Chapter 29
TWENTY-NINE
Dexter
Eight days. I haven’t heard from Alis in eight. fucking. days. The dinner party continued without a hitch after Alis left, no one acknowledging her disappearing act or the shrieking woman from the living room’s overreaction to what was clearly an accident.
I sat next to Dr. Ryan at dinner and he didn’t mention Alis again, nor did I, instead diving deep into conversation surrounding the upcoming seminar, his lecture series, and future opportunities for collaboration.
I should be ecstatic, but instead of reveling in the bliss of knowing my academic dreams are coming true I’m sitting in my recliner, in my pajamas, watching playbacks of this week’s hockey matchups and wondering why the fuck my girlfriend refuses to answer my calls, ignores my text messages, and has all but fallen off the face of the earth since the second she rode away in the cab.
Even Otis can feel my misery. He’s curled up on his bed near the fireplace, staring at me with so much pity I want to throw something in his direction just to make it stop.
It’s Thanksgiving break, so she has no reason to be on campus.
She’s caught up on grading, so I can’t use that as an excuse to make her talk to me.
I’m considering opening my third beer of the day — it’s 11 a.m. — when a knock sounds at my door.
Fucking Leo. He sent me a text earlier this morning saying he was coming over to grill and watch hockey and I told him to fuck off.
I don’t want him here. I don’t want anyone here — well, except Alis.
“Leo, je t'ai dit de ne pas putain venir. Va-t'en!” I shout at the door, hoping the severity of my disdain is conveyed in the words I know he does not understand.
I assume he’s left, when I hear a voice through the door.
And not just any voice — a pissed-off, hot-headed, distinctly female voice.
“I don’t know what the fuck you just said, Mountie, but if you don’t open this goddamn door right now I’m going to slice the tires on your pretty little Rover and shatter the windows with a hammer. ”
I open the door — fuck, it’s bright outside — and find Skye, all five feet of her, staring up at me like I’m the problem. Not her, the one threatening to slash tires and shatter windows.
“Why are you here?” I ask, still shielding my eyes from the sun.
“I’m here because you are fucking stupid and need to get your head out of your ass.” Excuse me?
"Excuse me? My head is in my ass?" I ask, genuinely curious about her accusation.
"Did I stutter?" Skye pushes past me into the house, her purple hair flopping around as she stomps like a toddler into the living area.
"Please, come in."
"What the hell happened?" Skye leans against the back of my couch, one black combat boot propped against the fabric.
Propping my hands on my hips, I let out an exasperated breath, staring up at the ceiling. When I don't respond quickly enough, she stomps her boot on my hardwood floor—again, like a toddler. "Well?!" she demands.
"I don't know what the hell happened!" I yell, throwing my arms out to the side in frustration.
"Have you asked Alis? I've tried to call her, text her, email her for the last eight days.
Hell, I drove to your apartment, but I couldn't get anyone to open the door to your damn building.
I sat in my car for two hours waiting to see if she'd pull up or if someone would come out, and nothing.
I haven't seen her, I haven't spoken to her, and I don't know what is going on.
The last time I spoke to Alis, she acted like everything was fine.
She was overtired and embarrassed about the wine spilling down her dress, and she booked a cab without even consulting me, demanded I stay at the party to kiss Ryan's ass, and then she left. "
Skye's stance is no less defensive than it was a minute ago. Does she not believe me? Her face is scrunched up in confusion. She's just as confused as I am.
"Wine? Tired? Why the heck was she embarrassed? And what is this about a cab? She went home with you that night, didn't she?"
Now I'm freaking lost.
"No. She did not come home with me after the party on Friday.
She left in a cab—a cab I had no idea she summoned—and gave me some bullshit excuse about being tired and overwhelmed.
I still don't see why she was so embarrassed about it.
It wasn't her wine that spilled all over the rug.
That other woman wasn't watching where the hell she was going. "
"What other woman?"
