Chapter Thirty-Two Rae
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Rae
“I’M SEEING A GUY,” Sam says. “And shit, Rae, I think he’s married.”
Oh. Oh, wow. Okay, there it is. Yep. I don’t like that. At all.
I sit up. “Why would you do that?”
“I just… He’s kinda sexy.”
“Kind of? Sam, that’s a terrible reason to sleep with a guy. Especially one who’s married.”
“We haven’t had, like, actual P-in-V sex yet.”
I snort. “Great. That makes it better. I mean… who is he?”
“He’s just a fuckboy, Rae.”
“Ew. Even worse. Why?”
She shrugs. “I’ve been… lonely.”
“Lonely? But I’m here.”
“You’re busy.”
“Oh, please. No more than usual.”
“You fill every second of every day, Rae. You’re occupied. Doing things. For people.”
“Who?”
“Um, Hannah.”
“She’s my sister.”
“Right. So’s Otty. And then your dad, who has told you to stop getting his meds. You don’t listen. You still do it all.”
“He forgets.”
“And at work? It’s like… the Rae show.”
“What?” My stomach suddenly hurts.
“You’re busy. And I am… fine with it. But…”
“But what?”
“But my house is crap, and my roommates are a nightmare, and… you know how it is. At night.”
I do know. Sam’s scared of being alone. And she hates the dark.
“You can sleep here.”
She sighs. “Your place is already too small for you and Pepe and the… nooks. I’m not crashing here.”
“But you know I’m here. Whenever you need me.”
“Between dry humps against the wall and spankings and—”
“I am not accepting spankings at this time, thank you very much.”
Her smirk is so skeptical that all I can do is roll my eyes and shake my head and give her one of my own.
“Whatever. Just… You can count on me, Sam. To help.”
“Okay.”
“I’m serious. And I won’t judge you for being a Jezebel.”
“Thank you.”
“Too harshly.” I flop onto my back and stare at a dark stain on my ceiling fabric that seems to have grown bigger since the last time I paid attention.
“I’m ending it anyway.”
“With the guy?”
“He’s a jerk.”
“Grant’s a jerk too.” God, it hurt when he told me to leave. “What was it you called him? A turtle-fucker?”
She barks out a laugh. “A gherkin-fucker.”
“What even is that?”
“A gherkin? It’s a pickle.”
“I’m pretty sure it’s a hairy thing.”
“What? No way. Gherkins are pickles in the UK.”
“No. No. A gherkin is like a pubic wig or something.” I sit up, looking around for my phone.
“Hang on.” She reaches under her butt and pulls it from her back pocket. “Uh, you’ve got notifications. Lots.”
My body flushes hot and then stone cold. “Let me see.”
She hands over the phone, and I scroll through the long list of texts, all from my sisters.
Otty: There’s a car at dad’s
Hannah: okay. And?
Otty: Listen, listen. I came over to check on him
Hannah: You mean do laundry
Otty: I’ve been going commando for two weeks. My entire car’s filled with laundry. I can’t see out the rearview. but I can’t go in.
Hannah: Why not?
Otty: Like I said. CAR in his drive
Hannah: Whose is it?
Otty: FFS, Hannah, I don’t know! I wouldn’t be freaking if I did, would I?
Hannah: Go spy
Otty: What do you think I’m doing, sitting here in my car right now?
Hannah: And?
Otty: I’m hungry.
Me: What do you see?
Otty: Nothing. No movement at all
Me: Are lights on?
Otty: Living room. Dining. Kitchen.
Me: Maybe he’s having a poker night or something.
Hannah: Our father?
Me: Well, go up and knock.
Otty: Absolutely not.
Hannah: Why not?
Otty sends a photo of herself. Under a bright yellow bathrobe, she is wearing a bathing suit and a too-short pair of jean shorts that were mine in ninth grade.
Me: Omg. My eyes. I will never be the same.
Hannah: We all know that washing and drying is not her talent.
I chuckle at the Chicago reference. It is by far Hannah’s favorite musical. I can’t help but wonder if the state of her marriage is to blame.
Otty: Now I have to pee.
Me: Pop a squat in the yard.
Otty: Shorts plus bathing suit squat would be a nightmare. Shit, it’s late. I’ve gotta go, anyway. Working brunch tomorrow.
Me: What’ll you wear to work?
Otty: I’ll wash something in the sink. Blow it dry.
Hannah: Welcome to adulthood
Otty: Really?
Hannah: No. What you are describing is the opposite of adulthood.
Otty: You’re an asshole. Tell her she’s an asshole, Rae.
Me: She’s telling the truth.
Otty: I hate you both. And I’m leaving. One of you bitches can spy if you want to know who the mystery car belongs to.
Hannah: There are children sleeping in my house. I can’t.
Otty: Where’s Schaffer?
Hannah: Minneapolis? Memphis? Don’t remember.
Otty: It’s Friday.
I race over to a different thread and text Otty directly.
Me: Stop it. Leave her alone about Schaffer right now. It’s late. She’s on her own. She doesn’t need us reminding her that her husband’s never home.
Otty: You’re so annoying
Me: Thank you
Back to the group chat.
Otty: All right, I’m out.
Me: Did you at least try to call him?
Otty: No! Are you nuts? It’s three in the morning.
Hannah: Why don’t you go over there, Rae?
Me: Glossing over the whole three in the morning thing, are we?
Me: I’ve been drinking.
Hannah: Oh, well, good girl. For not driving.
I flick through the apps on my phone to check in on Dad’s heart on the vitals app.
Me: Heart rate looks normal.
Hannah: Also, he’s an adult.
There’s a long pause while probably both of us fall into picturing some version of Dad that is in no way adultlike. Banana hunts, kitchen dance parties, air guitar contests.
Hannah: Dad is an adult.
Me: Right.
Hannah: He’s alive.
Me:
Hannah: He’s fine. Leave it.
Hannah: Night, beeshes.
Me: Night.
When I turn to ask Sam if she can drive us out there, she’s dead to the world, snoring lightly beside me. Oh well.
I carefully get up and wobble around, turning off the million little lamps and string lights. I grab an extra blanket, clean my teeth without turning the electric brush on, pee, and drink a massive glass of water.
My eyes land on the tiny flogger. Maybe I’ll do the whole building.
A minuscule world in which I’m the one who calls the shots, not Grant Bowman or the General or anyone else.
A universe where I can play out the scenes inside my head instead of worrying about everyone else all the time. I like that idea. A lot.
As I turn to get into bed, my eyes land on Sam’s bag, which has fallen over, half its contents dumped out on my floor.
When I bend to pick it all up and stuff it back in, I pause at the sight of a laptop.
It looks an awful lot like the ones we have at work.
Weird, right? We’re not allowed to take those home, as per Grant’s new office safety protocols.
Preoccupied now, I get into my bed, turn over, and look at Sam, whose sleep position is as decorous as always, body perfectly straight, hands folded at her chest, face placid.
I’ll ask her tomorrow. Maybe she got permission.
Maybe it was an emergency, and she had to take the computer home to get something done.
And maybe that is why she was late meeting me tonight—a subject we never got around to discussing.
Hours later, I wake up to find my bed empty. There’s a sickly morning light coming in the window and absolutely no sound but the chattering of a few birds.
“Sam?” I whisper-shout.
Nothing.
I look around, grab my phone, and stare at it blearily for a few seconds before I can focus on a text notification.
Sam: You are the best. I love you. See you Monday.
My woozy head drops back onto the pillow, mind racing with questions of where she could possibly have gone at this time of day. I can only come up with one answer: the married douchebag.
I don’t like it at all.