AUDREY
I SIT ON THE EDGE OF MY BUNK , FEET PLANTED ON THE FLOOR , A hand pressed to my chest as I struggle to breathe. It’s like my lungs have shrunk to about half their normal size, and no matter how much air I suck in, it’s not enough. My vision is swimming – it feels a little like I might be dying, actually, and it’s with a trembling hand that I reach for my phone again. The message is still there. I’d only just woken up when I saw it – the apartment was so cold when I got back from Mo MA that I crawled into my bed to keep warm. I don’t remember drifting off, but when I came to it was dark. I grasped for my phone, disoriented, and there was the notification.
I force myself to read it again.
Hi Audrey,
My name is Demi. I’m a journalist with Soil – the link to the site is in my bio, if you’re not familiar with us. I’m reaching out because I’m currently working on a piece regarding Julian Mars, who I understand you’ve worked with recently. I’m interested in hearing your perspective. We can communicate however you feel comfortable, be it over the phone, via email or in person. I hope to hear from you soon.
Demi
It doesn’t mean anything , I tell myself sharply. There must be a hundred reasons why someone would be writing an article about Julian – I just need to figure out why they’d contact a no- name model who doesn’t even live in New York, because right now I can’t think of anything I could have to say that would be of interest. Nothing, except for the fact that he—
A wave of nausea grips me, then, and I stumble down the hallway towards the bathroom, falling to my knees in front of the toilet. I retch, chest heaving – nothing comes up but bile. I slump back against the wall when it’s over, my face streaked with tears and snot, willing myself to wake up because I don’t know how else this could be happening. I never told anyone. I never said anything, and although pretending to be okay wasn’t the same as actually being okay, I was in control. But now …
I cough, wiping the back of my mouth with my T-shirt. All I know now is I can’t be here when Marika gets back to the apartment. I got this weird, long message from her when I was still at the gallery, saying that she’d been called to a last-minute shoot but was I free tonight, and would I be at the apartment? There was even a kiss at the end, which was as bafflingly out-of-character as the level of detail. She must have heard from the journalist before I did, I realise now. She’ll show up here and she’ll want to talk about it – maybe she already suspects something, and I don’t want to lie to her, but I can’t talk about it. I can’t, I can’t—
I can’t stay.
I’m still trembling when I press the intercom button for Ezra’s apartment. I know there’s every chance he’s not home – he told me he’s busy tonight, and I didn’t message to ask if I could come over, but—
‘Hello?’
The speaker is crackly, a lilt of uncertainty in his tone. But it’s him – it’s Ezra, and just the sound of his voice feels like a reprieve.
‘Hi,’ I say. ‘Uh – it’s Audrey. I know this is crazy and I know you said you’re busy …’
‘Come up,’ he says, and the intercom buzzes, lock snapping open. I slip inside, heart pounding as I head upwards. When I finally reach Ezra’s floor, he’s pacing the lobby in a coat and boots, the door to his apartment slightly ajar. Either he’s only just gotten home or he’s on his way out.
‘Good timing,’ he says, smiling strangely. ‘Two minutes earlier and we would have missed each other.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ I say. ‘I can leave … ’
‘No, you’re good,’ he says, gently ushering me through the door. He shuts it behind me, kicking off his boots, dropping his coat to the floor. I follow suit, abandoning my phone in my jacket pocket. Marika knows where I am. I messaged her a half-baked excuse about the apartment being too cold, though ironically, it’s even colder in here. All of the windows are open, and it looks like every dish Ezra owns is piled up in his sink. The coffee table is littered with half-empty glasses and takeout cartons, and the only light is the TV , blaring into the darkness. It’s a relief, strangely – my mess matches his.
‘Sorry about all this,’ he says mildly. ‘Can I make you a tea, or … ?’
‘Can I have some of that?’ I ask, pointing towards a small bottle of vodka on the floor. ‘Please?’
It’s all I want, suddenly – to taste something awful and feel better for it.
‘Yeah,’ Ezra says after a pause. ‘I don’t know if I have anything you can mix it with, though.’
I don’t reply, picking it up and knocking back a mouthful. It’s horrible, obviously, but I force myself to swallow. Once, twice, until Ezra starts forward like he’s going to take it from me, eyes alight with such palpable concern that I lower the bottle, lips stinging.
‘I needed to get out of my apartment,’ I blurt out before he can say anything. ‘I couldn’t think of anywhere else to go.’
‘What happened?’ he asks, looking stricken. ‘I mean – are you – ?’
‘I’m fine,’ I say. ‘Just – Marika was on her way and she wanted to talk about something that I don’t, so …’ I trail off, quickly swigging from the bottle again before offering it to Ezra.
He takes it from me, but it hangs limply from his hand. ‘Does she know where you are?’
