Chapter Two
Home sweet home, and my phone is already ringing. George, obviously. First, the bra comes off. I fling it blindly and it ricochets on to a bookshelf. Then, I answer.
‘Hey, you.’
‘Girl, how did it go? I want all the details. What you wore, what you ate, what he said, what you said—’
Do I give her the honest debrief? I hesitate.
George is in the final stretch of stressful prep for her big wedding – the first wedding, at least, since she’ll have a second celebration in India with Arjun’s family next year – and I don’t want to dump on her.
She’d be crushed if she knew that she sent me blindly into the clutches of an asshole.
‘It went!’ Girl talk. I can do this. ‘He was very, ehm …’ I pause to pull a sweatshirt out of the laundry hamper. I give it a sniff. Clean enough. ‘Handsome?’
‘O … K …’
‘He talked about his, uh … friends. He had lots of stories about how awesome he is at his job, like, wow …!’ God, it’s tricky to keep this positive without outright lying. ‘And his hair! Did I mention his hair? Really nicely coiffed. Like—’
‘Coiffed? So you hated him and totally didn’t get laid.’
‘Well … “hate” is such a strong word—’
‘But no orgasm.’
‘Uh, definitely not.’
‘Margot. What aren’t you telling me?’
I sigh and sink on to the side of my bed, pressing fingers to my temples. ‘Yeah, it wasn’t great.’
‘How bad? Be honest.’
‘Well—’ I pause to yank my shirt off and pull on the sweatshirt. ‘He asked to be put in the “naughty corner” and tried to grab my knee and when I ended the date he cursed me out.’
George sucks in her breath sharply. ‘He did not!’
‘It’s OK.’
‘It’s one hundred per cent not OK—’ Her voice muffles slightly as she shouts, ‘Arjun! Your friend was a dick to Margot!’ Her voice comes back, urgent and breathy.
‘I am so going to make this up to you. I am going to find someone actually lovely, because you are so wonderful, and especially after everything that’s happened, you deserve—’
‘No!’ I bark, then quickly laugh to soften my tone. ‘That’s OK! You don’t owe me anything. Please.’
George sighs. ‘OK. Well … what are you doing the rest of the night?’
What I always do. But I don’t really share that. With anyone.
‘Oh, you know. I’ll scrounge up something to eat. Chill. See what’s new on Netflix. The usual.’
‘Well … just know that Arjun is in serious trouble with me for suggesting this guy. No sex for a month. Did you hear that, Arjun? No sex for a month! But seriously – let’s hang out soon.
I was kidding, Arjun! Of course I’m not going on a sex strike, babe, I love you too much – Hey, you remember that the final fitting for the bridesmaid dresses is tomorrow, right? ’
‘Right! Yes!’ That, I did have meticulously entered into my calendar. And though trying on a dress the color of pea soup doesn’t thrill my soul, making George happy does, so I’ll be there with a big smile on my face, no matter what.
*
After George and I hang up, I proceed with my rituals: frozen single-serve mushroom and spinach lasagna into the microwave, off with the jeans and on with the PJ pants, hair into a top knot and finally, the crowning glory: my favorite fuzzy Christmas socks.
The microwave beeps and I pull out my dinner. I’ve never been much of a cook, and Zoe wasn’t either, so at least this slightly more veggie-forward processed food cooked in its neat plastic tray is an improvement over our old diet of greasy pizza and boxed macaroni. At least one hopes.
My two-bedroom apartment is small and, honestly, messy. I used to be the clean roommate, but ever since Zoe disappeared, things have changed.
Lasagna tray in one hand, I go to her bedroom – this is also part of the routine – open the door and look at the empty space.
I don’t cry or rage or do anything dramatic.
That’s not me. I just look, absorbing the way she left things six months ago, right before leaving for her date.
Extra hold hairspray on its side on her desk.
Makeup products littered on her bookshelf.
Comforter spilling off the bed, stack of paperbacks on the nightstand and above that, her happy corkboard crowded with Polaroids of the two of us and strung with Mardi Gras beads.
It’s like the nice version of a crime-scene board, the beads swooping from moment to moment, connecting them into one chaotic ensemble of past happiness.
I turn on the lights and walk over to the pictures.
Setting my lasagna on the nightstand, I pluck one Polaroid off to take a closer look.
Our faces are blown out by the flash, the background inky dark, with only the vaguest hints of faces behind us.
We’re at some bar or another, and you can just feel how late it is.
