He stares at me for a second longer, his eyes darting back and forth from me to the pills on the counter. He extends his arm, and I think he’s going to grab them, take them, but instead, he hands me the key ring that holds my spare. The memory of me giving it to him flashes through my mind—years ago, when I had first moved in, I had wanted him to have it. You’re always welcome here, I had said as we sat cross-legged on the mattress in my bedroom, foreheads damp with sweat from assembling my headboard, Chinese takeout cartons spilling onto the floor. The oily noodles leaving greasy smears on the hardwood. Besides, I’m going to need someone to water my plants when I’m gone. I stare at the key now, dangling from his pointer finger. I can’t bring myself to take it back—because once I do, I know that it’s final. That it can’t be returned. So instead, he places it gently on the counter, turns around, and walks out the door.
I stare at the key, fighting the urge to pick it up, walk outside, and push it back into his hands. Instead, I grab it and the Xanax and toss them into my purse before walking over to the door and setting the alarm. Then I grab Cooper’s wine bottle, still mostly full, and pour myself another glass before picking it up along with the salmon, now cold, and walking back into the living room, settling in on the couch, and turning on the TV.
I think about everything that has happened today and immediately, I’m exhausted. Seeing Lacey, my meeting with Aaron. The scuffle with Daniel and the interaction with Bert Rhodes and going to Detective Thomas, telling him everything. The argument with my brother, the concern in his eyes when he saw those pills. When he saw me, alone, drinking at the kitchen island.
Suddenly, more than exhausted, I feel lonely.
I pick up my phone, tap the screen until the background illuminates in my hand. I think about calling Daniel, but then I picture him at dinner, ordering another bottle at some five-star Italian restaurant, the roars of laughter as he insists on just one more. He’s probably the life of the party—cracking jokes, grabbing shoulders. The thought makes me feel even lonelier, so I swipe up at the screen and open up my Contacts.
And there, at the very top, I’m greeted with another name: Aaron Jansen.
I could call Aaron, I think. I could fill him in on everything that has happened since the last time we spoke. He probably isn’t doing anything, alone in an unfamiliar town. He’s probably doing the same thing as me, as a matter of fact—sitting on the couch, half drunk, leftovers perched between his outstretched legs. My finger hovers over his name, but before I can tap it, the screen goes dark. I sit for a minute, wondering. My mind is feeling a little foggy now, like it’s been wrapped in a thick, wool blanket. I put the phone down, deciding against it. Instead, I close my eyes. I imagine how he might react when I tell him about Bert Rhodes showing up on my doorstep. I imagine him yelling at me through the phone after I admit to letting him in. I smirk a little bit, knowing that he’d be worried. Worried about me. But then I would tell him how I got him out of the house, called Detective Thomas, went to the police. I would relay our conversation, word by word, and smile again, knowing that he’d be proud.
I open my eyes and take another bite of salmon, the drone of the TV sounding more distant as my mind starts to focus instead on the sound of my chewing. The clank of the fork against the Pyrex. My heavy breathing. The image on the television is starting to grow fuzzy on the screen, and I realize that my eyelids are feeling heavier with every subsequent sip of wine. Pretty soon, my limbs are tingling.
I deserve this, I think, sinking deeper into the couch. I deserve to sleep. To rest. I’m just exhausted. So, so exhausted. It’s been a long day. I turn my phone off—no disruptions—and place it on my stomach before pushing my dinner onto the coffee table. I take another sip of wine and feel a little bit dribble down my chin. Then I let myself close my eyes, just for a second, and feel myself drift into sleep.
It’s dark outside when I wake up. I’m disoriented, my eyes fluttering open as I lie on the couch, the half-empty wineglass still propped between my arm and stomach. Miraculously, it didn’t spill. I sit up and tap my phone, looking for the time, until I remember that I turned it off. I squint at the television—the time on the newscast says it’s just past ten. My pitch-black living room is partially illuminated in an eerie blue glow, so I reach for the remote and turn off the TV before pulling myself off the couch. I look at the wineglass in my hand and down the rest of the liquid before placing it on the coffee table, walking upstairs, and collapsing into bed.