Chapter 19 #2
“I know it’s kind of dumb”—he shifted in his seat; her touch had stirred something in both of them, she felt it—“but it reminds me of the power of perception. Taking control of your own mind.”
“I get it.” Augie was certain that later, she’d replay this moment. She still held his arm.
“The whole thing was pretty unremarkable, too, if you can believe it. It was only this other guy and me. We were at center
ice, and his shoulder clipped my jaw, and that was it. I collapsed. It wasn’t some bloody mess, some big dramatic event. I
don’t even think he got a penalty. It was just unlucky. Friday the thirteenth.”
Augie felt upset thinking about it. “Do you feel okay now?” She dropped her hand.
“I do.” Chat swiveled on his stool. “It was a long road. Honestly, the worst part was not being able to listen to music because
it made me dizzy. I finally found the right doctor, and he basically rebuilt my brain. No joke, by like having me play Ping-Pong
while balancing on a skateboard. And then I started thinking about other ways I could get to Europe instead of hockey, and I was talking to my uncle Trey a lot when I was depressed—he lives in Latvia, played hockey there—and he helped
me plan everything.” Chat suddenly froze, his face white.
For a second, Augie wondered if he was self-conscious about admitting he’d been depressed, but before she could reassure him,
he started talking faster.
“I also have a friend in Germany, so that also got me excited, gave me something to look forward to. Like I said, it all worked
out. Though I do still kind of regret college.” He held a smile, teasing. “But I really am glad I’m here this summer. That
I met you.”
Augie felt flattered and tipsy as she tried to process everything—his injury, his outlook, his compliment.
“So what about you?” He shifted tones. “What’s your story? You still haven’t told me about New York. We can pretend this is a real networking event if you want, Ms. LinkedIn.”
“Oh, yeah. I’m sick of thinking about that.”
Augie turned out to the room, staring out the glass doors, noticing the outdoor fire circle, the rain pummeling the covered
outdoor furniture.
“Wait a second, is that a pool?” she said, incredulous as she noticed another darkened, tarped expanse.
Chat nodded.
“Why go to the Club if you already have a pool?”
“These are answers we don’t have, my friend.”
Augie recoiled at the word friend.
“That’s insane. What a waste of money.” Augie tried to detect any flinch at the mention of their money, but he didn’t react.
“I know. This house is nuts. Even the boys’ rooms are crazy.”
Augie finished her drink and set it down hard. “I think I need the rest of the tour.”
Chat hopped off the stool. He extended his palm to her like Aladdin.
Augie knew, as they continued up to the second and third levels, that they were touching more and more. Despite the word friend, this flirting was not one-sided, nor in her mind. It was undeniable. When Chat showed her the gigantic, greenhouse-style
playroom, he pulled her hips into him; when they sauntered into the formal dining room, they sat next to each other, feet
skimming beneath the table; and when they walked up the last set of stairs, Augie stopped to look at a family photo, and while
she was staring into Mrs. Crawley’s smile, Chat bumped into the back of her, his whole body cradling hers from behind, his
breath on her neck.
When they got to his room, Augie stopped. It wasn’t a room—it was a whole apartment. There was a functional, single-walled kitchen, a high-top table with more barstools, a sitting room with a tan leather sofa and two fancy blue armchairs, a TV bigger than the one she had at home. She felt stunned.
“Where is your actual bedroom?”
He pointed to one of two doors.
Augie pictured her own room, her junk-filled studio in New York. Her face burned. Here he was, living like them. Living like
a king.
“Trust me, I know this is a lot,” Chat said, as if reading her mind. “It’s definitely not what I’m used to. This is like half
the size of my whole house back home.”
Augie ran her hand over the soft, leather couch.
“I’d ask if you wanted to see my room”—he reached out, hooked his finger in one of her belt loops, and turned her around to face him—“but I don’t want
to sound like I’m implying something . . .” His words were a contrast to the way he suddenly stepped toward her, closing the
space between them, his legs on either side of hers.
Augie’s breath hitched as she looked up at him.
Chat leaned forward, lifted her chin, and as Augie closed her eyes and could practically feel his lips on hers—out of nowhere,
his wrist chimed.
