You Are Not Alone(46)

I didn’t even have time to hesitate; I was pulled along in her undertow.

“You’re doing awesome!” She kept up a steady stream of chatter as we pushed through the turnstiles and walked onto the platform. Panic kept rising in me like a set of waves, but she helped me battle it. “Breathe,” she’d say, or she’d distract me with questions like “What’s the strangest food you’ve ever eaten?”

Right as the train roared into the station, she cracked a joke: “This station is shaking more than my vibrator!”

I actually laughed. The tension coiled within me broke; it felt like a physical snapping. The next thing I knew, we were stepping onto the train together, just as I’d done thousands of times before.

The way I now knew I would do thousands of times again.

“Hope to see you again soon!” Anne said, giving me a hug as she left me on the corner. I waved as I watched her go, then stood there almost in disbelief.

Cassandra and Jane had irrevocably changed my life in a week.

I had to keep up the momentum. I wanted to tell them about my day when I thanked them for introducing me to Anne. I wanted to seem busy and interesting, like them.

As Anne disappeared from view down the street, I hurried into my temporary Twelfth Street apartment, grabbed my gym bag, and rode the subway to my favorite CrossFit class in SoHo.

“Where’ve you been, Shay?” the instructor said when she spotted me in the front row.

“Just a little under the weather,” I fibbed. I offset it with a truth: “But I’m better now.”

All the time I’ve spent planning my routes and sitting on slow-moving buses is mine again; I’m going to reclaim my life.

I decide to use some of it tonight to check out various dating websites. I imagine turning it into a funny story for Jane and Cassandra, and hearing them laugh again.



* * *



When I get home, I take a warm shower, then change into clean sweats. I pop a frozen veggie pizza with cauliflower crust into the oven, grab a beer, and settle onto the couch. I begin collecting data, trying to analyze which dating sites are best for women in their thirties who want a lasting relationship. I jot everything down in my notebook. I don’t create a profile—I need better photos than the ones on my phone—but at least I’ve made a start.

I get off the couch, feeling the welcome burn in my thighs from the intense CrossFit class, then I walk over to the mirror hanging by the entryway and take a good look at myself. I pull off my glasses and squint.

I could give contact lenses a try again. Mel urged me to, telling me I shouldn’t hide my pretty eyes. But after I got an infection once that left my eyes red and sore, I went back to glasses.

I tilt my head to one side. Then something in the corner of the reflection catches my eye. I lean closer and confirm it: The apartment isn’t exactly as I left it this morning.

I’ve been back here for hours, but it’s only now—with the living room and bedrooms behind me at a certain angle—that I notice the master bedroom door seems to be the slightest bit ajar.

I put on my glasses and walk over to it.

It’s barely cracked open, but it’s definitely not tightly shut, as it was last night. I’m certain of this. I stood here, my hand on the knob, for several seconds.

Could I have inadvertently twisted it just enough to release the catch? I wonder.

But I know I didn’t.

Someone must have been in the apartment. They could even be here now.

I back up, fast.

“Hello,” I call out, my voice wavering.

No answer.

I force myself to consider the facts: I’ve been here for several hours, and nothing has happened. I’ve even taken a shower. I haven’t heard a sound. And nothing’s out of place in the apartment. Maybe the super needed to check on the radiator or something. I wouldn’t have been notified, but rather the apartment’s owner.

Just to be safe, I grab my phone and text Cassandra and Jane: Hi guys, hope you’re doing well. Everything’s great here, just wanted to let you know I found the master bedroom door cracked open. You may want to double-check with the super in case he came by when I was out.

Almost immediately, three dots appear, indicating one of them is typing back.

Oh, we should have told you! It was the super, he needed to check on a leak. But it was all fine, Cassandra types.

I breathe a sigh of relief and walk back over to pull the master bedroom door shut. Then I return to the mirror in the hallway.

I remove my glasses again and pull my hair up with my free hand, wondering if I should get it cut. I’ve worn it long and straight, all the way down to my bra strap, since high school. I imagine it layered around my shoulders.

The oddest sensation—something akin to déjà vu—creeps over me as I stand there, twisting my head from side to side. My glasses are off, and my hair is flatter from the shower. I remind myself of someone, but I can’t pinpoint who.

My mind scans through the possibilities: Maybe a woman I went to college with? A former colleague? An actress I glimpsed on TV?

Finally I give up trying to figure it out. I let down my hair, fluff it up, and put on my glasses. Just like that, I look like me again.





CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO



CASSANDRA


SHE LOOKS LIKE AMANDA.