“I’m going to head back to the apartment,” she tells Amina, leaning into her ear, hoarse under the noise.
“Back?” Amina repeats, confused. Her lipstick marks the rim of her cocktail, burgundy red.
Lili manages to nod. “I’m just—”Breathe, Lili, breathe.“Tired, I’m really tired—just need to sleep—”
“Do you want me to walk you?” James frowns, a little drunk, but serious.
“No, no,” she insists, extricating herself from Amina’s arm wound around her waist, the concern on their faces. “I’m fine, really—please, I want you to have fun—”
As she turns away, as she leaves, it’s metastasizing with vengeance: spite for herself, harsh with agitating anger, this acrid nausea in her stomach, alongside the panic—how close she got,how fucking close she got again—because the sight of Amina’s sad confusion, Jamie’s serious concern, in a dark bar bright with laughter, Paris in the summer in their twenties, she’d made them look like that, like they felt empty-handed, like they felt useless.
She’s never truly hated herself, before.
It’s there, now.
Within reach.
Stumbling feet, fumble of keys—she throws a hand out against the wall, trying to steady herself in the dark hall, kicks off her shoes, finding her room, unsteady breathing. Her phone buzzes—texts from James:(1:34 a.m.) text us when you’re there (1:42 a.m.) lili? (1:44 a.m.) lili we can see ur location but text us (1:54 a.m.) we’re coming home rn if u don’t answer.She taps out a response—(1:55 a.m.) sorry, im back—and slumps down on the floor, against her bed.
She rubs her neck, trying to soothe her rapid breathing. It is dead quiet in her room, but her rising panic is loud, a collapse of heavy blood in her ears, trains rushing in the night, clocks ticking faster, and faster—
(1:56 a.m.) finally!!
(1:56 a.m.) ok we’ll be home in an hour or two
The blur of blue-white light, the glare of her screen. There’s the red notification symbol: double digits, untouched, all the unread texts from him.
Unmoving, in the last forty-eight hours—since she was sitting by the East River, since Michael was speaking to her—and only a few days ago, she’d packed her things, she’d left the loft, she’d gone out alone, she’d let an unfamiliar boy touch her—it’s like a flinch of self-injury, remembering, and her fingers around her phone start to shake—but the day before that,onlythe day before that, she’d woken up in his bed, she’d been in his arms, and he’d held her, and he’d kissed her, and that grin, the warmth of him with her—the bright wash of morning light, how she’d grasped for him, how he’d held her, before he left, but it was more than that—more than that—andoh, would that he had kept her there, pinned her down, let her struggle against him, but not let her move, not let her move until this fever had passed.
Lili clicks through to his messages.
(7/31, 12:31 a.m.) Landed. I’ll be home in a half hour, dropping Michael off first.
And then, the crash, its hit of impact: the calls and calls, when he’d gotten home, seen the absence of her.
(7/31, 1:01 a.m.) Where are you?
(7/31, 1:03 a.m.) Lili, answer the phone.
(7/31, 1:05 a.m.) Where are you? Are you alright?
(7/31, 1:06 a.m.) Jesus Christ, please pick up the phone.
(7/31, 1:06 a.m.) Where are you?
(7/31, 1:06 a.m.) Lili, what the fuck is this? What the hell is wrong?
(7/31, 1:34 a.m.) I’m outside your apartment.
(7/31, 1:34 a.m.) I can see your bedroom lights, please just let me up.
(7/31, 1:37 a.m.) Please just answer the fucking phone.
(7/31, 1:37 a.m.) I’m thinking the worst right now, are you safe? Are you hurt?
Spaces between texts, minutes between messages: when he’d stood in the street, when he’d called her name; when Jackie went downstairs, when he’d begged her to let him up.
(7/31, 2:13 a.m.) You took everything, all of your things?
