Page 56 of Solo

“I know, don’t worry. No touching. No long looks, no sappy smiles.”

He continues my list.

“No first names, no one-on-one meetings in my office or anywhere else. And,” he says, eyebrows going up now for emphasis, “it goes without saying that neither of us utters a word to anyone. Not Russell. Not Tessa. And, for God’s sake, not Maureen. Even a whisper of a relationship with a student is enough to get us both in some seriously hot water.”

“Don’t you worry about me, Dr. Markham,” I assure him. “I won’t do anything to jeopardize you. In any way.”

He lifts his head from inside my window and takes a quick look around him. But it’s late and we’re alone in front of his house, so he leans back down and gives me a tender kiss.

“I’m not worried about you jeopardizing anything but your career, Miss Brenner. Please, be careful.”

I give him a last kiss and fix my eyes forward through the windshield.

“Call me when you get home?”

I nod, afraid that if I open my mouth again, I’m just going to cry more. He stands upright and walks to the back of my car, tapping the trunk twice to signal I’m good to go. And I am. The Toyota pulls out from in front of his mailbox easily. I watch him in my rearview mirror as I circle the cul-de-sac and make my way down his block to the hill that will take me toward town. He’s standing there until I can no longer see him.

When I pull into the parking lot of my building, I find things much the same as when I left them. Most of the snow has been cleared, but a car or two sitting away from the reach of the sun remain covered. I shuffle to the front door in the too-big tennis shoes that Drew gave me to wear in lieu of my flip-flops. I’m about to start up the stairs when the apartment door next to me opens.

It’s my neighbor Clinton, glowering at me. He looks like one of those loveable, cuddly grandfathers you see on TV all the time. He’s got the potbelly, the straggly hair, and overgrown stubble. When you first see him, it’s hard not to just walk up and wrap your arms around him. But that would be a mistake because Clinton would just as soon take your arm off as give you a hug.

“Hi, Clinton, how are you?” I ask, trying to keep my voice down so as not to disturb the other residents on this floor.

“I was just fine until you woke me up,” he grumbles.

This is not a new conversation. Clinton often falls asleep in his recliner watching Judge Judy. And, while he’s able to sleep through her animated deliberations, he’s somehow disturbed by every creak, squeak, and footstep outside his door.

I give him my sweetest, most apologetic smile.

“I’m so sorry, Clinton. I promise, I’ll try to be quieter next time. Maybe I can make it up to you? Pick up one of those sandwiches from Little Reggie’s that you like so much?”

He eyeballs me suspiciously.

“Hmph. Well, I s’pose. I ain’t got nothing planned for supper tomorrow night.”

“Consider it done,” I say with a wave and start up the stairs again.

I can still hear him muttering as I let myself into my third-floor apartment. It’s just as I left it, papers scattered all over the table, bed a jumble of sheets and pillows. Funny how the last time I stood here, my life was entirely different. It’s hard to believe that you can walk out the door as one person and then walk back in as another.

I start the business of straightening up right away. There’s a stale smell. The smell of illness. I open a window and let the frigid air seep inside. If this doesn’t freshen it up, I don’t know what will. Then I change my bedding and give the tiny bathroom a quick scrub with bleach so I don’t reinfect myself. I don’t know if that’s even possible, but I’m not taking any chances of getting sick again. By the time I put on pajamas and collapse into bed, it’s close to midnight. I’m smiling as I drift off into a deep, dreamless sleep.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Drew

I’m tossing and turning, watching the clock. I promised myself I wouldn’t call her, but she should have been home more than an hour ago. Finally, I pull my phone off the nightstand, telling myself it’s about her safety, not because I can’t go another second without hearing her voice. But when I dial her number, I hear two things at one time, the digital ring coming through the phone, and the sound of digital Mozart coming from under my bed.

I hang over the side of the bed and look underneath. Her phone is there, the display lighting up until I disconnect the call on my home line. I reach under and grab it. I wonder who she calls? Before I can help myself, I’m poking and swiping my way to her call listing. I see where she called her evening job to let them know she was stuck during the storm. There are a few older calls to and from Russell Atherton and one incoming from a Washington DC number. That contact is called “The Ice Queen.” I snort with laughter, wondering who that little ray of sunshine must be.

Other than that, there’s nothing. Even her text messages are few and far between. Nothing from anyone even vaguely resembling a family member or friend. Aside from The Ice Queen, I can’t see anything that doesn’t pertain to work or school. I switch the phone off with a click and it darkens. I’m about to put it on my nightstand when I turn it back on again. Just to hear her voice on the outgoing message. Just once.

Okay, maybe twice.

…

I glance down at my watch. It’s six twenty-five on a Monday morning and here I am, hopping around in the freezing parking lot on the north side of campus. I’m trying to remember the exact location of the North Dining Hall. When I spot a gaggle of students walking together toward a specific door, I follow at a distance. Yes, this looks familiar. It’s coming back to me now, the memories of Casey and me meeting Maureen here for lunch from time to time after we moved to the area. Before we lost the baby. With a sigh, I start walking again.

When I get to the entrance, I see that things haven’t changed much in the years since I’ve been here. There’s a student sitting at a small podium checking IDs.