Cadence opened the apartment door slowly. She felt like she was sneaking in, and perhaps she was. She didn’t want Mark to see or hear her, though she knew it was impossible. Their apartment was no bigger than 800 square feet. Not too many places someone could go unnoticed. But he wasn’t home. That was strange. Mark was always home around this time.
She threw her bags on the couch and walked to the bathroom. She started the shower then jumped when she heard the front door open. She stripped as fast as she could and climbed in the shower. Mark came in just as she closed the curtain.
“Where have you been all weekend?” he asked. He tried desperately to control his temper.
“I just stayed with Carrie. Didn’t you get my text?”
“What text?” he replied.
There was no text. She lied about it. She wanted, needed, to stay away from the apartment for the weekend, and she didn’t want to tell him. She wanted to scare him. And it worked.
“Tell me where you are, Cadence!” he shouted unexpectedly. “I was worried sick!” He tore open the shower curtain and glared at her. “Do you have any idea where I was just now?”
She shook her head.
“I was driving all over town looking for you! Christ! I had no idea where you were! I called a million times! I even looked through your things hoping I’d find Carrie’s number!”
Cadence calmly rinsed the shampoo from her hair. There was no way in hell she was apologizing for worrying him. He deserved it.
“You shouldn’t go through my things,” she said. “Remember you got mad at me for going through yours?”
She stared right at him through wicked eyes. Not eyes full of hurt or sadness. They were eyes full of hate, and they betrayed her secret: I’m gonna make your life a living hell, they said. And you’ll deserve every bit of it.
He reared back, stunned. And then he pulled the curtain. He couldn’t look at her for the fear it evoked in his heart. That wasn’t Cadence in the shower. That was another woman masquerading as Cadence. He remembered her confession to him a long time ago—how she turned into her bizarre alter ego during that argument with Gracie in the school parking lot. He thought her alter ego had returned. And she had one thing on her mind: vengeance. Didn’t he deserve it? After all, he kept a secret all these months. He deceived her. Didn’t he deserve her revenge?
She turned off the shower and pulled back the curtain. She jumped at the sight of him. She thought he’d gone to the living room, but he stood in the center of the bathroom, staring at her, contemplating something.
“Are you hungry?” he asked softly.
She nodded, wrapping the towel around her body.
“Would you like to order in?”
“Chinese?”
“Sounds good.” He watched her walk to the sink and grab her face lotion.
Going through the motions. Pretending. Even though just a minute ago her eyes told him in no uncertain terms that she was out for blood. His blood. Well, his proverbial blood. Maybe if he just acted normally, she’d forgive him faster. Maybe she’d never forgive him.
They ate in silence. They watched TV in silence. They went to bed without wishing each other “good night.” No kiss. No cuddling. Mark’s fear grew exponentially the longer he lay awake in the silent darkness of their bedroom, listening to her measured breathing. He knew his mind would take him back there to that day in the hospital. He was primed for it, anxiety permeating his entire body. He tried to fight the heavy sleep looming just above him, pressing ever so gently, encouraging him to close his eyes and drift away.
“Don’t be cruel,” he mumbled, sinking further into his pillow. And God wasn’t. There was no nightmare of that day in the hospital. There was only reprieve. And hope.
Electric tingling. That’s what he felt. He burst through his apartment door and walked straight to the bedroom, gathering all the pictures of a girl gone to heaven, collecting the odds and ends that were distinctly hers and placing them on the bed in a large pile.
He stood over the bed and scanned the items: her old scarves. She loved to wear scarves with jeans and boots. Fall was her favorite season. The pictures. Her eyes stared at him, wondering what he was up to. Questioning his motives. A small ceramic jewelry box she’d kept from childhood. She always said it was the ugliest thing, but the only present she ever received from her grandfather. So she kept it. And cherished it. Journals. He read them every day, listened for the sound of her voice as she described her wishes for a new job, her desire to own a home. A feeling. A regret. A funny anecdote. A prayer.
“I have to, Andy,” he said out loud. He waited for her response.
Only the stillness of a quiet afternoon.
“I saw her today. And something burst in my chest. I haven’t had a feeling like that since I realized I loved you,” he explained. “I never thought I’d feel like that again.”
He waited. She remained silent.
“She’s the littlest thing I’ve ever seen. So fragile.”
He moved Andy’s things aside and sat on the bed.
“I don’t know how I’ll ever find her. I don’t know if I’ll see her again. I know her name. That’s it. But I’m sure there’s more than one ‘Cadence Miller’ in the world.”