Chapter 22
I see it the second I walk in the door.
Small. Smooth. Black.
A foreign object on the kitchen counter. A thing that doesn’t belong.
I put my keys on the shelf and drop my bags in the entryway, my eyes never leaving it. Two steps more and the word comes into view: Nokia.
It’s a flip phone. Did it time-travel here from 2003?
“Ian?” I call out.
No response. I got on the road early enough that I thought he still might be asleep, but the bedroom door is wide open and the apartment is quiet. He must already be out with Fritter on a morning walk.
I hold the phone in my palm. I don’t think I’ve seen one like this since college. When I flip it open, the screen reveals itself, no passcode required. A piece of technology from a simpler time.
There’s one unread text message. I tap on it before remembering that’s not how these work. When I finally access it, I realize this isn’t a phone after all.
It’s a fucking grenade.
Wish you were still in this bed. Loved meeting Fritter. XO.
It’s from a phone number only—no name attached. It arrived at 8:29 a.m. Fourteen minutes ago.
The phone clatters against the quartz. A sound like microphone feedback fills my head; my hands shake uncontrollably, the epicenter of an earthquake that’s now rolling through the rest of my body.
I crouch down on the vinyl plank floors, my breathing fast and shallow.
Is this how it feels to hyperventilate? Am I having a panic attack?
I force myself to focus on the fake wood grain.
Ripples and lines, ripples and lines. A plasticky imitation of nature.
I really do hate these cheap fucking floors.
But they’re helping me now. As I count how many times the grain pattern repeats on each board, the high-pitched ringing dulls, the shaking starts to subside, my breathing steadies.
I tentatively rise to my feet, holding onto the edge of the counter for support.
I stare—and stare, and stare—at the phone.
What am I supposed to do with it now? It’s a tumor, possibly lethal.
But I don’t think I can resist the urge to prod at it and see what kind of ugliness oozes out, no matter how much it might hurt.
Before I can make up my mind, I hear footsteps, human and canine, pounding down the hallway outside. I hear the jingle of Fritter’s dog tags, then Ian’s key in our door.
Then nothing.
The deadbolt was no longer locked. I can sense him, just on the other side, letting that sink in. Steeling himself for the fact that I am already here.
Does he remember where he left the phone? Or does he just know that he doesn’t have it with him?
As the handle starts to turn, I snatch it off the counter and shove it into the waistband of my jeans, concealing it beneath my flannel button-up.
Fritter’s scruffy face appears first. He pushes through the door, beelining for me.
I bend down to shower him with kisses—and to avoid seeing Ian for a few more precious seconds.
I know he won’t look the same, that he never will again.
I’ll delay that tragedy for as long as I can.
“Who’s my best boy?” I grab hold of both sides of Fritter’s face, kiss his shiny black nose. His happy tail smacks against the fridge, as I blink away the stinging in my eyes.
I make myself get up.
“Hi!” I say brightly.
In an instant, the rigid angles of Ian’s jawline mellow.
The crease in his brow irons itself out.
The transformation happens so fast that I would’ve missed it if I didn’t already know he had something to hide.
His smile—the way it turns down the corners of his eyes and makes the green in them sparkle a little—rips me apart.
When I lean into him for a hug, I feel the rest of the tension leave his body.
He thinks he’s gotten away with it.
“You’re home early.” He kisses my forehead. It turns my stomach, the ringing in my head dialing back up. “Couldn’t stand being around Jordana any longer?”
Ian has made a joke, I tell myself. Laugh at the joke.
I laugh.
“Actually, it was nice to spend some time with her outside the office. I woke up at the crack of dawn and couldn’t fall back asleep, so I figured I might as well beat traffic.
” I hear myself speaking, but I’m not totally convinced the words are coming from me.
“I would’ve texted, but I didn’t want to wake you. ”
“Well, lucky us, getting you back so soon.” His eyes shift to the countertop, then swerve past me, searching the apartment. “Now you’ll get to have some Fritter time before Natalie comes down to get him.”
“You guys got an early start, too.” I gather my bags from the entry and head into the bedroom, pausing in the doorway. “Wow, you even made the bed!”
Ian never makes the bed. That is the same made bed that I left behind on Friday. He hasn’t slept here all weekend. This lying motherfucker.
“Uh, yeah. I guess I must’ve really missed you.”
“I missed you, too.” It’s physically painful to say it.
“Are you hungry? I can make pancakes.”
“Sure, that sounds great. I’m just going to take a quick shower.”
Fritter follows me through the bedroom, into the bathroom.
I close the door behind us and turn on the water.
I sit on the edge of the tub, Fritter’s chin resting on my knees.
The volume of my tears surprises me. There have been so many times since we moved in here when I felt like I hated Ian.
I mean, really hated him. But if I ever doubted that I still loved him, the way I feel right now—completely ruined—is my validation.
Fritter whines softly, the worry in his eyes compelling me to get my shit together. “It’s okay,” I reassure him. “Everything’s fine.”
I peel off my clothes and hide the phone in a box of tampons under the sink, in case Ian comes in while I’m showering. When I’m done, I take the box and shove it inside one of the purses holding my contraband house numbers, in the top corner of the closet.
“So, what did you get up to last night?” I ask, pushing gluey, underdone pancake around my plate, already nauseated from the couple of bites I managed to force down.
When I reemerged from the bathroom, Ian was putting the seat cushions back on the couch—looking for the TV remote, he said. Fritter hasn’t left my side; now he lies on top of my feet under the table. I think he understands. He was apparently with Ian, after all. Wherever he was.
“Oh, not a whole lot,” Ian says. “I took Fritter on a long walk after I went upstairs to get him, then Brant came by for a while, and we ordered a pizza and had a few beers. What about you?”
He doesn’t skip a goddamn beat. Why has it never occurred to me that Ian might be just as good a liar as I am? Maybe he’s even better.
“We had a pretty lowkey night, too. Cooked some pasta, drank some wine. Went to bed early.” I take a sip of coffee. “How’s Brant doing? I can’t remember the last time I saw him.”
Ian laughs. “Well, yeah, he’s not really your favorite, right?”
“That’s true.”
Which, I now realize, is exactly what makes him a safe alibi.
I’m hardly ever around him, so he’ll likely never have a chance to blow Ian’s cover.
I pick through my memory for any other times recently that Ian claimed to be hanging out with Brant.
He said he was with him the night I made his mom’s chicken, when he didn’t come home till three in the morning.
Something clicks inside, like I’m finally shifting gears.
And there it is, thick and scalding, the fury surging past the shock, beginning to burn away the heartache.
Ian keeps talking while he chews. “You know, he’s the same old Brant.” His fork screeches through a puddle of syrup. I see pancake mush on his tongue. “He has a new girlfriend, but she sounds way too good for him, so who knows how long she’ll stick around.”
“Oh yeah? What’s her name?”
“Alex.”
He says it too quickly. It was right there, already formed on his lips. So, that’s her then. That’s who’s on the other end of that fucking phone.
Just then, my own phone vibrates, rattling the knife on the edge of my plate.
It’s a text from Dottie. I’d forgotten I was still waiting to hear from her—that she’d left the cabin last night without committing to an answer. That until approximately forty-five minutes ago, getting hold of her paper was my biggest concern.
You’re nowhere on the Georgetown website, it reads. I’m not giving you shit, whoever you are.
“Anything interesting?” Ian asks.
I choke down my rage, along with another gluey bite.
“Just spam.”