CHAPTER 15
SUSTAINED MISUNDERSTANDING
It took about forty-five minutes for Maggie to get the pho stuff together and packed, and then to make her way down from the Upper Falls, where she lived, to “downtown”—such as it was—where Otter apparently lived. She pulled into the driveway of the house. It had white siding and a sort of rock-patterned set of panels on the front, and while the colors looked tired, it was nonetheless nicer than she had expected. The lawn was strewn with some fallen leaves. She frowned. It looked bigger than she’d thought, too—maybe a two-bedroom, or even three.
Kinda big for a kid to rent on his own.
Little pings of alarm started dancing along her spine.
She’d been so intent on helping out a kid in trouble, or at least so she’d perceived, it had never really occurred to her she was going to a man’s house. One she didn’t know, not really . . . online didn’t count: Kit was right. She glanced around. At least he had nearby neighbors. She lived on fifteen acres, and her nearest neighbor was nearly a mile away.
She’d probably be fine. Right?
She grimaced, lugging her reusable shopping bag full of pho broth and accoutrements.
Now that she thought about it, she probably should have discussed more personal details with Otter. She knew his stance on, say, Star Wars versus Star Trek （and the fact that above all he was a Doctor Who fan, which she felt spoke well of him）。 She knew that his favorite flavor of ice cream was butter pecan, even though it was a “grandma” flavor. She knew that he loved graphic novels like Sandman and Bone and The Dreamer, even though they weren’t the typical superhero comics that his friends were into.
But she didn’t know why he lived alone.
And she didn’t know why his mother wasn’t helping him out, despite him having a foot fracture.
Her steps slowed as she headed to the front door.
I also don’t know if he has, say, a large basement . . . with, say, manacles.
Suddenly, she had another twinge of pure self-preservation. She knew he was the son of Deb’s friend. Probably like Kit . . . although, considering how geeky Harrison and Kit were, why weren’t they friends with Otter?
It had never occurred to her to ask. Maybe he was a little older than twenty, she realized. Yes, he’d just started community college, but maybe he had been doing something else beforehand? Like . . . a gap year? Or he might’ve been working. Kids around here did that, like Harrison himself.
Maybe he’d gone to another high school?
She bit her lip, then frowned as she saw a note on the door.
IN SHOWER. JUST LET YOURSELF IN.—OTTER
She felt . . . conflicted. A little nervous.
Okay. Naked guy somewhere in the house. No big deal.
Oh, who was she kidding? If she was any more stressed, she’d implode.
Setting her shoulders and gritting her teeth, she grabbed the doorknob and opened the door.
It was nice. Nicer than she’d expected, honestly. The door opened up to a set of stairs that led to the upper story. Looking off to her left, she could see the living room and the kitchen beyond. She expected to find the usual plank-and-milk-crate decor that was typical of college students, mismatched furniture that was cast off from older relatives, maybe some posters on the wall. But Otter had a nice couch, a decent TV. The dining room table was a smallish circle, with just two chairs.
She meant to close the door gingerly, but the bag of soup stuff swung, slamming it shut.
She could hear the shower upstairs running, and then heard a loud, deep voice.
“Boggy? That you?”
A lot deeper than she’d realized. Of course, he was in the bathroom, so . . . maybe an echo? And Harrison’s voice had turned into a frickin’ Barry White bass when he hit freshman year, even as Kit’s had stayed more in a low tenor range.
“Boggy?” Otter sounded a little more concerned when she didn’t answer.
“Yup,” she croaked, then cleared her throat. No. She knew this guy. And if he tried anything funny . . . well. She’d do . . . something. “It’s me.”
“Sorry! I’ll be out in a minute, swear,” he called out. The shower sounded louder, so she imagined he had opened the door and was now dripping and yelling. The image made her smile, not for any pervy reasons, but because it seemed so Otter. Polite, thoughtful. A bit harmless. “It just occurred to me I hadn’t showered since I got my air boot, and you were nice enough to make lunch, and I didn’t want to, you know . . .”
“Stink?” she called, then started chuckling when she heard him laugh.
“Yeah. So . . . things take a little longer with the whole foot thing. But I will be down in a minute!”
“Take your time,” she responded, then added, “Mind if I use a pot? I can microwave this, but it’s not as good.”
“Sure. Make yourself at home,” he called. Then she heard the door close, and she headed to the kitchen. Again, it was cleaner and nicer than she’d thought it would be, even though it was pretty much a typical, built-in-the-seventies-style kitchen. Nicer appliances. She wondered if he rented.
She riffled around through cabinets and drawers until she found where he kept the pots and pans. Grabbing a lidded pot, she got out the broth and dumped it in. She then grabbed a big bowl and put the rice noodles in. It would take half an hour’s soaking, she realized.
Maybe she should’ve just gotten him a damned sandwich?
She realized that she might be really, really foolish here.
She pulled out her phone, then took a deep breath. Something wasn’t quite right, and she wasn’t sure what, but after all these years, she knew better than to ignore it. She quickly typed a message to Rosita.
Maggie: Hey, I know we’re talking tonight. Six o’clock.
Maggie: On the off chance you don’t hear from me—I went to this address.
Maggie: I’ll let you know if I’m going to be late, though.
She sent the address, then put the phone back in her pocket. Still, she should’ve expected it when Rosita instantly texted her back.
Rosita: Can’t talk, in a meeting, but . . . are you on a date?
Rosita: Because if you are—you’re damned right you’re calling me!
Rosita: Wait, why are you at his house? Whose house is this?
Maggie: Long story. Am at house of kid I told you about a while ago. Otter?
Rosita: One of your video game friends?
Maggie: I’m sure it’s fine? It just occurred to me that Dexter was a kid once, and I wanted to cover my bases.
There was a pause, then a quick ping.
Rosita: Get the fuck out of there RIGHT NOW.
Maggie: No, srsly, I am just being weird. I will be fine, I will call tonight.
Maggie: I promise. Just chill out.
Before she could read Rosita’s next text, she heard Otter’s voice. “I am so sorry,” he called. “Everything takes twice as long as I think it’s gonna at this point. And the boot’s supposed to help, and be better than crutches, but it’s like . . . urgh.”
She couldn’t help it. He sounded like he did when he texted （other than the deep-voice part）—gently self-deprecating, mild mannered even when irritated.
“It’s fine,” she called back, not looking around the kitchen wall. “Just getting the soup ready.”