Chapter 7
MADISON
It’s good that I went out. I’m glad I did it. Seth and Damiano both seem determined to prove that no matter how my faith has been shaken in my marriage to Kyle, they’re here for me.
And yet, as I slip out of my shoes and tug my dress up and over my head, I wonder if I can keep doing this. Pretending.
Probably not, because it’s obvious I suck at it. They both know something is wrong. And of course, they want to fix it. It’s in their nature. See a problem? Fix it. Throw money at it, or a hired guard. Talk it out. Fuck it out.
I just need time.
I think the worst part is that the entire time I’ve been seeing Seth, a piece of me has felt a little bit guilty about Kyle. Not that I don’t deserve to find love again. But did it have to be with his brother? I think he would support me finding another man to love.
But probably not Seth.
I used to have imaginary conversations with Kyle, especially soon after his death. What do you think about this dress, Kyle? And he’d respond, Oh, that’s a good color on you. Or, I don’t know about the dress, but I know I love you.
What do you think about instant ramen tonight? I would ask.
Sounds good—do you want me to pick up some beer to go with it?
I close my eyes and imagine him in front of me. His floppy, brown hair, his bright, hazel eyes.
What do you think about me dating your brother, Kyle? What do you think about me loving him?
His mouth turns down in disappointment. I think there are billions of people on this planet, Mads. You could’ve picked anyone else and saved everyone a lot of heartache.
Of course he wouldn’t approve of me falling in love with his brother.
But if Kyle was cheating? Why the fuck should I have given it any thought? Why should I care about his imaginary judgment? And why should I have invested so much energy into mourning him, into missing him, into making myself smaller and sadder and quieter in his absence?
I drop my dress at the foot of my bed. I put on clean panties and pull on my sweats. This feels better, although my chest still aches with a sense of loss. Maybe I should’ve asked Damiano and Seth to stay. They would have, happily.
Is it better to be alone to think, and to feel all of my feelings? Or is it better to let their love and affection distract me?
I have no idea.
Worse, I’m wide awake.
I trek back downstairs and find my laptop on the coffee table. Settling into my favorite corner of the couch, I pull up an episode of K-Pop Brain Feast. I need something wacky and light. I’m feeling enough of my own emotions—I don’t need anything heavy from imaginary characters.
When I grab my blanket from the arm of the couch, I freeze. Something isn’t right. The blanket was folded, but I never fold it—I drape it. Did Seth fold it when he and Damiano walked me inside?
It’s not just the folding—it smells different. Like a man. That spicy deodorant scent.
First the creepy man’s face in the window. Now a blanket folded up and not smelling like it should. Am I losing my mind? I have cameras everywhere now. They’ve picked up nothing. If someone came into this house, I would know. So would the guys Damiano stationed at the gate.
Wait a second. I’ve seen this story before.
It was on Redactible. This guy was convinced that someone was entering his apartment, when nobody else had the key and there were no signs of forced entry.
Several times a week, he would find things where they didn’t belong.
A six-pack of beer left under the sink. His socks soaking in the toilet bowl.
The TV left on, when he hadn’t watched anything in days.
Everyone commenting on his post had theories, ranging from bizarre (a family of ghosts) to simple (he forgot he gave a key to a friend). But one person suggested he check his carbon monoxide detector—and it turned out the guy was slowly being poisoned.
Jumping up, I look along the walls and ceilings. Where is my carbon monoxide detector? Do I have one? Doesn’t everybody?
I find something that looks like it could be a detector, so I grab a chair to stand on for a better look.
Sure enough, it’s a carbon monoxide detector.
A tiny bulb is located on the side, but there’s no light whatsoever.
I stand on my tiptoes, dangerously teetering on the chair, and make out text indicating that if the light is off, the battery is dead.
That would explain everything.
After climbing down from my chair, I call the non-emergency number for the fire department. “Hey, I don’t know for sure, but I think I’ve been imagining things, and it turns out, my carbon monoxide detector has a dead battery. Do you think—”
“What’s your address?”
I tell it to him.
