“There’s no pickup in the neighborhood. But I plan to drive to the— What are you . . .” Liam’s hands close around my waist, his fingers so long, they meet both on my back and above my belly button. My brain stutters to a stop. What the hell is he—？
He lifts me up till I’m hovering above the floor, then effortlessly moves me a few inches to the side of the refrigerator. Like I’m as light as an Amazon delivery box, the giant ones that for some reason have only a single stick of deodorant packed inside. I sputter as indignantly as I can, but he doesn’t pay any attention to me. Instead he sets me on my feet, opens the fridge, grabs a jar of raspberry compote, and murmurs, “Then you better get to it,” with one last long, intense look.
He goes back to his toast, and I go back to not existing in his universe.
Lovely.
I growl my way out of the room, half flustered and all homicidal, still feeling the heels of his palms pressing into my skin. In his sleep. I swear I’m going to kill him in his damn sleep. When he least expects it. And then I’ll celebrate by throwing empty bottles of creamer at his corpse.
Ten minutes later I am rage-sweating, walking to work while on an emergency venting-videocall （ventocall） with Sadie. There have been a lot of these in the past few weeks. A lot.
“。 . . he doesn’t even drink coffee. Which means that he’s either flushing creamer down the toilet to spite me or chugging it down like it’s water—and I honestly don’t know which scenario would be worse, because on the one hand, one serving is like six hundred and forty calories, and Liam still manages to only have three percent body fat, but on the other, taking time out of his busy schedule to deprive me of my creamer is a gesture of unprecedented cruelty that no one should ever . . .” I trail off when I notice her bemused expression. “What?”
“Nothing.”
I squint. “Are you looking at me weird?”
“No! Nope.” She shakes her head emphatically. “It’s just . . .”
“Just?”
“You’ve been talking about Liam nonstop for”—she lifts one eyebrow—“eight minutes straight, Mara.”
My cheeks burn. “I’m so sorry, I—”
“Don’t get me wrong, I love this. Listening to you bitch is my jam, ten out of ten, would recommend. I just feel like I’ve never seen you like this, you know? We lived together for five years. You’re usually all about compromise and harmony and Imagine all the people.”
I try not to live my life in a perennial state of flame-throwing anger. My parents were the kind of people who probably should not have had kids: checked out, not affectionate, impatient for me to move out so they could turn my childhood bedroom into a shoe closet. I know how to cohabitate with others and minimize conflict, because I’ve been doing it since I was seventeen—ten years ago. Live and let live is a crucial skill set in any shared living space, and I had to master it quickly. And I still have it mastered. I really do. I’m just not sure I want to let Liam Harding live.
“I’m trying, Sadie, but I’m not the one who keeps lowering the damn thermostat to freezing. Who doesn’t bother turning off the lights before going out—our electricity bill is insane. Two days ago, I got home after work, and the only person in the house was some random guy sitting on my couch who offered me my own Cheez-Its. I thought he was a hitman Liam had hired to kill me!”
“Oh my God. Was he?”
“No. He was Calvin—Liam’s friend, who’s tragically a million times nicer than him. The point is, Liam’s the kind of shit roommate who invites people over when he’s not home, without telling you. Also, why the hell can’t he say hi when he sees me? And is he psychologically unable to close the cupboards? Does he have some deep-rooted trauma that drove him to decorate the house exclusively with black-and-white prints of trees? Is he aware that he doesn’t have to slam the door every time he goes out? And does he absolutely need to have his stupid dudebro friends come over every weekend to play video games in the—” I finish crossing the street and look at the screen. Sadie is chewing on her bottom lip, pensive. “What’s going on?”
“You were going off and didn’t really seem to need me, so I did a thing.”
“A thing?”
“I googled Liam.”
“What? Why?”
“Because I like to put a face to people I talk about for several hours a week.”
“Whatever you do, do not click on his page on the FGP Corp website. Do not give them the hits!”
“Too late. He actually looks . . .”
“Like global warming and capitalism had a love child who’s going through a bodybuilding phase.”
“Um . . . I was going to say cute.”
I huff. “When I look at him all I can see are all the creamer-less cups of coffee I’ve been drinking since the day I moved in.” And maybe sometimes, just sometimes, I remember that flustered, wonderstruck look he gave me before he knew who I was. Mourn it a little. But who am I kidding? I must have hallucinated it.
“Has he offered to buy you out again?” Sadie asks.
“He doesn’t really acknowledge my existence. Well, except to occasionally stare like I’m some roach infesting his pristine living space. But his lawyer sends me emails with ridiculous buyout offers every other day.” I can see my work building, a hundred feet away. “But I won’t. I’ll keep the one thing Helena left me. And once I’m in a better place financially I’ll just move out. It shouldn’t take too long, a few months at the most. And in the meantime . . .”
“Black coffee?”
I sigh. “In the meantime I drink bitter, disgusting coffee.”
Three
Five months, one week ago
Dear Helena,
This is weird.
Is this weird?
This is probably weird.
I mean, you’re dead. And I’m here, writing you a letter. When I’m not even sure I believe in the afterlife. Truth be told, I stopped pondering eschatological matters in high school because they got me anxious and made me break out in hives under my left armpit （never the right; what’s up with that?）。 And it’s not like I’m ever going to figure out a mystery that eluded great thinkers like Foucault or Derrida or that unspellable German dude with bushy sideburns and syphilis.
But I digress.
You’ve been gone for over a month, and things are same old, same old. Humanity is still in the clutches of capitalist cabals; we have yet to figure out a way to slow down the impending catastrophe that is anthropogenic climate change; I wear my “Save the Bees & Tax the Rich” T-shirt whenever I go for a run. The usual. I do love the work I’m doing at the EPA （thank you so much for that rec letter, by the way; I’m very grateful you didn’t mention that time you bailed Sadie, Hannah, and me out of jail after that anti-dam protest. The U.S. government would not have liked that one）。 There is the small issue that I’m the only woman in a team of six, and that the dudes I work with seem to believe that my squishy female brain is unable to grasp sophisticated concepts like . . . the sphericity of Earth, I guess? The other day Sean, my team leader, spent thirty minutes explaining the contents of my own dissertation to me. I had very vivid fantasies about clocking him in the head and tiling his cadaver under my bathtub, but you probably already know all of this. You probably just sit around on a cloud all day being omniscient. Eating Triscuits. Occasionally playing the harp. You lazy bum.