“I saw your wedding on Instagram. Has your husband…Has he done something to you?” she asks, eyes flicking to the phone on the counter.
The tears begin to transform into tremors that gently ripple through my body. I’m unspooling in her kitchen and I don’t know how to stop it.
“Has he…Has he hurt you?”
I shake my head hard.
“Sorry I’ve just shown up here. And it’s so late. And I’m not even saying anything…” I pause, try to stem the flow of tears. “I just…I realized I don’t really have anyone else who knows me to go to.”
She stares down at her mug, runs her fingernails around the ceruleanceramic, artificial light glinting off the gloss in splotches of warm white. “Wasn’t that sort of the point?” she says quietly. I say nothing. “I mean, at first…At first I thought you’d gone quiet on me because you were grieving. That made sense. And I thought you might blame me for flaking that night. Not showing up. That you thought things might have been different if I was there—”
It’s so shocking that it’s sobering. The tears stop. “Oh my god, Em. I never blamed you. Not even for one second.”
She shrugs, voice thickening. “I wasn’t mad. I mean, I blamed myself.” She pauses, finds tears escaping. “Fuck’s sake, now you’ve got me at it.”
We both laugh, and I’m reminded of why I felt so compelled to come here. Being with her feels like coming home.
“Anyway, it wasn’t until you finally took my call that I realized why you were avoiding me. Why you’d been avoiding everyone we knew.” She pauses, looks at me with a question in her eye. “I guess we can talk about it now, then?”
I nod. “Yeah, I…I guess that’s partly why I’m here. I had to confront that today. Admit that she’s…” I choke on the word. “…dead.” And it’s no one’s fault but mine.
“Oh.” She sighs, then chuckles. There’s sympathy, but also a little disappointment. I’m sure it doesn’t feel like an event worth showing up like this for. “I’m worried about you. You don’t seem yourself—if I’m allowed to say that after so long apart—but I’m glad you came to see me.” A hand reaches out, squeezes my arm. And it’s like that small bit of contact reminds her of the artificiality of the boundaries the years have built between us. She leaps out of her stool and pulls me up into a hug. Her hair still smells of the same apple shampoo. I come undone. The tears are free-flowing, but in her arms, for the first time in a while, I feel like I might be okay, a lightness rising in me.
And then Emily says, “Who’s James?”
I feel heavy again. We disentangle and I follow her line of sight. His name flashes up from the screen of the phone I’ve left lying on the glossy island.
“My husband,” I say.
“He’s called a couple of times.”
The screen goes dark but flares back to life as he rings again.
When the doorbell goes, my body goes rigid. Emily knows me too well, brow scrunching.
“Babe!” she yells into the corridor. “Don’t get th—” But it’s too late.
The sound of muffled male voices becomes clearer as we approach.
“…I think she might need a minute with Emily. But if you wait in the living room—”
“She’s been having a hard time lately. I think it’s best if we just go home.”
We arrive in time to watch James step around Ash. His eyes lock onto mine.
“Natalie,” he says. “It’s time to go.”
49
Now
James’s arm around my shoulders looks protective, but his fingers are digging into flesh, muscles engaged to push me out the door. I don’t want this. But James is strong. Has always been strong. I try not to look at Emily’s face, distraught. I try not to look at Ash’s face, appalled. I know I look insane right now. I’m the madwoman in the attic, and James is my weary keeper. But I want to yell at them, to scream that he isn’t some hard-done-by hero. I want them to understand that he’s my captor, that he’s made me this way.
“Em, we weren’t done talking,” I say, throwing my voice over my shoulder as James pushes me down the short path to the pavement. “Maybe I could stay?”
She takes a decisive step forward. “Of course.” She taps James on the back, harder than polite. “She should stay. When we finish catching up, she can sleep in our spare room.”
He doesn’t stop. “I’m so sorry, but she needs to come home,” he says. “She has a lot going on right now.”
