My eyes dart around the impressive two-story brick home. A wrought iron staircase is near the entry and winds around the top floor, overlooking the downstairs. The looming entry has an impressive chandelier above it, the crystals probably Swarovski. It’s definitely trendy, this decorator farmhouse chic with its flair for grays, navy blues, and bursts of yellow. It’s just not my style. Or maybe I’m just so used to our mismatched garage sale finds that my taste is sorely lacking.
Even after disappearing around a corner, I can feel her watchful eyes on me. When she returns in an instant with a fluffy towel in hand, I can still sense her discomfort. I decide to break the ice and introduce myself. Unsure if she’ll shake my hand, I do a half wave. “By the way, I’m Elle.”
She nods as she pushes the towel into my hand. “Charlotte.”
Awkwardly, I rub my face, worried I’ll dirty her egyptian cotton. My body’s still quivering from the cold, the chill bone deep. Biting her lip, she murmurs, “At least let me get you something warm to change into.”
I focus on rubbing my hands together as she exits the room. The smell of burning wood and heat makes me want to fall asleep. Suddenly I’m dead tired, and my eyes flicker open and closed. As the fire licks at the glass screen, I try to ignore my lingering concerns about being up close and personal with her. But the smell wafting from the other room causes my mouth to water. I notice a plate of cookies through the open entryway to the kitchen. Averting my eyes from the gnawing hunger that’s a constant in my belly, I pinch my wrist.
Will it always be this way, I wonder, or will I ever know where my next meal is coming from?
A moment later, Charlotte enters my line of vision. Whatever she was carrying before has now been replaced with a men’s T-shirt and wool socks. I notice her with the same man in a few framed photographs, and I wonder if this clothing belongs to him. He seems a tad boring, the ubiquitous flannel shirt and puffer vest screaming outdoorsy, but something about him seems fake. I wonder if he’s ever been hiking, let alone on the trail behind their house. Probably not. He’s too much of a pretty boy. Probably a corporate job with a six-figure income and a BMW in the garage. He must make that if they live in this expensive home. I don’t think adjunct teaching brings in the bucks for this type of American dream. The billboard out by the highway advertises that this development starts in the midsixes.
Thrusting the items at me, she offers a small smile. “Here you go, Elle. Did I say it right?”
“Thanks,” I say, smiling back. “And, yeah, you did.” After untying my gray Converse sneakers, I peel off my thin, threadbare socks, letting the warmth envelop my toes as I wiggle them to regain feeling. I dry my feet off with the towel and then shove them into the heavy men’s wool socks.
“Bathroom’s down the hall if you want to change your shirt.” She motions to a first-floor powder room.
I stand, suddenly embarrassed at how I must look to her, a drowned rat out of a sewer. Her opinion doesn’t matter—it never did before—but I don’t like people to assume I’m white trash. She steps away from me to let me pass, her hands knotted in a ball, putting ample distance between us once again. With her eyes glued to my back, I walk in the direction she points and then quietly shut the bathroom door behind me.
I shoot a quick text to my boyfriend, Justin, letting him know I’m safe in the lion’s den. I told him to expect a text every thirty minutes and even dropped a pin when I got here so he would know my location in case of an emergency.
After unzipping the dark-red sweatshirt, the fabric soaked along with my T-shirt underneath, which is sticking like a Band-Aid to my black bra, I strip off the cheap cotton I’m wearing. The luxurious fabric of the men’s V-neck feels expensive against my skin.
As I stare in the mirror, my eyes red rimmed and my skin damp, I have an overwhelming urge to go through her medicine cabinet. Prescription pills serve two purposes—they can take away the pain, and I can always use the extra cash. After clenching and unclenching my fists, I pause with my hand against the ornate glass knobs. She’ll wonder at my intentions if I don’t hurry back. And you don’t want her to unleash her crazy, especially in this mad storm.
Be patient, I remind myself, smoothing my unruly blonde hair before exiting.
I jump, not expecting her to be lurking, arms crossed, in the hallway outside the bathroom as if she’s my parole officer waiting for me to drop a dirty urine sample so she can apprehend me.
Feeling relieved now that I didn’t snoop through her drawers, I give her a tight smile. “Thanks for the clothes.”
She nods. “I didn’t mean to scare you, but . . .” Her eyes harden, and I notice the striped fabric back at her side. Face to face, we each wait for the other to make a move. Motioning toward the fireplace, she directs me. “Go have a seat and get warmed up.”
I seat myself close to the fireplace, and the television fills the empty space with mindless chatter as she settles into the overstuffed gray cloth couch covered in pillows.
Charlotte speaks first. “Do you live in this development?”
“No, I don’t,” I say, shaking my head.
“Oh.” She looks almost disappointed.
“But I love it over here. Especially your home.” I point to the outside. “Besides the lights being on, I stopped here because you have the best mailbox.”
“Mailbox?”
“It’s my favorite bird.”
“The peacock?”
“Yeah, I know it’s dumb, but I walk by your house a lot, and it’s a landmark to me—halfway to the bus stop.”
She seems amused by this. “It was a comical present from my mother that grew on me over time.” She laughs. “I’m surprised the neighbors haven’t complained that it’s not in line with our homeowners’ association.” The mailbox post is shaped like the legs of the bird, and the actual mail drop is the mouth. The feathers are various shades of blue and purple, and the eyes act as a reflector. I’ve never seen anything like it.
“Well, I think it’s cool. And you have such gorgeous digs.” Suddenly my mouth twists into a frown. This should’ve been the type of house I grew up in. With both parents. Stable. Consistent.
Aloof, she says, “Thank you.”
Maybe I said too much. Quickly I think of something to say to ease the tension.
What do people in suburbia love?
When you compliment their family or kids. I search her ring finger and notice a diamond band. Time to redirect.
“He’s handsome. What’s his name?” I point to a photo on the side table of Charlotte and the dark-haired man. Their arms are wrapped tightly around each other, their eyes twinkling, or maybe just glassy from drinking. The picture next to it is clearly ancient. Dressed in matching football jerseys, they are standing in a stadium at what I assume is a college and wearing cheesy grins for the camera.
He’s the complete opposite of what I’d pictured.
Is this the man who ruined everything? I wonder.
“Noah.” Her voice softens. “That’s my Noah.”
“You guys look good together.” I busy myself with the towel, rubbing it against the back of my neck.
“He’s my favorite person in the world.” Her face lights up when she says this, and a huge grin takes over. Now I see her best feature. She has perfectly straight teeth, and her smile changes her demeanor in an instant from a nasty wench to a seemingly decent human being.