"The woman who spilled wine all over Alis and on Abigail's rug."
"I'm going to need you to start from the beginning."
"Before I say anything more, why the hell did you show up at my house banging at my door, call me stupid, and demand to know what I did wrong? I did nothing wrong. She was fine, and then things got awkward when I introduced her to Ryan, whom she apparently already knew, and then—"
"STOP." Skye stands stock still, her face frozen in terror. "Who did she already know?"
"Jonathan Ryan."
If I thought I'd seen rage in a woman's eyes before, I was damn wrong. Terribly, terribly wrong. Because the look Skye has aimed at me right now promises slow, painful death by her hands.
“Let me get this straight,” she says, teeth clenched together, her voice a dangerous whisper.
“You showed up at our damn apartment, picked up my roommate—my kind, loving, way too fucking out of your league roommate—and took her to a dinner party. A dinner party where you ‘introduced’ her to Jonathan. Freaking. Ryan.”
It’s not a question, but I offer an affirmative nod. “Apparently they already know each other?” I’m hoping the uncertainty laced throughout that statement prompts some sort of explanation about why Alis never mentioned him.
“Yeah. She knows him.”
“That’s it? That’s all you’re going to say?
Your roommate, your kind, loving, and most definitely way too out of my league roommate, who also happens to be my girlfriend, comes with me to a party, gets reintroduced to someone from her past, collides with a woman on her way back from the washroom, and is suddenly so overwhelmed by spilled pinot that she sleuths out of the party and ghosts me for eight freaking days.
And ‘yeah, she knows him’ is all you have to say about it? !”
“It’s not my damn story to tell, so yeah. That’s all I have to say.”
You have got to be kidding me. “You show up at my house, bang on my door, threaten to slice my tires, and that’s all you have to say.
No. That’s not happening. I get that you’re mad and you want answers, but damn it, so do I.
The woman I love hasn’t spoken to me in eight days, and if I hadn’t known she and Sunny were leaving for Moraine last Saturday, I probably would have thought she was dead in a ditch somewhere.
Talk, woman. You owe me more than ‘yeah, she knows him.’ What the hell is going on? ”
Skye crosses her arms over her chest. Her rage still present, but now it’s accompanied by worry.
“You love her?” she asks. “Truly? You love Alis.”
“Yes.”
“And does she know this?”
That’s an excellent question—one to which I do not know the answer. “If you’re asking if I’ve said the words to her, no, I have not. I had planned to tell her Friday after the party, but I never had the chance.”
“I see,” she says, drifting off into who knows where inside her head.
“Skye. Focus. What happened Saturday?”
“Right, right, right,” she continues. “So, Saturday. I left that morning around five to head toward Moraine. We had talked about riding together, but I had some things to take care of that week and didn’t want to be stuck driving my dad’s truck, plus I had to be back in Grand River for work on Monday so I went ahead and drove myself.
I expected to meet Alis for drinks with Tori that night after dinner, but when she didn’t show up I texted her to where she was.
She texted me back saying she was wiped from the drive and wanted to turn in early.
I didn’t think anything of it. You know Alis—she needs her own space.
I wanted a night hearing all about the orgasms you gave her, but I wasn’t going to push her to come out if she needed sleep.
I figured staying up all night with you and then driving four hours home was a good enough reason to skip girls’ night for once. ”
She pauses, and I gesture for her to continue.
“I didn’t talk to her Sunday because I was helping Tori with some stuff, and I drove back Sunday night because I had to work this week.
Alis didn’t text me, which, again, isn’t out of character for her.
She hasn’t been home since we moved here, and she’s close with her folks, so I assumed she was fine and went about my week.
I drove back to Moraine on Wednesday after my shift and went straight to the G’s place—”
I interrupt. “G’s place?”
Skye backtracks, waving her hand around. “The Gilmores’. Alis’s parents,” she clarifies.
“Right, so then what happened?”
