A rabbit, long-footed and gray. It hopped off.
I took a deep yoga breath. I was like a scared animal sometimes, worse than Dusty with his tail between his legs.
I set the hammer down and pushed the bed aside, metal screeching against the floorboards. I knelt, knees leaving prints in the blanket of dust, and carefully pressed each plank. After five minutes, I found one that felt loose, a few inches off the baseboard. I pried it up with the claw of the hammer, creating a space about ten inches long, four inches wide, then tucked away each item, everything but money for rent and my mother’s scarf, and pressed the board back into place. I ran my hands from side to side, scattering the dust, before repositioning the bed.
I needed a drink. I’d forced myself to abstain since I left, knowing I had to keep a clear head. It was almost three, earlier than I’d start in regular life, but it seemed okay, considering. This was my new reality: I lived in a sweet little cottage, woodland creatures romped about, and I stored my possessions under the floorboards—who’s to say I had to wait till six?
“What do you think?” I asked Dusty. “Has Mommy earned a drink?”
From my suitcase, I retrieved Davis’s last good bottle of whiskey, the one I’d stolen two days ago, and headed to the kitchen. I glanced around the room, and my eyes caught on a doggie door, something I’d have to train Dusty to use properly. I poured a couple fingers of whiskey into a small juice glass and took a sip. I peered outside—the fenced-in postage stamp of yard was surrounded by an expanse of woods. This was the perfect place for us. It had to be.
Back in the bedroom, I situated myself on the bed, opened my laptop, and logged in to the VPN I’d signed up for, the one that would scramble my IP address, keeping my connection untraceable, just in case. I loaded my old email, fearing the worst, but there were no new messages, nothing more than retail spam and nonprofit solicitations, stoking fear in a bid for more donations.
I read over the draft I’d written last night, chest constricting at the thought of what my best friend, Ellie, might already know.
Hey girl!
Sorry for the last-minute notice, but I’m going to miss dinner tonight! I’ve decided to go back to Seattle for a few months. I’m going to finally go through my parents’ storage unit and try to actually make progress on my freelance career somewhere that’s slightly less expensive than Brooklyn. In addition to thinking, WTF, you’re probably wondering about what happened with Davis. I’m sad to say we’re going our separate ways. I wanted to tell you in person, but I just couldn’t bear it. I’m sorry.
Love you dearly, and I hate to bail without saying bye, but it all came together really fast. When I’m settled, let’s plan a West Coast reunion, pretty please?
Xxoo
L
Before I could doubt myself, I hit Send.
TWO
You’d think it would be easy to cut ties with a man like Davis, a natural reaction for a forward-thinking woman like me. But it wasn’t. Instead, he was like any other addiction, far easier to return to, to rationalize, than to give up completely. Just. One. More. Little. Sip. If only there were an AA for shitty boyfriends, for the women who found them impossible to leave.
It was nearing four, and my first glass had been drained, before I got up the nerve to email Davis.
I went back to Seattle. You can’t control us anymore.
Then I attached the photo, my insurance against any future punishment. The only one I had.
Inside me, I could feel it, the hatch opening up, just a crack, anger brewing at all that had happened between us, but I shut it tight, as I knew I had to, took a deep breath, and hit Send.
For a split second, I imagined him reading it, his knuckles turning white against the edges of his phone. Then I imagined the alternative, and I prayed he was okay, my stomach tying itself in knots as my heart beat mercilessly.
Pushing the fear aside, I logged out of my old email and back into my new one, [email protected], filled with only the back-and-forth about the cottage, a “Welcome to Gmail” message, and a few errant pieces of spam.
Then I did what I’d been doing for more months than I’d like to admit, to cope—I drank.
When I’d run out of internet black holes to fall into, when the second glass had become the third, when Dusty whined for food and I realized it was almost nine, I opened a can of dog food and ordered a pizza for myself, from one of the only places in town that delivered. Then I drank some more.
* * *
• • •
Dusty pawed at my face.
My eyes sprang open. It was morning, light surrounding the edges of the drapes like a halo. I had all my clothes on, and I was on top of the quilt, hair smushed, like a doll tossed aside after playtime was over. My jaw was tight. I’d been grinding my teeth, something I did when I was scared, a habit from childhood that was impossible to break.
I still hadn’t gotten used to waking up without Davis. It was hard not to imagine him in his spot, legs tangled among the sheets, the nook of his shoulders ready for me to nestle into. His blond hair unkempt, his cowlick untamed, his thick glasses, ones we’d picked out together, sitting on the nightstand, waiting. His eyes fluttering open—Morning, babe.
Now his place in bed was occupied by a grease-stained box of Cicero’s pizza. The smell of sausage turned my stomach.
For better or worse, Davis had become an integral part of my life very quickly. There to accompany me to a friend’s birthday party. There to see the latest indie movie, try a recipe I’d found online, listen to the new LCD Soundsystem album and have an hour-long debate about whether it was any good. There to crack a nerdy joke about the incest vibes in Star Wars. To hold me when the grief of missing my parents made me, occasionally, inconsolable. Eventually, there to welcome me fully into his apartment, his world. To warm the bed, to be my partner in dog ownership, our shared responsibility making Dusty, my everything, a possibility . . .
There to toss all those possibilities straight to hell. To reveal his true self to me, little by little. To redefine my understanding of the concept of surprise.
Dusty jumped up, sniffing at the leftover pizza.
“Down,” I said, tasting a gummy bitterness in the back of my throat. “We’ll go in a minute.” My phone sat on top of the box, ominous. I tapped it to life. It was after eleven. No calls or texts, but it’s not like there would be. Davis didn’t have my new number, my SIM card made sure of that.
I pulled myself out of bed, then peeked through the drapes just as a car drove slowly past. I forced myself to take a deep breath. I would have to let go of this, this feeling of being watched. I let the drapes fall shut, careful that not even an inch of window was exposed, then approached the mirror hanging on one side of the door. There, framed by my unruly brown curls and impossible to miss, was the bruise. Angry and white in the middle, purple and blue, watercolor splotches, at the edges. Circling my cheekbone like a bull’s-eye, about three inches across.