Chapter Six #2
“It’s been a while since I did that. But I mean, someone has to, right?”
“Yeah.” She sighs. “You know I wasn’t even sure where I was heading at first. Just got in the car and started driving north.
It would be great if we could spend some time together.
I booked a room at a cheap hotel out by the highway.
You wouldn’t believe how broke my ass is.
All the money had been going toward paying for the big day.
I spent like an hour on the phone to the baker yesterday arguing about a two-thousand-dollar deposit on a cake. ”
“Ouch. That’s a lot of cake.” My mouth opens and closes. Like the words don’t want to come out. “Stay here. I have a spare room. Though it’s a little messy. Storage boxes and things.”
Her smile widens with relief. “Really?”
“Yeah. Of course,” I say, convincing us both. “Like you said, we’re family.”
Bright sunlight borders the curtains by the time I wake the next morning.
It took forever to get to sleep. My brain wouldn’t shut up and shut down.
And hearing my cousin moving around didn’t help.
She went downstairs for a glass of water or something multiple times.
In the end, I got up and worked for a while.
It’s one of the benefits of data entry. You generally get to set your own work hours.
When I finally did get to sleep in the small hours of the morning, I had one of my favorite recurring nightmares.
The one where I know my ex is somewhere close by.
He’s hunting me as I stumble down hallways and through darkened rooms. Looking for a way out or something I can use as a weapon.
But there’s nothing that might help me and every window and door is locked tight.
His brutally strong hands grab at my neck and…
this is where I wake up covered in sweat, gasping for breath.
Trauma sucks.
I realize that it was the sound of people talking that woke me.
Not coming from inside the house, but from below my open window at the ruined section of the fence.
Noah’s voice I recognize straight away. However, it takes me a minute to remember that my cousin is currently a guest, and the other voice is hers.
My brain isn’t great first thing. Or the first few hours.
And I am not used to sharing my space. Hana has crashed here a time or two after we stayed up late talking or binge watching something.
Though I think she’s probably the only one.
Which reminds me. I grab my phone and text Hana, who responds immediately.
Me: How did your date go?
Hana: You know how the parmesan comes in a shaker?
Me: Yeah.
Hana: He ate the whole thing.
Me: All the parmesan?
Hana: Yes.
Me: How full was it?
Hana: Full.
Me: That’s amazing.
Hana: Definitely not lactose intolerant.
Me: Cheese monster.
Hana: Cheese maniac.
Me: Did he let you have any?
Hana: I would have hurt him otherwise.
Me: Fair enough.
Me: You going to see him again?
Hana: Yes. He’s cute and I need to know what other wild shit he does. This is now my purpose in life.
Me: HA.
I push my hair out of my face. Stretch and yawn.
The conversation continues below my window.
And it’s not like I am trying to creep on them and listen, but it’s rude to interrupt.
Best to keep quietly listening and wait for a break like a civilized person.
Noah stands with a hammer in his hand and new fence palings lay at his feet.
Grace, meanwhile, is smiling and laughing and touching his arm.
There’s a chance it’s the angle I am looking from, though she seems to be standing quite close to my neighbor, who is just a friend.
Seriously close to him. Weirdly so. Inappropriately so.
There’s finally a pause in their conversation, so I lean out the window and say, “Hello.”
Grace turns her megawatt smile my way. Guess she’s a morning person. I’d heard they existed, but never quite believed.
Noah tips his chin at me. “Figured I’d take a look at the fence.”
“I did call another handyperson. They were going to drop by later this week.”
“Now you can tell them they don’t need to. Your cousin let me around back. Hope that’s okay.”
“Of course.”
Grace laughs. “You look like you need coffee, girl.”
“Yeah. I do.”
I am not jealous. It would just be easier to face the world if the two of them didn’t look so good together.
Noah is, as usual, a visual delight in a pair of jeans and a tee with a backwards ball cap on his head.
While Grace has blown-out hair, full makeup, and is wearing a pair of linen shorts with a cream knit tank.
Her fit is fire. The way her long hair tumbles down her back in perfect curls.
How many hours has she been awake for? And why is she yet again touching my Noah?
I mean neighbor. My neighbor. Shit.
Grace is back inside by the time I head downstairs after seeing to the essentials.
Which includes applying concealer, mascara, and a lip stain.
Today I’m wearing a black maxi sundress with shoestring straps.
Not only does it have pockets, but it feels dramatic.
I had forgotten how dressing could be fun when you’re not always trying to hide.
“How do you have it?” asks Grace, pouring coffee into a pair of mugs.
“Creamer and one sugar. Thanks.”
“I wasn’t sure how late you like to sleep, so I made myself at home.”
And this is absolutely a good thing. Though I locked the door to the research room last night before going to bed. I’m happy to see Grace. But explaining the contents of that room requires a long and involved conversation. One I need to work myself up to having with people.
“Heartbreak and humiliation seem to be messing with my sleep routine, so…”
“That sucks,” I say with a frown.
“Yeah. There’s a plate of pancakes in the fridge. You used to love those, right?”
“I still do.”
“Made them with Grandma’s secret recipe.”
“Pancake mix fresh out of the box?”
She gives me a wink. “When only the best will do. I trust you have some good real maple syrup to go with them?”
“Like they let you live in the state without it. I should ask Noah if he wants some.”
“I already did,” she says, “he said maybe later.”
We settle in the dining room next door. It’s impossible to be upset when you have pancakes.
They just make the world a better place to be.
In fact, her flirting with my neighbor doesn’t even matter.