“She wasn’t there,” she says, propping her hand on her hip and looking at me like I should already know she wasn’t at her parents’ house. Well, of course, I should know.
“And?” I prompt, once again signaling for her to get on with her story. “Did you find her?”
“Eventually, yes. Her parents didn’t know where she was.
Sunny was at a friend’s house. Tori hadn’t heard from her, not that she would even check her phone when she’s dealing with Chase and his crap.
I swear, sometimes I just want to walk up to that man and punch him in the throat.
Who the hell does he think he is? God? The Pope? Henry Cavill?”
“Skye. You’re getting off topic.”
“Sorry, sorry. It’s been a long week, okay? Alis. I found Alis at the cemetery, talking to her sister.”
My heart sinks at this revelation. “Is that something she normally does on a Wednesday?” I ask, trying to sound more curious than upset.
“I mean, maybe? For the first year or so after Belle died, Alis spent a lot of time at her grave. We’re close—I mean, we’re best friends. Have been since we were kids. But Belle was her person, ya know?”
I nod in understanding. “She’s told me about their relationship. They were more than sisters.”
Skye snaps her fingers at me, nodding enthusiastically. “Exactly. So it wasn’t weird or anything that she’d spend time there. She slowed down over the years, and eventually only went on her birthday, Belle and Alex’s anniversary, Sunny’s birthday—you know, the important days.”
Skye has been talking for what feels like thirty minutes, and I’m still not one step closer to finding out what’s wrong with my girlfriend.
“Look, Skye, I’m not trying to be an asshole, but can you please get to the point?
What is going on with Alis? What happened between her and Jonathan Ryan, and why does she intentionally omit him from her personal and academic history?
Don’t tell me it’s not your story to tell because right now I’m making it your story.
Give me the bullet points, not the entire backstory. Where is she?”
Skye still doesn’t look convinced that I haven’t done anything wrong, but mentioning Dr. Ryan has changed the tide.
“Fine,” she huffs. “Alis is at the apartment. She’s back from Moraine, but she won’t leave her room.
She tried to act like nothing was wrong while we were at her parents', but I knew from the second I saw her crying her eyes out at Belle’s grave that it was more than a standard visit.
She’s refusing to talk to me about it; keeps brushing things off like she’s fine and you guys just aren’t going to work out.
Problem is, I’ve known her since we were in preschool. She has a tell—”
“Picking at her cuticles,” I interject.
Skye doesn’t complete her story, suddenly softening her gaze toward me, seeming to fully embrace what I’ve told her more than once since she arrived — I’m in love with Alis, and I would never intentionally hurt her.
“You really do love her,” she whispers.
“Yes,” I exhale. I’m done with this conversation; I need to see Alis.
“And now, I’m going to go see her. You are going to drive back to your apartment and you are not going to call her to give her any warning that I’m with you. I will follow you. You will let me into the building and into your apartment, and then you will leave.”
My tone warrants no pushback, and thankfully, Skye’s fury has temporarily subsided — at least, I believe so.
“Sure. Yeah. Whatever.” Skye walks over to her cracked phone and picks it up off the floor, mumbling “fucking Jonathan Ryan” under her breath as she walks past me and out the front door to her car.
“Are you going to at least give me a heads up about what happened between the two of them?” I ask, unlocking my Range Rover and opening the driver-side door.
“I told you,” Skye says, lowering her sunglasses over her eyes.
“It’s not my story to tell. But she won’t talk to me, and she’s ignoring you.
Tori’s going through too much of her own shit to drive down here and pry the truth from her.
I’ve never been in this situation with Alis before — her being so shaken up by something that she won’t talk to me.
But I’ve seen her with you these last few months.
She’s happy — really, truly happy for the first time since before the accident — so I figure what the hell.
Let’s see if you can bring her back to life again. ”
With that revelation, Skye sinks into her driver’s seat, pulls her door shut, and backs out of my driveway.