Chapter 19
The rain picked up as Augie drove toward the Crawley house, her windshield wipers pumping, mist coming off the road like smoke.
She blared her music loud, so she couldn’t think; she wanted to keep running on the energy and emotions dragging her forward.
Chat had explained it would be best to park on the side street. Cooper’s room faced the front, and he had a habit of waking
to cars coming up the driveway.
I’m sorry, Chat had messaged, I know it’s raining, but I’ll be watching for you.
Augie had asked if there were cameras, hoping the question wouldn’t scare either of them away from their plans, but he assured
her the Crawleys never checked them.
So, at exactly nine o’clock, Augie parked on the street and looked into the rearview mirror, inspecting her face as the rain
pummeled her car, the sound like static. She felt good—she was wearing her best-fitting jeans and a tight black T-shirt. She
reached for the U of M umbrella from her back seat.
The driveway was long and winding—the house was truly hidden—and Augie kept her head down against the rain. She didn’t look up until the Crawley mansion flashed into view. Chat stood in the glass doorway, framed by a yellow rectangle of light.
Augie couldn’t ignore her rising nerves as she stood before the house, registering its massive cement angles and all its darkened,
shining glass. She pummeled forward, moving faster as Chat opened the door wide and she ducked inside, shaking water from
her hair while placing her umbrella on the stoop.
Augie had worried it’d be awkward at first, but as Chat grinned, she realized he was wearing the same black band T-shirt and
silver gym shorts he had the night she ran into him at the Club. Her nerves were displaced by excitement, a strange comfort.
She leaned into him, and as he hugged her, a ripple of want and memory coursed through her. She felt the skin of his neck
against her closed eyelids.
“Welcome to my humble abode.” He pulled away and extended his arms, still smiling.
Augie had been in her share of nice houses, but this instantly felt different. Like she’d stepped into some modern, cozy,
otherworldly planet. The floor was white marble, and it flowed into the kitchen, out to a floating staircase to their left,
and down a wide hallway to their right. The ceilings were high, and as she followed Chat to the kitchen, Augie stared up into
the wooden beams similar to those at the Crawleys’ cabin. The whole house felt like a lighter, sharper version of that space.
Mrs. Crawley obviously had a signature style.
Augie continued to gawk as they entered the kitchen and she took in the living room, the fireplace with its low orange flames
and spread of couches adorned with soft pillows and throws. Next to her, flanking the wall, large geometric prints hung under
individual lights like in a museum. Augie stared at each print. She loved them. She loved the whole house. She hated that
Mrs. Crawley was talented. She felt a flame of anger inside her.
Augie knew it was an ugly thought, but it helped to remember their debt. To be reminded that not everything was as perfect as it seemed. Though for the first time, Augie wondered if the number on the computer had been a mistake. Nothing seemed wrong here. It felt like paradise.
“Not too shabby, right?” Chat moved to one of three silver fridges. “Do you want a drink?” He opened the door as Augie imagined
Zami cooking there, leaning over the gas range. The flame inside her grew.
“This is a special occasion.” He pulled out a magnum bottle of champagne, lifting a spoon from its neck. “She always says
this keeps it fresh, but I don’t buy it.”
Everything about this moment felt bizarre, and Augie ran her hands along the cool stone counter.
“I can’t believe you live here.” She hoped she sounded casual as she studied Chat’s face, though she felt slightly better
as she took in how excited he looked. He wanted her there.
“Right? I literally got lost that first week. These okay?” He grabbed two gray mugs. “She once told me those champagne glasses
were like a hundred dollars. I don’t trust myself.”
“Sure.” Once again, Augie wondered how Chat could live with such a snob.
They talked and drank as Augie walked around the living room, touching the pillows and studying the bookshelves while Chat
rambled on about the boys. She examined everything as if searching for criminal evidence, and was startled by the book collection;
she’d assumed it was simply for show and would be filled with classics and fake spines, but there was a range of contemporary
titles: Ann Beattie, Lorrie Moore, Joan Didion.
“Does she read a lot?” Augie asked.
“Kind of. When it’s nice out, she’ll read on the patio. We watch TV more, though. In the movie theater room. Do you want to see it?”
Augie turned to him, a realization blooming: This house was probably the nicest house Chat had ever visited. While it ranked
high on Augie’s list, and while it was probably one of the more unique, well-designed homes she’d been in, movie theater rooms
no longer impressed her. She didn’t care to see the Crawleys’. It was odd to think that although she’d never be a true Aldon
Lakes person, the town had become part of her. She hoped this didn’t make her a snob, too.
