Despite falling asleep after midnight—after spending the remainder of the evening wandering around a silent house, in a boredom funk, eventually watching slowly loading, low res YouTube videos on how to do makeup and hair—I could not go back to sleep.
As dawn gave way to day, I lay in bed, wondering what the last Hawaiian tree snail was up to these days as well as how I could arrange things such that Abram was told the truth about me, about Lisa, without everything going to Venus (hell).
By 7:00 AM I accepted the fact that I had just as much insight into the thoughts of the last Hawaiian tree snail as I had into fixing my present predicament. Therefore, best not to think about either.
The next hour was spent taking a meticulous shower. I—gasp!—washed my hair. And then I tried to give myself a blowout. I did okay, but more practice was needed, and more understanding of what product to use, how much, and at what stage. I added this knowledge deficiency to my list of videos to watch for the day.
Once the hair was done-ish, I (quietly and clandestinely) followed the tutorial I’d saved to my phone for how to do “day eyeliner.” Apparently, there was a difference between day and night eyeliner, as well as occasion eyeliner and non-occasion eyeliner (aka everyday eyeliner). Basically, there was an eyeliner strategy for all possible situations.
Are you meeting your boyfriend’s parents? There’s an eyeliner for that.
Are you going to an office party, during the holidays, but not a Christmas event? There’s an eyeliner for that.
Are you flying to Hawaii to view the last Hawaiian tree snail? . . . there was no eyeliner for that. But, should I survive the remainder of this week, I was tempted to record a tutorial for it.
A full hour and a half later, I was dressed and 100 percent ready to do absolutely nothing productive all day. Giving my laptop’s new hiding place one last longing look and mentally cursing the lack of high-speed internet, I meandered downstairs. I hadn’t appreciated how much I would miss having meaningful tasks to occupy my mind until they were no longer an option.
Striding into the kitchen, I didn’t even sniff the air. Honestly, I was sorta kinda hoping to run into Abram. I hadn’t seen him since spying on him from the window yesterday. The house had been quiet, like I was completely alone, its sole occupant. I’d been tempted to venture into the basement last night, where the recording studio was housed, or to the third floor, where he was occupying a guest bedroom. I didn’t.
This morning, however, the temptation felt more like an incessantly prodding urge and I used food to justify it, arguing with no one about the fact that I was hungry. I’d noticed he’d cleared away the chocolate cake donuts at some point, so I couldn’t even eat those. There’d been no decent food in the fridge for days, so of course I must find him and force him to go out with me for food. And if, incidentally, we had to share a meal and talk to each other . . .
But then I opened the fridge, as though to prove what I already knew to be true, and discovered it was now stocked with essentials: eggs, butter, cheese, a variety of vegetables, hummus and several kinds of healthy-ish dips, both raw and cooked chicken breasts. I could easily make a healthy and hearty breakfast, lunch, and dinner. No problem.
Stupid food.
I made myself eggs and toast. I ate them. They were delicious. My stomach was happy with the best breakfast I’d had since arriving in Chicago, but my heart still felt sick and my brain still felt bored.
The discombobulation persisted throughout the day as I wandered the empty main and second floors, checking the clock, wondering when Gabby would arrive. Eventually, I watched a few more tutorials on hair product usage. One of my bookmarked peer-reviewed journals uploaded their monthly publication; I read it from start to finish, jotting down a few thoughts in the composition book that held my current research notes.
I made a big salad for lunch and used all the cooked chicken. I also made four cups of peppermint tea which necessitated four trips to the bathroom. After my late lunch, I managed to read a few chapters of Moby Dick. If ever there was a time to remind myself of life’s disappointments, now was that time.
All the while brain-bored and heart-sick. Or maybe I’m heart-bored and brain-sick?
Afternoon finally, finally crept into evening with no sign of Gabby. Okay. Yes. I was actually looking forward to her visit, and not just because I’d be grilling her for answers about Lisa’s arrest. I . . . liked talking to her. I know! It was like I didn’t even know myself anymore!
The light in the mudroom had dimmed to a soft yellow and then the orangey-pink indicative of sunsets. Staring at the evocative color, I realized it had been a while since I saw a sunset. Several months at least.
Placing my book on the bench seat, I dragged myself to the elevator and punched the call button several times. Yes, I could have taken the stairs, but apparently a by-product of being discombobulated was a general sense of lethargy. I didn’t want to take the stairs. I wanted to be sad and lazy.
Leaning a hand against the wall, I waited, twisting my lips to the side as I contemplated how best to view the sunset. My parents had a balcony that was more of a deck leading off my dad’s office. It faced northwest.
My mind was on the sunset when the doors slid open, which was probably why I didn’t immediately realize Abram was standing in the elevator. But when I did, I gasped. Cartoonishly. And then held perfectly still, staring at him with wide eyes.
Why I did this, I don’t know. My body had officially become weird around him. I was on the verge of disowning it and all its crazy Abram-related flutterings.
Meanwhile, he leaned against the back of the elevator, his arms crossed, looking at me with bland indifference. He was wearing all black. Black T-shirt, black jeans, black boots. Wait. Why is he wearing shoes?
“Are you going up?” he asked. Eventually.
“Uh. . .” I twisted my fingers. Debating. Debating. My attention lowered to his shoes again. Is he going somewhere?
The doors started to slide shut and he made no move to stop them. So, of course I launched myself into the scant space at the last second. The thing about small, private elevators is that their safety measures aren’t as responsive as the big, corporate building ones. Which meant I was knocked around a little by the closing doors.
Visibly alarmed, Abram reached out, one hand sliding around my waist, the other gripping my upper arm as he pulled me further into the small lift. This was presumably to either: a) save me from the jaws of death, or b) keep me from clumsily crashing into him.
With comical belatedness, the doors opened again, like, Oh. Did you want to get on? Sorry about that, old chap.
But I was already on the elevator, now pressed against the back wall by Abram; his back to the opening as though shielding me from any further door-related injuries; his eyes on mine, a mixture of concerned and confused.
“Are you okay?”
I nodded hurriedly, breathing in through my nose because I missed how he smelled. Soak it up, buttercup. This might be your last opportunity.
As usual, the fragrance of him had an inebriating, relaxing effect. But for some reason, this time it also made me want to . . . lick . . . something.
Abram continued to stare down at me. “Are you sure?”
“Yes. I’m fine.” I took another breath through my nose. “How are you?”
Abram’s grip loosened a little, like he planned to release me.
So my mutinous mouth lied, “But I think I banged up my shoulder a little. Oh. Oh, ouch.” I lifted my right shoulder, making a wincing face, even though no part of me hurt. Pathetic.
“Is that where the door hit you?” His attention shifted to my offended shoulder and he inspected it, his eyebrows pulling together.
Huh. Clearly, he believed me, and I couldn’t believe he’d fallen for that. Perhaps I no longer require lying lessons.