Our arms are around each other. She looks drunk, but happy as hell.
I look relaxed, almost high, even though I know I wasn’t.
The last time I saw her, she smelled like Dove deodorant and Coco Mademoiselle perfume. She was meeting someone from the apps. I didn’t ask his name. I didn’t ask to see his picture. I was too distracted by our fight. And then, she never came back.
A stabbing sensation in my chest makes my breath catch, but I stand still, and it passes.
There was an investigation, of course, after I filed a missing person report, but nothing came of it.
There’s a serial killer out there, I reminded Detective Barnett, the lead CPD investigator assigned to Zoe’s case.
Two women in the previous year had disappeared from the North Side of Chicago, their bodies reappearing months later on a beach north of the city, each missing a foot.
The coroner report revealed they were each kept in captivity for weeks before being murdered.
Then, the bodies each spent months in a freezer before being dumped on the beach.
I can’t say how many times I’ve gone to sleep wondering where their feet are.
Pickled in a jar? Hung up like wind chimes?
I filed an additional police report when I went to clear out Zoe’s art studio and found it had been ransacked, everything of value stolen.
Detective Barnett chalked it up to the ‘bad neighborhood,’ and while there wasn’t an obvious connection between the theft and her disappearance, it felt doubly cruel to lose her art, the thing she cherished most in this world.
Maybe Zoe’s body hasn’t shown up yet, but I know she’s dead.
She’d never walk away from our life without her stuff.
Without her clothes, her makeup, her art.
Without a goodbye. I feel like I’m just waiting for the day her body shows up on that beach.
Before she’s officially victim number three in the string of killings that some sick fuck is getting away with as we speak.
I put the picture of us carefully back on the corkboard and shove the tack in, so that everything looks exactly as it was. Pick up my food. Leave her room, closing the door quietly, as if she’s sleeping and I don’t want to disturb her.
It’s not like our relationship was perfect.
When I started to pull away from the wild nights out that had propelled me into so many disasterships, that created some distance.
During our worst fight, Zoe accused me of becoming boring and standard and controlling, just like my parents.
And maybe she wasn’t far from the truth.
Over the years, I started to grow uncomfortable with the risks she took, the way she jumped into everything with both feet even when she kept crashing.
At first, our newfound freedom was all fun and games.
Two girls fresh out of high school, itching to discover themselves and spread their wings.
But as we crept into our twenties, she got hurt too.
Gallery rejections, bad friends, sociopathic bosses, shit boyfriends.
The difference is, I retreated while she pressed forward.
I could see the toll it was taking on her – the new, wary brightness in her eyes, the bitter curl in her smile – but she wouldn’t stop.
With Zoe, it was all or nothing. She was living on her own terms, and she wasn’t going to slow down for anyone – not even herself.
Even now, though I wish I could have kept her safe, I can’t resent her. Wasn’t her passion and fearlessness the reason behind our first spark of friendship? Of course my retreat made her feel judged. And worse, like I was betraying our pact to become liberated, empowered women.
Our last hour together, the fatal night of her date, she was swabbing on lipstick and leaning into the mirror.
‘You’re going out?’ I said. ‘I thought we’d planned to stay in and binge watch the new season of Love is Blind.’
‘Oh! Yeah, there’s this guy, oh my God, he’s insanely good looking. Honestly, a little too perfect.’
I tried to hide my hurt that she was bailing on our cozy night in for another guy who’d probably turn out to be a douche, just like all the others.
‘Oh?’
She dabbed lipstick on to her full lower lip. ‘Super hot, grew up here, sexy tattoo in fucking Latin and ooh, you’ll like this – he’s college-educated.’ She caught my eye in the mirror and arched a brow. ‘Northwestern. See? I don’t just date “deadbeats.”’
I flushed hot. ‘I did not call your last boytoy a deadbeat—’
She rolled her eyes. ‘Trust me, I heard the subtext. And just because you don’t want to have fun any more doesn’t mean the rest of us can’t.’
I nearly choked. ‘Excuse me, but being cheated on over and over stopped being fun. Not to mention, there’s literally a serial killer out there right now. I’m allowed to step back and reevaluate—’
‘I swear to God if I hear one more thing about that serial killer …’ Zoe whipped around, eyes flashing. ‘Where’s the daring, carpe diem Margot I moved here with, huh? You work at an office job you don’t even like.’
‘It’s the only job I could get! And it has great health insurance—’