Every so often, I check my phone to see if Colton needs something. He doesn’t. Not a single message. I just hope Isla is nice to him. She can be a handful to be honest.
By 5 p.m., I’ve hit the kind of existential fatigue where you start wondering if your office plants would eat you if left alone long enough. I’m starting to fantasize about my couch and a pint of Ben & Jerry’s when my phone buzzes. It’s Isla. No emojis.
Isla
You need to come over ASAP. Like, for real.
I debate ignoring her. I lose. Why would she text me this? Did something happen with Colton?
Jenna
Is this about the podcast?
Isla
Just come. I need to show you something.
Isla
I have wine.
If there’s a moreeffective bribe, I haven’t seen it. I type out a quick check-in to Colton.
Jenna
You got Livy tonight? Everything ok?
Colton
All good. She is watching cartoons. I am making dinner.
Jenna
I’ll be late—friend emergency.
Colton
No problem. Be safe.
I stare at the “Be safe”for a weirdly long time, then close my laptop and start packing up. The office is already empty, the cleaning crew’s vacuum sounding like a distant lawnmower. I wish I had a more dramatic exit, but my badge doesn’t even make the security guard look up when I leave.
Isla’s place is right around the corner from Colton, which means it’s both absurdly expensive and decorated like a Pinterest board: houseplants, throw pillows in shades of “cerulean” (not blue, don’t call it blue), and an entire wall of framed dog portraits. She opens the door in sweatpants and a loose T-shirt that says, “Don’t Speak Until I’ve Had My Podcast.”
She looks at me for a second before hugging me so hard I feel my spine realign.
“You okay?” she says, into my hair.
“Define ‘okay,’” I say, muffled, getting the strange feeling that something’s off. She lets go and steers me to the couch, where a bottle of red and two glasses are already waiting. I pour myself a triple and wait for the other shoe.
“You’re stressing me out, Isla,” I tell her, dropping into the absurdly soft cushions of her couch. “What happened? Is it good or bad?”
She winces and I know it’s going to be bad, bad. I glance around the room, unable to meet her gaze as she rummages for whatever it is she wants to show me.
Usually, her apartment feels like the physical manifestation of a deep breath. Everything is warm lighting and beige colors and blankets arranged in ways that make you want to take a picture. It smells faintly like vanilla and expensive candles. Being here usually lowers my blood pressure on contact.
Usually.
“Just listen,” Isla says, pressing her phone into my hand. It’s the episode she just recorded. So, it has to do with Colton.