“Oh, shit.” He pulled away as Augie blinked. He studied his watch. “Damnit. The monitor. Max. He’s getting over a cold and—one
second.” Chat sighed and backed away, turning fast as he adjusted his shorts. “Make yourself at home. I’ll be right back.”
Alone, Augie felt rejected. She tried not to overthink the abrupt departure as she stood still, the silence ringing metallic in her mind.
She felt strange being there by herself, as if the house knew she was an intruder.
She didn’t move at all until she noticed the bookcases around the TV and squinted, recognizing two spines—two of her all-time favorites: The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time and Bel Canto. It made her lightheaded.
Augie sat down on the couch, staring out at the room and feeling more and more unsettled. Nothing seemed to make sense anymore:
Chat living in a place like this, Mrs. Crawley reading her most cherished novels. Augie felt antsy then, and as she looked
to the door, willing Chat to come back, she stood up.
She told herself she was looking for Chat, yet as she moved down the hall, she acknowledged a pull she couldn’t explain—as
if there were answers and clues out in this mansion that could unlock something inside her, make sense of everything that
hurt.
Intuitively, she knew where to go.
When Augie pushed through the double doors to the main suite, she felt momentarily weak, her knees buckling slightly, like
when you’re dreaming and you fall. The room felt like a penthouse. The bed was huge and white with fluffy yet crisp pillows.
The headboard was not a headboard but rather a pale blue expanse of wall that reached the high ceiling, an intricate chandelier
hanging above like a web of Christmas lights. Low white tables anchored each side of the bed, and more delicate lights adorned
the walls. There was also a sitting room with luxe cream couches and a glass table with lilies, a glowing vanity with rounded
mirrors, and finally, an arched entryway to the bathroom, which reflected more glass and light.
Augie walked around the room in a somnambulistic state, touching vases of perfume, velvety throws, skimming her fingertips
along the smooth white dressers. When she reached the bed, she sat down and fanned her arms out, stroking the impossibly soft
duvet. As she lay back and stared up at the chandelier—a galaxy all its own—she felt Chat appear at the door.
He called her name, but she didn’t respond. Then he asked what she was doing.
Augie waited a few more seconds before she dragged herself to sitting. She looked at him as the lights above twinkled, refracting
out around them.
“Sorry. I wanted to see everything.”
“This room is pretty cool. She showed me once on our first tour.” His tone was casual but forced as he stepped farther inside.
Sitting on the bed, staring out at him, the smooth white carpet between them, Augie couldn’t stop herself. “Do you like her?”
Chat moved forward. “What do you mean?”
“Do you like her? Mrs. Crawley. Do you think she’s a good person?”
“I don’t think she’s a bad person.”
Augie glanced to her side, catching her reflection in the mirror. She imagined Mrs. Crawley’s reflection in the exact same
light.
“I don’t think she is. A good person.”
Chat ran his hand through his hair. He walked to Augie and sat down next to her.
“I know she can be cold at times.” He gripped the edge of the bed. “I get why you’d think that. She’s been through a lot.”
He hesitated. “Her dad died when she was young, and she’s been divorced . . . and I get the feeling she’s just been hurt a
lot. I think that’s why she acts like she does sometimes. Why she’s not overly friendly. Why she’s kind of anxious at the
Club.”
Augie focused on her lap, tensing. She didn’t want to know any of this; she didn’t want to feel bad for Mrs. Crawley. And
Chat was wrong: There was no way she was anxious at the Club.
“I really shouldn’t be saying anything. Bill doesn’t know about the divorce, he’s religious, so please don’t say anything.”
Augie was, again, bothered by his concern.
“I trust you,” he added as if this was some big compliment.
Augie felt her mind and heart all tangled up, like the light fixture hanging above, and she followed the one instinct that
felt crystal clear. She leaned forward and kissed him.
It felt like everything unlocked in that moment, the room disappearing around them. Their mouths were all over each other,
their hands were all over each other—and soon both their shirts were off, Augie rolling on top of Chat as he lay back on the
bed, his hands climbing over her jeans and up her spine. They moved in tandem as they kissed more intensely, inhaling each
other.
But at the very moment she reached for the waist of his shorts—deciding she needed to be as physically close to him as possible—Chat’s
wrist buzzed once more. They paused, still pressed together, before Augie pulled her hand away and they searched each other’s
faces, waiting, listening. In their panting silence, they heard not Max’s, but Cooper’s voice from the hall. And, a second
later, they heard what he was saying.
