Last Girl Ghosted(30)

I wanted to say something, but instead I just stared at him, taking in the hills and valleys of his face, the straw of his beard, the shine in his eyes. He didn’t seem to mind.

In the afternoon after he’d finished his studies, Jay joined us, and the work went faster. I couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was watching me. Kept glancing through the trees, hoping for another glimpse of the girl I was sure I saw. But I didn’t see her again, not that day.

We were out there working until the sun started to dip; then we walked back to the house, a rare moment of harmony and well-being. We ate a big, peaceful meal together. And I thought as I helped my mother clean the kitchen that maybe my father was right. That this place was where we belonged.

That night I slept dreamless and deep.



fifteen


Now


Bailey and I ride the train to Brooklyn, sitting close but not talking. Silence. I guess that’s his thing. He has insisted on escorting me home. I suppose I should be offended. After all, I don’t need some guy to get me safely to my doorstep, do I? I’ve been taking care of myself for a good long time.

But tonight as the sun dipped and the sky turned to tiger stripes of black and orange, and a cold wind blew, I found I really didn’t want to be alone. So I didn’t stop him from following me to the subway, or getting on the train with me.

Now, as the train rumbles us home, I keep flashing on that form in the office window. But it wasn’t you, was it? How could it be? My mind is playing tricks on me.

It wouldn’t be the first time.

The same question is on a loop in my head: Who are you?

Bailey’s shoulder presses against mine. There’s a draw to him, a comfort in his physical presence. I don’t shift away, and notice that he doesn’t either.

A muscle works in his jaw; his foot taps. These must be his tells for when he’s deep in thought. His phone keeps buzzing in his pocket; I notice that he doesn’t pull it out to see who’s calling.

“So,” he says finally, the train still racing and jostling. “I’m trying to understand this. Your phone rings, a call from an unknown number, and you picked it up.”

“That’s right.”

“You thought you heard a voice, but you can’t be sure.”

I don’t say anything, nodding my assent. Across from us, an older woman in a heavy coat reads a paperback with the cover ripped off. Her shoes are scuffed; the bag on the ground between her legs is packed with random items, a doll, a newspaper, a colorful shawl. I wonder what her story is. Everyone has a story, a problem, a question.

“You thought you saw someone in the building across the street,” Bailey goes on, snapping me back to my story, my problem. “Someone watching you. You thought it might be Adam.”

Again, just a mute nod. His recounting of events makes me seem wobbly, unstable.

“You know that doesn’t make any sense, right?”

I bristle. What is it with this guy?

“That’s what happened,” I say, sounding peevish even to my own ear. “It doesn’t matter if it makes sense to you.”

That earns me another worried frown. He’s doubting my sanity. Maybe he thinks I’m just another troubled girl, like the one he’s chasing. But how can I explain to him a moment that seemed real to me, but not to him. I can’t. Perception is a head trip, very personal.

At my stop, Bailey follows me onto the platform, falls into step beside me. As we wind through the streets and near my house, there’s woodsmoke in the air, indoor lights are glowing. The piano music again, carrying tinny and distant on the air. It’s one of the things I like about my neighborhood, that it seems small, a quaint patch in the teeming morass of the city.

On the steps, I say, “Do you want to come in?”

Mostly just to be polite. Mostly.

He’ll take off, I’m sure, back to whatever it is that private investigators do—following, watching, digging deep into the dark, back alleys of lives, seeing what people are trying to hide, finding what’s been lost.

He looks around uncertainly, up, then down the street. Then he surprises me with a quick nod, climbing up the steps, waiting as I unlock the door. Inside, he hangs his jacket next to mine on one of the hooks in the foyer. When I slip off my shoes, he does, as well.

“Coffee?” I ask.

“Thanks,” he says.

As I brew the coffee in my construction site of a kitchen, he walks around, inspecting. It doesn’t bother me. He looks at pictures I have on the wall. A grainy of photo of Jay and Mom standing by a tall oak holds his attention for a while. He touches the windowsills, the wainscoting, looks at the set of German knives I keep in a block on the countertop.

“This is quite a place you have here.”

“Thank you,” I say, even though that could mean a lot of things coming from someone like Bailey Kirk. It doesn’t necessarily sound like a compliment.

New Yorkers are always interested in real estate—how you found your place, how you can afford it, walk-up or elevator, doorman or not. Owning a town house in Brooklyn Heights? Not just a single floor but the whole damn thing. That raises eyebrows. It’s like deep space—mysterious and difficult to fathom—how anyone makes enough to afford to live well in this city.

What are you, a Saudi prince? you asked when I brought you here for the first time.