The Night Before(60)

“The cleaning service comes on Fridays,” the woman said. “Do you want the name?”

Gabe said something. The woman said something back. She pulled out her phone. He pulled out his phone. But none of it mattered. If the cleaning people had seen something wrong, they would have called the police. And if they didn’t think what they found was wrong, they would have cleaned it up and erased it forever. All evidence of her sister—gone.

“Gabe!” Rosie cried out. She could feel the tears sting her dry skin.

The woman stood against the open door. “I think I should lock it up,” she said. “I have Eddie’s number. I can call him for you.…”

Gabe walked the few steps to Rosie and pulled her in tight. “It’s okay,” he said. “This is good news. Nothing happened here—look. Nothing happened.…”

Rosie looked up and found his eyes. “There was a number,” she said in a whisper. “On the list … calls and texts going back weeks. There are so many of them.…”

“What number?” Gabe asked.

But she choked on the answer.

“Rosie! What number is it?” he asked again.

“Joe’s—it’s Joe’s number.”





THIRTY-FOUR


Laura. Session Number Twelve. Two Months Ago. New York City.

Dr. Brody: Calm down, Laura. I’ve never seen you like this.…

Laura: No! You need to tell me! Right now! Right this second!

Dr. Brody: It’s complicated. I wanted you to be ready to understand.…

Laura: We’re past that, Kevin. I need to know. Just tell me! Stop treating me like a patient.

Dr. Brody: Laura … that’s not fair.

Laura: You said I do this to myself—to prove a point. You said I would come to know what that meant, what fucking point I’m always trying to prove.…

Dr. Brody: Okay, just calm down. You’re distraught. What’s brought this on?

Laura: Just. Tell. Me!

Dr. Brody: Fine. You want to know what point you’re always trying prove to yourself, with scores of men who will never love you, who probably can’t love anyone, and why you throw yourself at them and let them into your mind and your heart and your body…?

Laura: Yes, tell me why I do all of those disgusting, reprehensible things that you obviously think are unworthy of your pristine self-awareness!

Dr. Brody: You are unlovable!

Laura: What?

Dr. Brody: The point you try to prove to yourself over and over so you can feel as shitty as you have your whole life … so you can be sure to repeat the past until you’re dead and buried, never changing, never moving forward. Laura Lochner, men don’t love you in spite of everything you give them because you are unlovable. Are you happy now? Now that you know?

Laura: Jesus Christ, Kevin.

Dr. Brody: But it’s not true. It’s never been true. That’s what I wanted you to understand! That this truth you keep trying to prove over and over is a lie. You are lovable. And I love you, Laura. I love you.

Laura: Kevin …

Dr. Brody: Tell me what happened. Tell me why you’re so upset.

Laura: I can’t. I promised.

Dr. Brody: Whom did you promise?

Laura: Joe. I promised Joe. My sister’s husband.





THIRTY-FIVE


Laura. The Night Before. Friday, 1 a.m. Branston, CT.

Jonathan eats pizza. He eats it standing at the kitchen counter, without a plate or a napkin. He found a beer in the back of the fridge and he split it in two. A glass for me, and what was left in the bottle for him.

He eats the pizza and drinks the beer like he hasn’t a care in the world beyond hunger. He groans with satisfaction.

“Oh my God,” he says. “What is it about late-night pizza?”

I’ve joined him on the other side of the counter, but I can’t manage to eat because I’ve already downed a plateful of anxiety.

I drink the beer.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

He looks at me and shrugs. “Don’t worry about it. I’m sure I’ll finish the leftovers tomorrow.”

“Not about the pizza. About everything else.” I think about the “everything else” as I say the words, and a shudder rolls through my body.

Everything else: (a) freaking out in his car and running through the park; (b) revealing my dark, twisted past; (c) seducing him; (d) freaking out in his kitchen; and (e) accusing him of numerous crimes he didn’t commit.

He looks at me with a wry smile this time, and I can’t stand how cute he is. His shirt hangs loosely now, sleeves rolled up, two buttons undone at the top. His hair is disheveled from my hands, my fingers running through it. And I want to do it again. Touch his hair. Touch his chest, his back, his face. I have spun around in circles as conclusions have come and gone, pulling me in sharp turns. It’s made me dizzy. It’s made me spent. I want to fall into his arms and let it all pour out of me until I’m fast asleep. Finally, my mind at rest.

“I kind of liked the everything else,” he says between bites. “Some of it more than the rest, but that’s the way life is, right?”

It’s hard for me to believe in his kindness. But I do. I force it down my throat and swallow it because I will not repeat the past. Not anymore. And because I can’t make one more turn.