She peruses the accumulated junk on my table with an interested eye.
A solid half of the space has been left clear for use.
The rest has been given over to the detritus of my day-to-day life.
Brochures, bills, and books mostly. Grace picks up a paperback.
Not the one about starting a vegetable garden in your backyard.
Nope. Not the monster fucking romance either.
A shame, because they would have made for lighter conversation.
“Mindhunter,” she reads from the cover. “Is this about those serial killer profilers at the FBI?”
“Yeah.”
“I watched some of the TV series. Do you read much true crime?”
“It’s sort of part of a research-project-type thing. Guess I kind of have a love-hate relationship with the genre.”
“Makes sense.”
“Do you think?”
“Yes.” She takes a sip of coffee. “If it were me, I would want to understand what happened. Not only why he did the horrible things he did, but how other people in similar situations handled it.”
“Hmm. I keep thinking I’ll find something that explains everything. Just lays it all out for me. But I never do. My therapist thinks reading this stuff is bordering on being an unhealthy obsession.”
“What would they know?”
I snort. “Supposed professionals, right?”
“How often do you do therapy?”
“Once a month if my brain is being nice to me.”
She gives me a half smile. “In other news, your neighbor is hot as fuck.”
“We’re just friends.”
“I was actually thinking for me. But Sidney.” Grace cocks her head. “How is it you still can’t fake smile for shit?”
“Get out of here. My fake smile is excellent.”
“Sure. You keep telling yourself that.” She grins. “Out of respect for you, I guess I won’t hit on him.”
“Do what you want. Noah and I are just friends and that’s fine.”
She watches me with interest, waiting for more.
I eventually settle on saying, “My life isn’t the sort of situation most sane people want to be a part of.”
“But you’ve dated, right? After everything with Ryan?”
“Not so much.”
Her lips turn down at the edges. “That’s sad.”
“It’s also because I’m reluctant to put myself out there. And I am working on that.”
“Good.” Her smile returns. “Oh my, God. Do you remember Adam Moore?”
“There’s a name I haven’t heard in a while. We spent a whole summer staring at that poor boy.”
“Whatever happened to him?”
“Last time I saw him was senior prom,” I say. “He and his boyfriend seemed happy.”
She barks out a laugh.
Here’s another thing I forgot—how Grace lets the happy out good and loud.
Back in the day, her mom would drive her out at the start of the summer and stay a night.
Then do the same when it was time for my cousin to go home.
Those were the only occasions Grace would turn down the volume on her laugh.
We used to debate which was worse—a dead mom or a shitty one.
Both probably require immense amounts of therapy.
Grace’s phone sits with its screen down on the table.
A good idea for not getting distracted during a conversation.
She picks up another book from the pile on the table.
This time it’s I’ll Be Gone in the Dark by Michelle McNamara.
My therapist might have a point with it being an obsession.
“I know this one too,” says Grace. “He used to give me so much shit for watching true crime.”
“The ex-fiancé?”
She bares her teeth in a smile. “He said it was morbid and prurient. God, he used to go on at me. What do you think?”
“I think it’s complicated.”
“How so?”
“There’re some valid lizard brain reasons why watching true crime feels good. I mean it helps us become more aware of danger and hopefully learn how to avoid it. We’re educating ourselves, which can be useful. But then we also get to feel relieved that we’re not the victim, you know?”
“That’s kind of awful. What else have you got?”
I down some more coffee. “Well…I feel like it gives us the opportunity to feel compassion and fear and horror in a safe environment. Also, people love solving puzzles, so…”
“You’ve given this a lot of thought.”
“Yeah. Of course, there are massive and complex issues around consent and financial compensation for victims and their families and the need to restrict the dramatization or romanticizing of these stories.” I pause to take a breath.
“Oof. Sounds like I am giving you a lecture. You will not be tested on this later.”
“Keep going. I’m interested in what you have to say. Your life…your experiences…they’re pretty damn unique.”
“Mm.”
She sits on the edge of her chair with her gaze locked on me. “Sidney, did you know his mom is talking to the documentary people?”
“No. But Dianne talking to them doesn’t surprise me.”
“She said a psychic told her it was all your fault. That you’re the one who should be in prison. What do you think of that?”
I shrug. Because seriously, what is there to say?
“Come on,” she says with an eager smile. “You must have some thoughts on it. How does it make you feel? And how do you think that strand of your hair got on the body?”
“He was my boyfriend. We touched and stuff. It got on him and then it got on her. They call it secondary transfer.”
“Yeah, but—”
“Where did you hear that about Dianne?”
Grace pauses. “You know. Talk on social media.”
“You’re following it?”
“Some. I was curious about you. Is that a problem?”
“No. I guess not.”
“It’s just kind of wild, you know?” she asks. “You said it didn’t surprise you she was talking to them. Why is that?”
“Um.”
“Did you get along with her when you and Ryan were dating?”
My smile is all sorts of awkward. This conversation suddenly feels off. Invasive in some strange way. “We need ice cream. Can’t have pancakes without ice cream. I am going to head down the street to buy some.”
“Oh.”
“Back soon.”
I am not fleeing my house to escape my guest. Though it sure looks like it.
Outside on the street, I can breathe a little easier and relax.
Having someone in my space overnight is interesting.
Grace and I might have been close as children.
But we need to navigate this new relationship as adults.
Guess it’s going to take some time to feel comfortable with each other again.
I might need to set boundaries about some subjects.
Which is part of a healthy relationship and to be expected.
Though I do wonder how long she’s thinking of staying.