One of Those Faces (81)

I swung my legs over the side of the bed so my toes hovered above the blue rug. “Thanks. Sorry again about all of this.”

He opened the door. “Don’t be. Oh, and my roommates will both be out of here before nine, if you want to wait it out. I mean, I filled them in, so they know you’re here, but if you don’t want to answer a thousand questions . . .” He glanced out the door into the living room. “You can eat anything in the kitchen, but don’t touch Carlos’s gluten-free snacks, or he’ll have both our heads,” he added with a wry grin.

I smiled weakly. “Sure thing.”

He looked back at me one more time before closing the door.

I waited on the bed and listened for the front door to close. I looked around the room at all the familiar things—the trophies and medals. But my eyes focused on what had changed. The suit jackets outnumbered the Northwestern hoodies and T-shirts in his open closet. Above his desk were photos of him sailing with women I didn’t recognize, and it hit me how strange this all was. Danny today was a stranger to me. Maybe he hadn’t really changed, but he had years of experiences I would never know about, years of moving on from Evanston while I had spent those same years steeped in my past.

I took off Danny’s borrowed clothes and pulled on my jeans and sweater from the night before. I cracked his bedroom door open and listened. I could hear stirring across the living room behind the other closed doors. I tiptoed out, my bag in one hand, and slipped my shoes on before leaving through the front door.





CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE


As the train pulled into Damen, a pit formed in my stomach. Not just because of Bug or my near death, not even because of Woodstock. I realized maybe nowhere would truly feel like home. Maybe I had never really had a home anywhere.

I descended the steps onto the street and winced when I saw the steeple of the Robey looming above. I instinctively walked past Erin’s apartment building. I stopped and peered up at her window. How long did people stay in rehab?

I resumed my trudge down the pavement, my heart beating faster the farther I got away from the station, until it was pounding nearly out of my chest as I turned onto my street.

Each time I came back, I expected the house to have changed somehow, but it still stood quietly between the two adjoining better-kept houses, only completely dark within. I avoided looking at the ground-level floor and instead stared straight ahead at my door as I dragged up the stairs, my hand aching as I gripped the damp, unfinished wood railing. I took a deep breath and held it as the door swung open, squeaking on its hinges. My heart jumped at the silhouette of my remaining boxes towering beside the empty bed.

I stepped in and turned on the light. The smell of the house was fouler somehow. I left the door ajar, the cold air rattling through the room.

I pushed the boxes away from the bed toward the wall and ripped open the one on top, then pulled out my comforter and down blankets. I wrapped all four blankets around my shoulders and shut the door before sinking onto the bed. My eyes flitted to the fire alarm in the corner of the room. It seemed smaller now that the police had removed the tiny camera from it. I reached across the bed and cranked on the radiator under the windowsill before settling back into the blankets.

I lay there, my teeth chattering, as I relived that night and replayed the videos in my mind. Then suddenly I swung myself off the bed, letting the blankets fall behind me, and charged into the dark bathroom. I kneeled on the peeling laminate tile and pulled open the cupboard under the sink and reached as far back as I could, my hand bumping against the pile. Maybe there was one more. Somewhere. My fingers scraped along the dusty, waterlogged wood paneling. Nothing.

I sat back on my heels, my eyes stinging. I gripped the edge of the sink and heaved to my feet. There were other drugs. The heat from the radiator punched through the room as I stepped into the kitchen and opened the cabinet above the sink.

Thank god. There was a bottle of crappy red wine and an old bottle of Captain Morgan still half-full.

I pulled the rum out and drained it into a mug. I sank onto the kitchen floor. I had left my ramshackle kitchen table and chairs at the curb during the move, and they had been promptly picked up by a bohemian couple living down the street.

I had to plot out my next move. You can’t stay here. You can’t stay with Iann.

And I wouldn’t stay with Danny again.

I couldn’t afford another apartment, at least not a legitimate one with a real lease and real background check.

I took two big gulps from the cup, the rum burning the lump in my throat as I swallowed. I surveyed the dark room, grateful to have most of my boxes still here. I’d have to figure out how to get my art supplies from Iann’s. Maybe I could slip in later when he was at work. After all, I still had a key.

My eyes drifted from the stack of boxes to the unmade bed and then were caught by a dark outline under the bed, the light from the window hugging a cylinder. I got to my feet, pushing against the cabinet doors behind me for support, the rum already warming my limbs. I set the cup on the counter and lunged toward the bed, crouching down onto my knees and reaching for the object, laying my shoulder against the wood floor and straining until my fingers closed around the familiar sensation of cool plastic.

I pulled the bottle out, and my eyes focused on the letters on the label in the dark. Braughton, Erin Marie. Xanax.

My heart raced. How long had it been here? How did it get here?