35. Janet
JANET
Nico's waiting by the elevator when I come up, keys already in his hand.
He doesn't say much on the ride up. He watches the numbers instead of me.
The doors open straight into Mike's apartment. No hallway. No buffer. The doors sliding apart and the whole place laid out in front of me like nothing ever happened here.
I wheel my small carry-on out first.
“Hey, he's not going to let anything happen to you."
He steps back into the elevator.
"Take care of yourself."
The doors close.
I stand there a second before I move.
The apartment looks the same and completely foreign at once.
The record player sits where it always did, the same album still on top, the jacket worn soft at the corners.
The kitchen island is empty. No eggs. No coffee. No, him standing there in nothing but sweatpants telling me I'm going to fall for him.
I wheel the suitcase to the corner and set my bag down on the couch.
I don't want to touch anything. I don't want any signs of me ever being here again.
Costa Rica means I never have to stand in this apartment again. Never have to be this close to him again.
The trading desk still has its dark screens. The counter still holds the ghost of every dinner we made shoulder to shoulder, like two people who had all the time in the world.
My bag stays on my shoulder. The gun inside it.
I sit on the couch and read about moving to Costa Rica.
Not vacationing. Moving.
Santa Teresa. Surf lessons. Yoga at sunset. ATV rides over dirt roads to hidden beaches. Montezuma waterfalls. Cafés full of people who figured out how to disappear beautifully.
I keep scrolling anyway.
I read the practical stuff. Visas. Health insurance. Rainy season. Bad roads. Internet. Rent. How far you are from a real hospital when paradise stops behaving like paradise.
I get a glass of water and return to the couch.
You can get by in Santa Teresa with English, but moving there is different. Vacationers speak English. Real life speaks Spanish.
I look for a language app.
I hear the elevator. I set the glass on the end table.
Mike's voice comes first, louder than normal.
Another voice underneath it. Rougher. Looser.
Every part of me goes cold at once.
Ryan.
Shit.
My body moves before my brain catches up. I grab my purse and head for the bedroom.
I'm at the door when the elevator opens.
I duck inside, pull the door shut, and press myself flat against the wall.
Ryan's laugh carries through the apartment.
I don't hear what Mike says back. The blood in my ears is too loud.
I press harder into the wall and pull the gun from my purse. My hands shake so badly that it takes me two tries to get a proper grip.
Through the crack in the door, I can see a thin slice of the living room.
"Yeah, I'll crash here. I've slept in worse."
"Make yourself comfortable. I'll get you a pillow and sheets."
Mike walks toward the bedroom.
I raise the gun with both hands and aim it dead at the door.
The second it opens, Mike steps in.
I don't lower the gun right away. My arms won't listen to the part of my brain that recognizes him.
"Shhhh," he says, lifting one hand. "Put that gun down."
"What the fuck is he doing here?"
"Shhhh. I couldn't get rid of him."
He grabs a pillow and a set of sheets from the closet.
He walks back out, leaving the bedroom door open.
I keep my aim on the door.
"All right, man, here you go," Mike says. "Get some sleep. I'll see you in the morning."
"I'm gonna watch a little TV," Ryan says. "I'm wide awake."
"I wonder why?"
Ryan catches it.
I hold my breath.
Through the crack in the door, I see Mike turn on the TV.
The television comes on some late-night game show, applause bursting through the apartment.
Mike tosses Ryan the remote. Ryan removes a gun from his waistband. Sets it on the coffee table.
"Goodnight," Mike says.
For a second, all I hear is the couch shift under his weight and my own pulse beating in my throat.
Mike walks back into the bedroom and closes the door behind him without making a sound.
"Are you crazy?"
"It'll be fine."
"He has a gun.”
His face is inches from mine. Close enough that I can feel the heat coming off him. Close enough that if either of us breathes too hard, it feels like a mistake.
"He wasn't supposed to—" He stops himself and drags a hand down his face. "He invited himself. I couldn't say no without it looking wrong."
"You told me this was safe."
"It was."
"You told me I'd be safe here."
His eyes flick to the door. "Keep your voice down."
I'm painfully aware of how close his mouth is to mine.
"We'll leave in the morning," he says.
I lower the gun an inch. Not all the way.
"He's right there," I whisper.
My hand tightens around the grip even though the gun is already at my side.
Mike reaches for it.
His hand closes over mine, warm and steady.
Ryan outside.
Mike in front of me.
“I won’t let him hurt you, I promise you.”
I let him take the gun from my hands, but my fingers don't open right away.
They're locked around the grip, stiff and damp.
Mike has to cover my hand with his and ease my fingers loose one at a time.
Only then do I realize how badly I'm shaking.
He lies down on the bed, fully dressed, the gun in his hand, his eyes on the door.
I stand there looking at him.
I shouldn't get in that bed. Not with him. Not after what he did. Not with Ryan Keller thirty feet away.
But there's nowhere else to go.
I lie on my back beside him, fully dressed.
The mattress dips.
His body is close. Too close.
Back in Mike's bed.
Back where this started.
“How did you know? How did you know that I would fall for you?” I ask.
His eyes stay on the door.
“The first time I saw you in person I knew, it seem right now matter how wrong it was and I couldn’t stop it.
You don't know how loud silence is until every creak matters.