Chapter 14 #2
I get the door open on the second chain because the first one’s jammed again. Essie’s standing there in an old pink robe, hair in a lopsided bun. She’s tiny, but she holds Gordo’s entire world in her palms. He presses his face into her knee like he’s apologizing for cheating on her with me.
“Hey, sorry,” I mumble. My voice sounds like it’s been dragged over asphalt. “He snuck in last night. He’s basically my roommate now.”
Liar. You dragged him inside full force.
Essie scoops Gordo up like he weighs nothing. Kisses his forehead twice. He does that cat thing, slow blinking at her, paw batting at her collar like he’s helping with the robe tie.
“Oh, it’s fine, sweetheart. He likes your place, I think. Different smells, more herbs to murder.” She shifts him to one arm, pulls a little Tupperware from her tote bag. “I brought you something. Kitchen made too much last night. You eat yet?”
I blink at the container, then at her. It’s barely six. My stomach wants it, but my brain’s not convinced it’s legal to eat real food this early. I make a face. “Unless you count stale coffee and half a granola bar at midnight. Did you just get off at the hotel?”
Essie shrugs, although the dark circles under her eyes are giving her away. She yawns into her shoulder, one hand covering her mouth. “Double shift turned into triple. Somebody called in sick at the budget place by the old casino. Strip never sleeps, mija, so I don’t either.”
“You need a day off,” I say, even though I know how dumb it sounds. “Seriously. Just sleep all day. Lock the door, turn off your phone.”
Essie’s eyes do this soft thing when I say “day off.” Like I’ve told her to sprout wings and fly to the moon. She shifts Gordo on her hip. He’s basically a furry toddler, content to drool on her shoulder.
“One more year,” she says. Her mouth tries to stay tired, but her eyes don’t. “Manny graduates next spring. Then maybe I’ll sleep. Maybe I’ll only clean one hotel instead of two.” She says it like a joke, but it’s not. Pride’s all over her face, warming up the cracks The Strip can’t touch.
“That’s good, Essie,” I say, and I mean it. The hallway smells of old linoleum and her dollar-store perfume and Gordo’s cat fur, but right now it feels like the softest place on earth. “Tell Manny I said congrats in advance.”
“Tell him yourself. He still asks about your plants.” She nudges Gordo’s face to mine, like we’re co-parenting. “Sleep, mija. Eat. Call if you need anything.”
“Same to you,” I say. She’s halfway down the hall before I shut the door. The chain sticks again. I make a note in my head, but I’ll never fix it.
I lean my back against the door, press it closed like that does anything for the mess in my head. One hand comes up, rubs my eyes hard enough to see stars. No point going back to sleep now.
I push off the door, and pad barefoot to the kitchen nook. Tossing the food on the tiny round table, I pick at a grain of rice that fell out. My hair feels greasy, my skin tacky in weird places. I strip on the way to the bathroom; shirt on the couch, bra on the floor, pants half-off by the sink.
The water hits my shoulders, too hot at first. Good. I stand there until the mirror fogs up so thick I can’t see the cheap tiles or my own face or the stuff I can’t stop thinking about.
The men from last night, the shadows across the courtyard, third floor, corner unit that’s supposed to be empty.
And… Green Eyes?
Maybe it wasn’t. Probably wasn’t.
I grab the body wash and scrub too hard, like I can peel the thought off my skin. Arms, chest, throat, raw and pink.
Oh, stop being stupid. This is so stupid.
I squeeze the shampoo too hard, glob it all over my palm, more than I need. The cold slap of it snaps my brain back where it belongs.
Rinse. Wash him out. Try.
When I’m done, I wrap the scratchy towel around me and shuffle out.
The place feels too bright for this early; pale sunlight through those big east-facing windows, bouncing off my tiny, yellow-tiled kitchen.
The couch is a mess of cat hair. My purse sits on the table with those bank papers stuffed deep inside. Like hiding them there does anything.
I step into the bedroom nook behind the half wall.
Drop the towel. Fresh underwear first, then a bra that pinches wrong.
Crisp work pants that dig into my stomach when I sit wrong.
I tug on a white button-up blouse, damp skin sticking to the fabric, and fumble the buttons closed up to my bra line.
The reflection in the TV screen catches it—damp hair, tired eyes, a body that feels like it belongs to someone else lately.
I pause to tug the curtain closed. It’s thin, cheap, the kind I grabbed off a clearance rack because I was broke and tired of waking up for the sun. I pinch the fabric between my fingers. Easy to see through. Easy for him to see through—if he’s even real. If he’s looking.
The thought punches something low in my belly that I’m not ready to name. I pull the curtain tighter, but don’t tie it off. Leave a sliver, a gap.
What’s wrong with me?
I could shower again. Hot water, slippery skin, pretend nobody’s watching. Pretend maybe somebody is.
God, I’m out of my mind.
I stand there a second too long, then snap out of it. Unplug my phone from the socket by the kitchen counter. It’s fully charged, for once. The screen lights up my half-damp face. It’s later than I thought. Way too late to pretend I’ll crawl back into bed.
One missed message.
GramCracker: Did you get home safe? Call me when you wake up.
I thumb back.
Yeah, safe. Love you.
I hit send before I can overthink the lie.
I toss the phone into my bag. It hits the crumpled bank papers with a little slap that makes my stomach flip. Before I can zip it, the phone buzzes again.
Dave.
Dave Thornton: Hey, Mary. Meet me at the old laundromat on Twain, 7 AM. Need to talk.
I look at the time again.
The old laundromat. Who the hell meets their boss at a dead coin wash at this time of day? I stare at the text, thumb hovering. Part of me wants to tell him to shove it. But I don’t. Of course I don’t.
Me: Okay.
I tap send.
The regret hits before the message even leaves the screen.
This is getting a bit too weird.