“We’ll have someone out there soon, miss. Please wait outside the home.”
True to their word, a fire truck arrives in ten minutes. Two men and a woman climb out and approach my porch where I’m waiting. The woman holds a short, wand-like device in her hand. After a brief introduction, I let them inside. Several minutes later, they return to the porch.
“Anything?” I ask.
The female firefighter gives me a reassuring smile. “No carbon monoxide detected. We went ahead and replaced your batteries for you, though, to be safe.”
I thank them profusely, but I’m disappointed all the same. Carbon monoxide poisoning could’ve explained everything.
Now, either I’m crazy, or someone is messing with me.
SETH
Eliza meets me at San Estebean, a coffee shop not far from the Nove building. She’s already sitting at a table when I arrive, a mug in her hand. Her auburn hair is up in a ponytail, curls spilling down her shoulders.
I order at the counter, then sit down at her table, taking the seat across from her. “Hey, thanks for agreeing to meet.”
“Of course.” Eliza grimaces. “It’s the least I can do.”
It seems to me like she already did too much, whatever happened with Kyle, but that’s why we’re here. I need answers. Madison needs answers. If we have information, we can stop wondering and obsessing.
“Before you say anything—” She breaks off when the barista comes over with my espresso.
Once the barista is gone again, I nod at Eliza. “Go ahead.”
“Right.” She blushes. “Like I was saying, I just want you to know that Kyle and I weren’t in any kind of relationship. It was just friendship with us. I don’t know why your mom insinuated otherwise.”
“So you guessed why I wanted to talk with you today.”
“Yeah.” Her hands are wrapped firmly around her coffee mug, like she’s afraid it’ll float away. “That was…the most humiliating Thanksgiving I’ve ever experienced. I can only imagine it was a thousand times worse for Madison.”
I don’t comment. I don’t know if I can trust Eliza, which means I won’t trust her with Madison’s personal feelings or reactions.
“Right.” Eliza nods to herself. “If you wouldn’t mind—do you think you could tell her I’m sorry?”
“If you and Kyle were just friends, what are you apologizing for, exactly?” I ask.
Her light blue eyes tighten with pain. “We were close friends.”
I hear what she isn’t saying. “If he had lived, do you think more would have happened?”
“Maybe. Yeah. I don’t know.” She sets down her mug and gazes out the window where a couple of women stroll hand in hand down the sidewalk. “I told myself it would never get to that, because even though he complained about Madison a lot, he was also devoted to her. I could tell he loved her.”
“He did,” I agree. “But he was also young and stupid.”
She gives a rueful laugh. “Yeah. So was I. When he confided in me, even if he was just ranting about Madison, I felt special. I wanted to be more important. Not just to him, but to everyone. My parents. My friends. Maybe even myself. I was a nobody, and he made me feel like somebody.”
Fuck. I want to go back in time and yell at my brother to take his head out of his ass.
I take a sip of my espresso, letting the bitterness wash down my throat. “It sounds like an emotional affair, instead of a physical one.”
“I guess. I don’t know if I’d say it even went that far.” She shakes her head of red curls. “Except for the fact that he never told Madison he was coming to hang out with me. That’s where we could say lines were crossed. We were immature, and we weren’t being fair to Madison, either way.”
I drain my espresso. I think I’ve heard enough. “Thanks for taking the time.”
My voice is gruff with emotion. Hearing about my brother being a dickhead—it shouldn’t be a surprise. He was young and immature. I was an immature dickhead at nineteen, too. It strikes me again just how young he was when he died.
He never had a chance to grow up.
But that’s no excuse for the way he treated Madison.
As I turn to leave, Eliza says, “Seth?”
“Yeah?”
“Do you think I should explain things to Madison? I’d like to apologize, because I’ve always felt a bit guilty about everything. But I never thought it was my place. I didn’t want to upset her just to make myself feel better, you know?”
I shrug. “I don’t know what the right call is, but I wouldn’t reach out anytime soon. She knows how to find you if she wants to talk.”
“That’s true.” She pauses. “Thanks.”