I grabbed my purse from where I’d tossed it on the nightstand and dug for the Dermablend, which my mom had gotten me hooked on when acne was my biggest nemesis. As I dabbed it on, my cheek burned hot, skin vellum-delicate, and for a second, I was back in our apartment on Wednesday night, the room going off-kilter and beginning to spin as pain seared the side of my face . . .
Dusty whimpered, almost like he was sympathizing, but I knew he only wanted to go out. I surveyed my masterpiece—the bruise, scratch, and my light smattering of freckles disappearing behind the makeup, blurry as a generous Instagram filter, hazy and unblighted as the Mona Lisa. Beauty magazines never covered tips like these. Stuff like this, you had to figure out on your own.
I heard a crash, and jumped. Next to me, Dusty had pulled his leash from where I’d tossed it on the nightstand, and the metal hook had clanged against the hardwood floor. I inhaled deeply and knelt to scratch behind his ears. The warmth of his skin, the cotton-softness of his fur, calmed my pulse, my breaths coming slower—then my eyes landed on the floorboards, lit by the sun.
Quickly, I pushed the bed aside. The floorboard in question was propped up ever so slightly, as if it had been opened. I racked my brain. Had I, after a whiskey or three, lifted it to check? No. I would remember something like that. Had Dusty crawled underneath and scratched around, like he always used to do in Brooklyn? Most likely. Still, I checked the contents anyway, pulling everything out, running through my list again. All there. My stomach flip-flopped, but this time not from anything I’d had to drink.
I re-hammered the floorboard, repositioned the bed, and quickly searched the cottage. No sign of anyone here but me.
It wasn’t possible, I reassured myself as we headed out for our walk, and I locked the door behind us, checking several times to be sure. This time, I’d made damn sure he couldn’t find me.
After all, I’d learned a lot in the last few months.
This wasn’t going to be like before.
* * *
• • •
Light dappled the side of the road, and a breeze wove through the uneven grass of the meadow. Dusty hopped along, equally intrigued by the lack of dogs and the abundance of green. No park in Brooklyn could compare to the Walden-esque utopia before us.
We walked slowly, Dusty wanting to pee on every stick and flower, the harsh light of day making it all feel more real. Made-for-TV movies flashed to mind, the ones I used to watch in the musty basement with my mom. The heroine’s escape from the bad guy was the climax, the triumph. You didn’t see this part, when she didn’t know how to begin again, when she wondered if Thoreau got bored, alone in the woods.
We reached the farmhouse, the picturesque Mercedes parked next to a pickup spattered with mud. Up close, it looked as idyllic as it had yesterday, though it needed a good bit of work. A window was cracked, and the exterior begged for a fresh coat of paint. I tugged the leash, but Dusty was obstinate—he stopped in front of the mailbox to do his business.
I heard yelling. I couldn’t make out the words, only raised voices, a screech that could be the scraping of a chair against hardwoods, a definitive stomp.
I stiffened, rapt. Old walls were thin, I knew that. Davis and I used to exchange terse whispers in the kitchen at night. Early on, he’d laughed about it, said that in Brooklyn, you didn’t have the luxury of having a good fight. It had been funny because it had been true. Our arguments were lovely and indulgent then, full of banter, like two people reading a script for a sitcom.
That had changed. Davis had found plenty of methods for getting his way without ever attracting the attention of the neighbors. I still don’t think the lady upstairs ever knew anything was going on.
The front door burst open, and I heard the woman’s voice—“Don’t ever do that again!”—and I swear, I expected to see me walk out—eyes glistening, hands shaking, trying to make sense of what had happened but knowing there was no way to make sense of things like that.
Inexplicably, Ms. Butter-Yellow Mercedes only shook her head, grinning, as if she even knew how to argue with grace. She wore her hair in a smooth ponytail this time, and her clothes were, again, all black, tight, and stretchy, sneakers on her feet. Her eyes locked on mine. “It’s you.”
Her words caught me off guard, and I felt naked and exposed, a kid in the cafeteria not knowing where to sit. I needed to do something, so I reached for the doggie bags, but there weren’t any in the holder. Shit.
“The woman from yesterday, right? Can I help you?”
“My dog,” I said, finding my voice and nodding to Dusty. He pulled on the leash, wanting to say hi. “Sorry, he kind of—well—on your lawn, and I forgot the bags. I shouldn’t have let him go in your yard at all . . .”
She marched down the path, her ponytail a pendulum. She was even more stunning up close, her smile wide and white, all teeth and gums, like the grin of a child. Her eyes were gray, her brows blond but thick, and she was probably older than me, five or ten years, maybe; it was hard to say.
“Don’t jump, Dusty,” I said.
“Oh, it’s okay.” She looked from Dusty to me. She was a couple of inches taller than me, and she smelled of warm earth with a note of something biting. Dirt stamped her knees, and there was a crunchy green plastic basket sitting in front of the overgrown flower beds behind her. Before she’d been arguing, she’d been gardening. “You must be renting the cottage?” she asked. “The place that Jennifer—” She paused abruptly. “The Clarks’ place, the ones who went to Phoenix.”
I nodded. “That’s the one.”
“I’m Vera.” She stuck out her hand. Her fingers were short and a little stubby, probably the one thing she worried about when she made a mental list of her flaws. Unlike my acne scars, stubby fingers were a decadent flaw to have. “Nice to properly meet you.”
I hesitated only a second, suddenly nervous, before I said, “Lucy.”
“And who’s this?” she asked.
“Dusty.” I smiled. It was hard not to smile when talking about Dusty, even now.
Vera’s voice morphed into full baby-talk mode. “Aren’t you just da cutest with your fluffy wittle head and wet wittle nose.” She looked up. “Boy or girl?”
“Boy.”
“Who’s a good boy?” Vera asked, as Dusty tried his best to lick her chin. “Dusty’s a good boy, that’s who.” She stood, her pants now covered in Dusty’s white fur. “How long are you staying?”
It was strange. Only minutes ago, she’d been fighting with whoever was in that house. Now she was carrying on like nothing was the matter. My cheekbone lit up, not with pain so much as awareness of all that had transpired. Could it be so simple; could you argue and yell and walk out and meet your new neighbor?