“Hell yeah, I would have. Michigan is like a world away.”
“I know.”
She sighs again, and neither of us speak for a few heartbeats. “You hid this from me, Harlyn, kept it a secret.” I knew that would hurt her, but I didn’t allow myself to think about how much.
“I know,” I murmur. There’s no point in trying to deny it. It would make me an even worse friend.
“Snuck your shit out of the house!” She gets loud again. “Pretended like everything was fine, all while you were lying to me.”
“I didn’t really sneak my stuff out. I did it while you were at work or at Parker’s.” My defense is lame as hell, because I did conveniently arrange for my stuff to be picked up while she wasn’t home.
“That’s what you have to say?” Her tone is cold again, but this time, it’s hard.
“I’m sorry,” I apologize, and not just for the fact that I tried to validate my actions. I’m sorry I wasn’t brave enough to tell her from the beginning. Part of me didn’t even believe I would actually go through with it, or that’s what I told myself about why I wasn’t giving her the truth about my extended stay in Michigan.
“Yeah, me too. I need to go.”
“Wait, Liv—” She doesn’t give me time to finish before hanging up the phone. I shouldn’t be bothered since I get why she’s upset, but I am. She isn’t looking at it from my point of view at all.
I toss my phone on the couch as I walk by and run my fingers through my hair in frustration. I’m not sure how I imagined this playing out, but this wasn’t it. I look around the living room, feeling utterly alone, but at the same time, I’m content in my surroundings. I think I fell in love with this place the moment I saw the pictures online, or maybe it was the idea of this place, but it hasn’t felt this easy to breathe in a long time. Sure, I still check the closets at least once a day and watch more true crime shit than anyone should, but I don’t feel as weighed down. I’m not looking for Hayzel around every corner or thinking about her every time I pass a store we went to. I don’t need to worry about running into people who knew her that still jolt when they see me, as if they are seeing a ghost, or worse, when they look at me with sympathy. I hate when people feel sorry for me.
I still need to know why this happened to her, and I want to know that the person who did this will pay, but he isn’tconsuming my every thought, and that is a blessing in itself. I can only hope Liv will forgive me with time. Before losing my nerve, I grab my phone and send her a text.
Me: I’m really sorry I didn’t talk to you about this, Liv. I know I fucked up. I hate that I hurt you after everything you’ve done for me. I’m not asking you to forgive me right now, you deserve to be mad, but I need you to know I love you, and I am sorry.
I hit send then put my phone in my pocket, so I’m not tempted to look at the read receipts. I spot my keys on the table and make a beeline for the fob. I need to get out of the house for a little bit and distract myself, or I’m not going to be able to keep my phone out of my hands, wondering when or if she will reply.
The sound of the mechanical lock engaging lets me know the deadbolt is in place when I close the door that leads into the garage. There was a time when I would just hit the button on the wall to open the large bay door, but that was before I learned how vulnerable a moment like that is. Anyone could be standing outside, waiting to come in, so I unlock the rented SUV, climb inside, and use the provided remote after locking myself behind the wheel to open the bay door. I seriously doubt I will ever go back to being as carefree as I once was, but I hope that one day, it won’t be my first thought.
That’s the day you get in trouble.
I shake away the thought and check the camera before backing out of the driveway and heading toward the guard shack. Thankfully, the bar lifts automatically when I approach. I really don’t want another awkward encounter withJohn. He made sure to remind me of his name when I got home from the grocery store yesterday. Thankfully, I used the excuse of meltingice cream to get him to let me through the gate quickly. There’s only so much small talk I can take.
I lift an arm and wave toward the building, but I don’t slow more than necessary as I exit and turn toward downtown. I’m not even sure where I’m going yet, but I noticed a few shops in town yesterday that I’m sure I could waste a few hours in.
I’ve only been walking around for about an hour when my phone finally vibrates. In my haste to pull it out of my pocket, I send it flying across the floor and have to scramble to retrieve it while everyone in the small antique shop is looking in my direction to see if I broke something.
I tap the screen the instant I have the device in my hands, only to discover one of my favorite stores is having a sale, and they texted me a link. Disappointment makes my shoulders sag. I quickly check our thread just to make sure I didn’t miss something from Liv, but when I click on her name, the only thing it says under my message is “Delivered.”
My heart gives a hard pang. She turned off her read receipts. This might be worse than I thought. I wander through several more stores, but nothing can hold my interest. I’m so out of it, I end up bumping into someone’s shoulder then bouncing off the doorframe as I exit a store. I look up to apologize, but my words get stuck in my throat.
There’s something familiar about the person, but I can’t place him. He walks right past me as if he didn’t even notice I slammed into him, leaving me to mumble a weak apology at his back.
It’s not until I’m back in my car that I realize why he looked familiar. He was my ride share driver. At least, I think it was him. He was wearing a ballcap again, pulled low and shielding most of his face, but something tells me I’m right. I look back at the storefronts, thinking it’s strange to run into him, yet thisis a much smaller town than I’m used to, and if I plan to stick around, I better get accustomed to seeing some familiar faces.
After one more stop at the grocery store a few blocks from the waterfront, I head back to the condo. Shopping isn’t working as the distraction I was hoping it would be, so I might as well make dinner and get ready for tomorrow. I’ve been putting off going over my notes—not that I don’t have everything in them memorized anyway—but it feels like something I should do to prepare for the interview tomorrow. The podcast host’s assistant called me yesterday and asked if I would be willing to come in two days earlier than I expected. Liv crosses my thoughts again. I wasn’t going to tell her because I wanted her to come out here so she could have a chance to fall in love with this place like I have, but maybe I should tell her and let her off the hook. I kind of doubt she is still planning on coming now anyway.
I freeze the second my foot hits the hardwood entryway. It takes my brain a beat to catch up with why, but the moment I register what’s happened, I drop my bags and run into the kitchen where I find the pan I used to fry my eggs this morning warping over the flame of the lowly lit burner.
“Oh my god!” I flip off the burner and search the surrounding area for something to grab the handle of the pan with. The hand towel hanging beneath the sink nabs my attention. As fast as I can, I snatch the towel and use it to grab the pan. It’s so hot, I can feel the heat through the fabric, but it doesn’t stop me from depositing it in the sink and turning the water on. The hiss that erupts from the sink is proof enough, but the black pan serves as visual evidence of how close to a fire it was.
I look back at the stove, convinced that it will somehow still be on, but the blue flame is absent. In fact, there’s no evidence that the kitchen could have been seconds away from erupting in a blaze. “How could I have left that on?”
The pan makes a loud popping noise, amplified by the depth of the sink, and I jump. I swear I remember turning the burner off this morning, but I couldn’t have. There’s no other explanation as to how else it could have happened, right?
I glance around the entirely open floor plan of the lower level, searching for anything else out of place, then I cast my gaze up at the upper levels. A tremor of unease settles over me. Without taking my eyes off the upper floors, I reach over to turn the water off, burning the inside of my forearm on the handle of the pan in the process. The instant red mark left behind is bright against my pale skin. I’m tempted to turn the water back on and shove my arm under the cool flow, but the itch between my shoulder blades, as if there’s someone standing behind me, keeps me from giving into the urge.
With measured steps, I make my way toward the staircase, feeling that same sense of unease I did the first day I arrived. Part of my brain is telling me to relax, that I’m overreacting, but the other half of me is nearly shaking with nerves. When my hand reaches for the railing, I briefly think about calling John from the entrance but quickly think better of it. Not only do I not want to encourage his flirty behavior, but also, I have no interest in inviting a stranger into the place where I’ll be sleeping for the foreseeable future.