“Mommy! Mommy! You’re home!”
Chat stared up at Augie, his face blank, before suddenly, he scrambled out from under her, racing off the bed. Augie reached
for her shirt from the floor as she stood, swiveling her head as Chat tugged on his shirt and rushed toward the door.
“Shit, shit, shit.” He raced back to the bed and used two hands to smooth the duvet, studying it with intense focus, before
he finally looked to Augie, who’d realized her shirt was on inside out. She crossed her arms. Outside, they heard Mrs. Crawley
tell Cooper she was sorry for waking him. Her voice was distinct—the door to the room was half open.
“Oh, fuck,” Chat whispered before inhaling a stifled breath. “Okay, it’s fine, come here.” He seemed to shift to flight mode as he grabbed Augie’s hand. “Okay, here’s what we do: You stay in the closet, and I’ll go talk to her. I’ll tell her to take Cooper to bed while I check on Max.”
Augie sensed he was talking to himself more than to her.
“Then when she’s gone, I’ll come back for you, okay? We’ll go down the back stairs.” Quietly, he opened a door to their side.
Augie could barely think as he guided her into the closet. She usually responded well to a crisis—once, when Augie and her
friends were caught in a storm out on Lake Minnetonka, Augie had been the one to keep everyone calm and direct them to the
closest dock; another time, when they were carving pumpkins and Fiona Palmer sliced her finger, Augie had been the one to
wrap it up and drive them to the ER. But this was different. This time, it was her fault.
Slowly, she stepped farther inside the closet, taking in her surroundings. Of course, it was nothing like a regular closet.
The lights had been left on, and she could see everything clearly: the twinkling glass island that housed Mrs. Crawley’s jewelry,
the symmetrical walls of built-in drawers and hangers and shoes. The open space didn’t offer much for hiding, but she needed
to hide. What if Mrs. Crawley came in here? What if—her thoughts were interrupted as she heard voices growing louder, and
she realized she had jinxed herself.
“I need to get out of this dress,” she heard Mrs. Crawley say as Chat protested, as he rambled on about how Cooper really
needed to go back to bed, how he really needed to check on Max, whose cough was getting worse. Mrs. Crawley kept repeating
herself, her voice desperate and slurred, as she told him that she “had, had, had to get out of it.”
Just as Augie sensed Mrs. Crawley moving toward the closet, she rushed to a wall of clothes and shimmied in behind a row of long, thick coats.
She pressed her back flat against the wall, willing herself not to sneeze as a fur collar swayed in front of her.
She clutched her abdomen and stared out through the gaps of light between the hangers as Mrs. Crawley burst inside.
There was no way not to watch. And no way not to notice: Mrs. Crawley was drunk. Or deranged. Her eye makeup was smudged,
her hair all over. She moved fast, clawing at a zipper at her lower back, grasping at the halter’s knot around her neck. She
struggled for a moment, cursed to herself, before finally she tugged the right strand, and the dress fell away, the whole
piece slipping off and landing in a shining green puddle on the floor. Augie glanced away, ashamed. Mrs. Crawley wasn’t wearing
a bra, only a thin nude thong. Still, a second later, Augie couldn’t deny the draw to study her, tracing her lean, defined
muscles all the way from her calves to her triceps to her neck. And that’s when she saw it—that’s when it finally clicked:
that silver chain around her neck, that necklace, that amber pendant she always wore. The one she’d told Mrs. Cline at the
baby shower she had gotten in Latvia. As a gift. From an ex.
Latvia. Latvia. Latvia.
The place Chat’s uncle lived. The place he played hockey. Trey? Uncle Trey?
Augie’s mind was on overdrive, and she wished she had more time to think—but as Mrs. Crawley pulled on a black nightgown,
flicked off the lights, and left—only seconds later, the lights flashed back on and there was Chat, looking back and forth
inside the closet, panicked.
Augie pushed an arm through the coats, and instantly, he was there. He pulled her out.
“Okay, she’s with Cooper now,” he said as Augie stumbled forward. “Come on.” He grabbed her hand, dragging her toward the
door. “We gotta move.”