“Room service?” Hazel suggested, tossing Jenny a menu.
“Ansel never did that.” Jenny snorted, flipping through the laminated booklet. “Too expensive. When we traveled we’d always go to McDonald’s. Ooh, look, they have Alfredo.”
They ordered extravagantly. Linguine Alfredo, Caesar salads, mashed potatoes, and a chocolate lava cake for dessert. The air was wobbly as they waited—shell-shocked, like they’d just survived an earthquake. Jenny sat on the bed, confirming her flight on Hazel’s laptop, emailing her new landlord, booking the rental car for when she landed. The divorce papers would wait, sent later in an envelope stamped with a lawyer’s name. The plan had formed years ago, Jenny admitted—a clean break—but it had taken the new job to escalate the process. It didn’t feel real, she said, now that the time had come.
When the food arrived, they set up on the floor between the two beds, cross-legged around the plates. The mashed potatoes had been scooped into an undeniably phallic shape, and when Jenny pointed it out, they both burst into laughter—the heaviness of the day seemed to shrug and skulk away.
Jenny ate ravenously, grease coating her lips.
“You think he’ll call?” she asked. “Before I change my number?”
“If he does, you won’t answer,” Hazel said.
“Right.”
A pause.
“It wasn’t always like that,” Jenny said. “We had some good nights, after I started going to the meetings. He’s the one who suggested AA in the first place. I know what it looked like today, but . . . you should know that Ansel never hurt me. Not physically.”
“What’s the deal with the philosophy stuff?” Hazel said.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, his ‘theory’ or whatever. He sounds like a freshman philosophy student. Like, he really wants to be smart but he’s maybe not that smart.”
Jenny laughed, breathy and barbed. “I don’t know. I’ve only read bits and pieces of the manuscript. It’s more like a list of questions than a book, if I’m being honest. And you’re right—none of his ideas are particularly new or interesting. But I think he’s trying to make meaning, and that’s admirable enough. He’s trying to figure out who he is and how to exist. He’s trying to justify himself. Aren’t we all doing some version of that?”
She stabbed a piece of lettuce with her fork.
“There were so many things he never told me,” she said. “About his family, his childhood. He got so quiet when I asked. He’d ice me out for days. After I let go of the drinking, I woke up one morning, looked over, and realized he was practically a stranger. Did I ever tell you . . . did I ever tell you about the detective?”
Hazel shook her head no. The pasta lurched in her stomach, oily and dense.
“It was years ago,” Jenny said. She put down her fork. Pulled her knees to her chest. “I mean, years. I was still in training at the hospital; we weren’t even married yet. This detective, this woman, found my number. I didn’t believe she was a cop at first. She seemed too young. She came to the hospital, showed me her badge, asked if I would answer some questions. She wanted to know about Ansel. I’ll never forget her name, because I’d never heard it before. Saffron. Like the flower. Anyway, I’ve noticed her since, Hazel. For years now, though I never told Ansel. She’ll pop up every few months, sitting in her car on our street. Just watching. I even saw her a few weeks ago. She’s like a shadow.”
“What was she looking for?” Hazel asked. “Did she tell you?”
Jenny mustered her fake smile. It was the smile she used to direct at less popular girls in the locker room, the one Hazel recognized from when teenage Jenny lied to their mother. It was an alarm, bursting. It didn’t feel right.
“It’s so dumb,” Jenny said. “I mean, he would never.”
“What was it?”
“I can’t even say it,” Jenny said. “It seems so . . . I don’t know. I found the case online, when I Googled her. She’s been investigating the deaths of three girls. They died over in New York, before I even met Ansel, when he was in high school. Homicide. How ridiculous is that?”
In the dim greenish light, Jenny was baring an approximation of a smile, her teeth intentionally exposed. Hazel knew that she too was thinking of Ansel’s face this afternoon. The word was a knife, slashing violently between them. Homicide. Hazel did not think she had ever spoken it aloud; the very possibility felt like a foreign creature, thrashing uncomfortable on her tongue.