“This is quite a place you have here.”
“Thank you,” I say, even though that could mean a lot of things coming from someone like Bailey Kirk. It doesn’t necessarily sound like a compliment.
New Yorkers are always interested in real estate—how you found your place, how you can afford it, walk-up or elevator, doorman or not. Owning a town house in Brooklyn Heights? Not just a single floor but the whole damn thing. That raises eyebrows. It’s like deep space—mysterious and difficult to fathom—how anyone makes enough to afford to live well in this city.
What are you, a Saudi prince? you asked when I brought you here for the first time.
“How long have you lived here?” Bailey asks now.
I froth the almond milk, pour it into the coffee, hand him his cup. He nods his thanks. I remember that he likes it the same as I do.
“About three years now,” I say. “It was a wreck when I bought it—still is. I’ve been fixing it up slowly. It’s not nearly done.”
I lucked into this place, alerted to a distressed property auction by a Realtor friend. Still it took almost everything I had, and I spent the first year living in an uninsurable property that was on the verge of being condemned—with lots of company. Roaches, rats in the attic, even a stray cat in the yard who has since moved on. I spent all my free time watching YouTube videos, figuring out how to fix and repair, finding people who could do the things I couldn’t. I like it, fixing a broken, neglected thing, making it whole. Now, it’s mine, clanging pipes, and uneven floors, middling paint job, and all.
It feels like you. That’s what you said about it, Adam. Warm, embracing, elegant but not fancy. Charming but not cloying.
You seemed to fit right in here—you sank into the couch, took over the kitchen. And the bedroom. Oh, yes, you were a master in the bedroom. That’s where we spent most of our time—and in the soaking tub, and the big shower. Just thinking about you brings up heat.
I wait for Bailey to say what people usually do—it must cost a fortune. Or more boldly, how can you afford this place? But he doesn’t say anything like that, just gratefully drinks the coffee I gave him.
In the living room, I make a fire. Bailey sits on the window seat, looks outside to the street. I figure he has more questions, otherwise why would he be here? But he doesn’t ask them right away. When the fire is crackling, I stare into the flames for a minute, just sitting there, holding my coffee.
I try to make sense of what’s happening but can’t. The things Bailey Kirk has told me, the picture of you that looks like a stranger. I can’t fit those things with the man I’ve known these last few months. Who are you, Adam?
You lied. You’re a liar. You’re someone totally different than I believed you to be. I’ve lied, too, hidden things—important facts about myself and my life. But what I felt for you was true. The time, my love, it was real. The first rumble of anger vibrates beneath my shock and sadness.
“Adam left some things in the apartment,” I say finally. “The vacation rental host gave them to me.”
Bailey’s eyebrows lift in surprise. “What kind of things?”
I tell him about my conversation and meeting with Joe, share with him the contents of the box I found. I take each thing out of my bag and place it on the coffee table, lining them up neatly so that I can look at each thing. Kirk sinks into the seat beside me on the couch. We sit with our legs touching, looking at the items spread out before us.
Your hoodie. The notebook. The pen. The shave kit. I take the watch off my wrist, lay it down.
Not the article. I don’t have to share that, do I?
Why do we trust this guy? Robin. She’s a shadow, a trick of light, a tiny little wisp of a thing, with spindly legs and straw for hair. Her shins are covered with cuts and bruises, her jeans torn. She’s a bird, a squirrel, a rush of leaves taken by the wind.
Robin, my childhood friend. She’s as real as anyone is to me. Maybe she’s even more real than you are, Adam. It’s just that I’m the only one who can see her.
I don’t answer her now, not with a stranger in the room. He already thinks I’m unstable.
Why do we trust him? I don’t know. Maybe we don’t.
“Can I take these things?” he asks. “The lab back at my firm. We might be able to get some DNA evidence. Of course, it’s been through a lot of hands.”
I am reluctant to give any piece of you up. But I nod. I want to cling to these things, especially the sweater. But I should know better. We don’t get to keep anything.