‘Yeah,’ I say, not really liking this sudden shift in atmosphere. He seemed so relaxed a moment ago – sleepy, or drunk, or both. But me careening in here has sobered matters, apparently, which isn’t what I wanted at all.
‘Right,’ he says after a beat. ‘Okay. I’ll make up the bed, then.’
‘I don’t want to go to bed,’ I say, realising too late how petulant that sounds. ‘I just want this.’
He blinks at me, eyes dark and uncomprehending.
‘This?’ he echoes uncertainly.
‘That,’ I say, gesturing to the bottle in his hand, around the room. ‘This.’
‘Getting drunk in my disgusting apartment?’
‘Sure. Why not?’
‘Right,’ he says, shoulders sagging slightly. ‘Is that why you came here?’
I’ve hurt him, I realise abruptly. I’ve hurt his feelings, and I don’t know how – the vodka has already gone to my head, making things feel foggy and dreamlike.
‘No, I – it’s not. Not at all,’ I say quickly. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to imply anything.’
Ezra looks confused, for a moment. Then he glances down at the bottle like he’d forgotten that he was holding it.
‘Ah,’ he says. ‘Gotcha.’
‘No, Ezra …’
‘It’s fine,’ he says curtly, shaking his head with a strained smile. ‘I drink too much. I’m not in denial about it.’
I feel sick then, and it has nothing to do with the vodka hitting my empty stomach. I am an awful, awful fucking person, showing up here out of nowhere and trying to goad Ezra into getting wasted with me when I’m almost totally sure that he has some kind of problem with alcohol. Selfish, thoughtless, stupid …
‘I’m sorry,’ I say quietly, suddenly too ashamed to even look at him. ‘It’s not – I only meant that you don’t need to do anything for me.’
He says nothing to that. The silence stretches out between us, and I suddenly become acutely aware of my nose, pink and runny from the crying and the cold. I sniff, and Ezra wordlessly puts the bottle down and moves towards the open windows, pulling them shut. You don’t need to do anything for me – what total, utter bullshit.
I feel so tired, suddenly, despite claiming otherwise just seconds before. So small.
‘You’re right,’ I say then. ‘Sleep’s the best idea. I’m sorry.’
‘No, I’m sorry.’ He sighs, roughly rubbing at his eyes as he moves back towards me. ‘I’m being weird – I’m tired. You take the bed, though. Grab anything you want out of the drawers …’
But he falls silent, then, because I’ve stepped forward and taken his hand in mine. I was expecting it to be cold but it isn’t, which I suppose means that mine is colder.
‘We can both take the bed,’ I hear myself say, looking down at our sock-clad feet. Then, in case that sounds too forward, ‘It’s too cold for you to sleep in here.’
I left my lingering scraps of self-preservation back at the apartment, it turns out, and my words hover in the ensuing, mortifying silence. Oh , I think, and I’m bracing myself for the world’s most gentle rejection when Ezra weaves his fingers through mine.
‘Sure,’ he says, so gently that I know he understands. ‘We can do that.’
I’ve never actually shared a bed with a boy before now. I’ve never shared a bed with anyone except for my parents, actually, and that was only when I was a tiny kid, post-nightmares. But it somehow feels simple and natural to slip under the sheets beside Ezra, his body just inches from mine. He’s facing away from me, drawn into himself, but I can feel the heat of him, his warmth bleeding into the mattress like a furnace. It’s not quite enough, though. I want him to envelop me in it, to draw me into his very core – to hide inside of him.
The lamp is still on, so I know he’s not sleeping, the room bathed in its faint, golden glow. I can hear his breathing, too quiet and even for him to be anything other than wide awake – what would he do if I asked him to hold me?
‘Thank you,’ I say instead, voice small. ‘For everything.’
For a moment there’s silence, and I’m wondering if maybe he is asleep, when:
‘You don’t need to thank me,’ he says quietly. ‘I just – I wish I could make things better.’
‘You have,’ I tell him. ‘You do.’
‘I don’t think that we’re talking about the same things,’ he says, shifting to look at me. He’s wearing that same guileless expression that I saw that night at the gallery, eyes dark and pleading.
‘Maybe not,’ I admit, feeling a pang at having hidden so much from him. ‘I don’t think it matters, though.’
‘No?’
‘No. You’re here. That makes things better.’
Ezra lets out a ragged sigh, then, screwing his eyes shut like he’s in pain.
‘God,’ he says softly. ‘You have no idea how badly I want to believe that.’
And he has no idea how badly I want him to. Words have too often failed me, though, which is why I find myself sliding across the mattress, tentatively tucking my head against his shoulder and placing a hand on his chest. He smooths my hair against the nape of my neck in reply, absently running his fingers through the ends before pressing his lips to my temple with such tenderness that my nose prickles with impending tears.
There’s a world outside this bedroom, but it doesn’t feel that way – not any more. A part of me hopes it never does again.