She told him she’d love to see the theater room.
“This way.” Chat grabbed her hand, surprising her—and energy singed between their palms.
The basement was as massive as the main floor. A slick, see-through black fireplace divided the space, with a pool table on
one side and a bar on the other. Chat dropped her hand as he walked toward a wall of bookshelves, pushing it open, a secret
door.
“Wild, right?” He held it open like an overly enthusiastic tour guide.
The movie room was typical: reclining love seats, stadium seating, framed movie posters. Leah’s was nicer. Augie told him
it was awesome.
“Do you want another drink? Anything to eat?” He leaned against the edge of the pool table, something vulnerable seeping into
his voice. He finished the last of his drink and set his mug on the table’s edge. “Sorry. I’m not used to having houseguests.
I hope I’m not being a bad host.”
Augie leaned against the table next to him, matching his pose. She turned to him and had another realization: Chat might be
more nervous than she was.
“Are the boys okay? They’re asleep, right? They won’t hear us?”
“Oh, no, don’t worry.” Chat raised his wrist, his Apple watch. “I have this connected to Max’s monitor. They’re way, way up there. On the third floor.” He pointed to the ceiling. “They’re so far away, it’s like we’re not even breaking the rules.”
Augie studied his blush. Now, she wasn’t sure if he was more flustered about breaking rules or by his feelings for her.
“Let’s have another.” Augie nodded toward the bar.
Chat stood up and reached for her mug, and his fingers brushed hers in another zap of electricity.
He walked to the counter and pulled out a barstool for her before going behind the bar. Then, as Augie settled at the counter,
he leaned forward on two hands and asked for her ID.
Augie laughed, and the joke—along with being settled at the bar—made their dynamic feel more natural. Augie could tell they
both felt better as they talked and Chat mixed drinks. They reminisced about high school parties, college memories, about
the time Chat refilled an entire bottle of his parents’ Jack Daniel’s with apple juice and his sister called him out. He also
told Augie about the time half his senior class got busted drinking at a back-to-school party, and aside from the guy who
hid in the washing machine for six hours, Chat was the only one who got off scot-free. It had been hockey season, he explained,
and because he was the captain, he had only been pretending to drink.
“I felt so bad when the cops did the Breathalyzer and it blew zero. My friends were like, what the hell!” Chat scooped ice
from the freezer. “I’d already locked in a hockey scholarship, though. I couldn’t risk losing it. My dad would’ve killed me.”
He held a drink out to Augie. “Here, the house special.”
“Also known as a vodka cran?” Augie took a sip.
“I can’t say I’m the most skilled bartender.” He smiled and sat next to her on a stool. For the first time, Augie tried to pretend they were on a real date. Still, she couldn’t stop thinking about the Crawleys. She was more curious than ever.
“Do you miss hockey?” she said, steering the conversation. “Do the boys like hockey?”
“Nah, I wish. Bill’s pushing golf instead. Not that it’s really sticking . . .”
“And Mrs. Crawley?” Augie paused, lifting her drink to her lips. “Does she like hockey?”
Chat studied her, hesitating. “Um, yeah, actually.” He wiped the side of his mug. “But I mostly miss playing as a kid, as
sad as that sounds. I loved playing out on the pond every winter. It was more fun when it wasn’t so serious, you know? In
college, there was a lot of pressure, and then between my injury and COVID, I don’t know.” He paused, cracked his thumb knuckles.
“But like I said, it all turned out okay. Getting hurt was both the worst and best thing that’s happened to me. And here,
see this?” He pulled up his T-shirt sleeve, revealing a tattoo of a bubble-letter number thirteen. “I got hurt on Friday the
thirteenth, and my jersey number was also thirteen. Ironic, right?”
He held his sleeve up, and slowly, Augie reached out to touch his arm. With one finger, she traced the outline of each digit,
then rested her whole palm against his bicep, covering the art completely. She watched goose bumps rise over his skin.
Their faces were closer now.
“So”—he cleared his throat—“when I see this number, I can either think about it negatively, like that was the day my life
plan went up in smoke, or I can see it and think, ‘That was one chapter. It’s all part of the story.’” He exhaled, and Augie
slid her hand down his bicep to the crook above his elbow.