something in his direction just to make it stop.
It’s Thanksgiving break, so she has no reason to be on campus. She’s caught up on grading, so I can’t use that as an excuse to make her talk to me. I’m considering opening my third beer of the day —it’s 11 a.m. — when a knock sounds at my door. Fucking Leo. He sent me a text earlier this morning saying he was coming over to grill and watch hockey and I told him to fuck off. I don’t want him here. I don’t want anyone here — well, except Alis.
“Leo,je t'ai dit de ne pas putain venir. Va-t'en!” I shout at the door, hoping the severity of my disdain is conveyed in the words I know he does not understand.
I assume he’s left, when I hear a voice through the door. And not just any voice — a pissed-off, hot-headed, distinctly female voice. “I don’t know what the fuck you just said, Mountie, but if you don’t open this goddamn door right now I’m going to slice the tires on your pretty little Rover and shatter the windows with a hammer.”
I open the door — fuck, it’s bright outside — and find Skye, all five feet of her, staring up at me likeI’mthe problem. Not her, the one threatening to slash tires and shatter windows.
“Why are you here?” I ask, still shielding my eyes from the sun.
“I’m here because you are fucking stupid and need to get your head out of your ass.” Excuse me?
"Excuse me? My head is in my ass?" I ask, genuinely curious about her accusation.
"Did I stutter?" Skye pushes past me into the house, her purple hair flopping around as she stomps like a toddler into the living area.
"Please, come in."
"What the hell happened?" Skye leans against the back of my couch, one black combat boot propped against the fabric.
Propping my hands on my hips, I let out an exasperated breath, staring up at the ceiling. When I don't respond quickly enough, she stomps her boot on my hardwood floor—again, like a toddler. "Well?!" she demands.
"I don't know what the hell happened!" I yell, throwing my arms out to the side in frustration. "Have you asked Alis? I've tried to call her, text her, email her for the last eight days. Hell, I drove to your apartment, but I couldn't get anyone to open the door to your damn building. I sat in my car for two hours waiting to see if she'd pull up or if someone would come out, and nothing. I haven't seen her, Ihaven't spoken to her, and I don't know what is going on. The last time I spoke to Alis, she acted like everything was fine. She was overtired and embarrassed about the wine spilling down her dress, and she booked a cab without even consulting me, demanded I stay at the party to kiss Ryan's ass, and then she left."
Skye's stance is no less defensive than it was a minute ago. Does she not believe me? Her face is scrunched up in confusion. She's just as confused as I am.
"Wine? Tired? Why the heck was she embarrassed? And what is this about a cab? She went home with you that night, didn't she?"
Now I'm freaking lost.
"No. She did not come home with me after the party on Friday. She left in a cab—a cab I had no idea she summoned—and gave me some bullshit excuse about being tired and overwhelmed. I still don't see why she was so embarrassed about it. It wasn't her wine that spilled all over the rug. That other woman wasn't watching where the hell she was going."
"What other woman?"
"The woman who spilled wine all over Alis and on Abigail's rug."
"I'm going to need you to start from the beginning."
"Before I say anything more, why the hell did you show up at my house banging at my door, call me stupid, and demand to know what I did wrong? I did nothing wrong. She was fine, and then things got awkward when I introduced her to Ryan, whom she apparently already knew, and then?—"
"STOP." Skye stands stock still, her face frozen in terror. "Who did she already know?"
"Jonathan Ryan."
If I thought I'd seen rage in a woman's eyes before, I was damn wrong. Terribly, terribly wrong. Because the look Skye has aimed at me right now promises slow, painful death by her hands.
