The People We Keep(83)

“Not as good as you,” Ethan says, “but you never cook for me.”

“What do you call this?”

“I mean at home.” Ethan pats my arm. “Robert lives next door.”

“If I stay, you better come over and cook for us,” I say. It’s a reflex. Pretend we’re already good friends, in the middle of things. It’s the way I get what I need.

“He will,” Ethan says, beaming, and I decide I may as well play through.





— Chapter 43 —


Ethan’s house is small and old and adorable. The floors are slightly crooked—just enough to throw me off balance, like it could be me, not the house, that’s askew. Every window has a glass ball, wind chime, or dreamcatcher hanging in it. The curtains are yellow linen and the air smells like sandalwood and aftershave.

“It’s all yours,” Ethan says, opening the door to a tiny room with a white metal daybed and a patchwork quilt. There are paint stains on the floor and a big roll of white canvas in the corner. “Sorry it’s not cleaned up. It was Ivan’s studio. Mine’s on the sun porch.”

“Better than my car.”

“You really sleep in your car?” He looks like he’s worried for me. Touches his hand to his mouth and sighs.

“Sometimes,” I say.

“Our little bag lady has a bed.”

I can tell he likes the idea that he’s rescued me. It’s okay to let him believe he has. People can do so many horrible things to make themselves feel important, so if he feels important from being kind, he’s better than most. “Thanks, Ethan,” I say. “This is nice.”

“Do you think you’ll stay for a while?” He grabs the top of the doorframe and hangs on with both hands over his head.

“I don’t know,” I say. I’m still not sure what I’m doing. I’m too tired to keep mucking around on my own forever, but this is ridiculous. You don’t just move in with a guy you met on the street.

“I come off as needy, don’t I?” He swings on his arm and smiles.

“Sort of,” I say, smiling back, because the way he asked felt like when someone wants to know if they have spinach in their teeth.

“I guess I am needy. Ivan just left and I’m pulling girls off the street to keep me company. I’ll get better. It’ll get better.” There’s something fragile about him that breaks my heart—he can’t cover it up—he’s broken and leaking and he knows that about himself, and here he is trying anyway.

“Better than picking up girls in bars,” I say.

Ethan snorts when he laughs and it makes me laugh too. He leaves me to get settled. I lean my guitar case against the wall and plop down on the bed. The quilt is soft and worn and smells like finger paint.



* * *



I wake up and it’s dark. I don’t remember where I am. I’m in a bed, on top of the covers, but there’s an afghan tucked over my arms, all the way to my chin.

Someone stood over me, touched me while I was sleeping, and I didn’t wake up. I try to retrace my steps to here, but my thoughts are crowded out by the feeling of Ray’s fingers digging into my wrist. It’s not real. I know it’s not real, but that memory is too bright, too loud to let other thoughts through, like there wasn’t anything before it, or after.

I feel around on the floor until I hear the jangle of keys and dig through my bag for my buck knife.

Streetlights leave tree-branch shadows on the floor. I see the paint stains and remember where I am.



* * *



I wake up and it’s bright. I see the glow of sunlight through my eyelids and try to remember what room I’m in before I peek. Paint stains. Ethan in the doorway. He was nice. I remember he was nice. I open my eyes. My buck knife is on the pillow next to me. The afghan is knitted in clown colors. A crystal in the window casts rainbows on the floor.

I hear a sizzle. Plates clink. A spatula scrapes on a pan. I slept too long to sneak away, but those are friendly noises. And also, I’m hungry.

I clip my buck knife to the waistband of my skirt, knife on the inside. Pull my shirt over the clip. I can make an excuse, leave after breakfast. I’m still only bending the rules.

I follow the noise to the kitchen, expecting to find Ethan, but Robert is standing in front of the stove wearing flip-flops and bleachy blue pajama pants. He doesn’t have a shirt on. It’s a nice view. He’s thin, but he’s all muscle. His hair hangs almost to his shoulders and it’s shiny and smooth like I wish mine was.

“Morning!” he says with an easy smile that doesn’t leave me room to feel awkward.

“Did you sleep over?” I ask. I was so sure he was straight.

“I live next door.” He breaks an egg over a big skillet. “The man has nothing but paint and canvas here,” he says, shaking his head. “I had to bring my own pan.”

Robert sits me down at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee that smells like spices. I watch him flip eggs and butter toast. We don’t talk, but I don’t feel like we have to.

The kitchen is a mishmash of bright colored things and well-tended houseplants. The curtains are embroidered with tulips, the fridge plastered with tourist trap magnets. By the back door there’s a concrete statue of a woman carrying a jug on her head, a spider plant spilling its offspring like a veil over her face. A chain of ivy starts in a jar on a shelf over the sink and travels along the wall on hooks for half the room. The salt and pepper shakers on the table are dachshunds wearing hot dog buns.