He recoils. Shut up, Zelda. That’s enough.
“Right. Bye, then.” He fumbles with the doorknob and stumbles outside, his usual grace impeded by dehydration and humiliation. I want to call after him, to apologize. Stay, Wyatt. I’ll make us something to eat; we’ll spend the day drinking ginger ale and cuddling. But I can’t. He’s in his truck and up the drive, while I stand there in my Lycra tank top and kimono in the doorway. What a fucking mess.
I flop back down on the couch and check Zelda’s phone again. No new emails, no new posts. I flick through the apps she has downloaded. She doesn’t have many; Zelda was always suspicious of technology, uncertain. She shied away from it aesthetically, saying it interrupted her vibe. She was the sort of person who would use a typewriter or buy some vintage leather case for her phone to make everything appear decades older than it was. I’m surprised that she has an iPhone at all.
I frown when I notice an app for the Paris Metro on the screen, and I tap it open. The familiar cobweb of Metro lines appears. What were you doing in Paris, Zelda? Did you really even come, or did you just book all that on the credit card to throw the cops off? And either way, why? She knew enough to choose a hotel just around the corner from my flat; she must have extracted my address from Marlon or Opal. What could have motivated her to plan the transcontinental jaunt? I sigh. My head is pounding, and my nausea has returned. I don’t want to throw up again. With nothing in my stomach, I know it will be the sour, viscous yellow sauce that lives deep in the belly, and it will come up thick and scorching.
I set Zelda’s phone aside and pick my own up. I stare at the missed-call alert from Nico. He has left a voicemail.
“Ava? Good morning. I’m at lunch, I was thinking to you—I wonder what you are doing. I imagined you in your bed and thought to call. Maybe you still sleep, maybe you go out. Call me when you are able, I miss your voice. Okay. Ciao ciao.”
I wish I could cry. I stab the delete icon and immediately regret it. Ah, fuck. He’s French; maybe my infidelity won’t get under his skin too much. He’s probably fucking some long-legged Brazilian as we speak. But I know he’s not. I know he will care, of course. I can never tell him. And now we begin with the secrets.
I shut my eyes, which makes the world spin. My mind skitters away from last night, from what I might have said and done with Wyatt. It’s all a little patchy, and I have only glimmers of images, shreds of conversation. “Does that feel good? I want you. I’ve always wanted you. Oh, God.” And me: “Yes, like that. Yes. Yes.” And then: “Fuck me like you fuck Zelda.”
I roll over, squeezing my eyes shut, trying to repress the memory. But my brain compulsively returns to it, dredging up more details from the darkness of my bedroom. “Make me come. I’ve never come with him. Harder.” “I love you, Ava.” “Call me Zelda. Say my name.” “Zelda.” “Again.” “Zelda!”
Afterward, we lay quiet, drunk, tangled up in my white sheets. I was still coasting on too many chemicals for the guilt to have begun, for the panic to have kicked in. Drunk and happy.
“Was that true, what you said?” he mumbled into my hair.
“Hmm?”
“About never coming with…?”
“With Nico?”
“Is that your boyfriend?”
“Yep.”
“And you never…?”
“No, not with him inside me,” I admit slowly.
“Oh.”
“And with Zelda? Did you like fucking her more?”
“No, Ava. No.”
“Right answer.”
“I know how competitive you are.”
“You really are a prisoner, caught between us,” I repeated, tracing his nipple with a fingernail. My nails, usually so neat, have grown ragged in the few days I have been home. I am coming apart, from the edges all the way to my insides.
Now I flip over on the couch, replaying the scene from last night, cringing at other confessions I might have made, tithes I may have exacted from Wyatt. Demands of fealty, declarations of love. I groan quietly to myself. I go still remembering what I said about Wyatt being a prisoner, reminded of the wine Zelda left us. Is P for prisoner? Seems logical. Wyatt could very easily be the prisoner. Unless the prisoner is Jason, maybe even now moldering in the Watkins Glen jailhouse, being questioned about Zelda’s murder? Are there more secrets to be learned from him? Does Zelda want me to go talk to him? Or to Wyatt? What if P isn’t for prisoner at all? What if it’s for Paris and Zelda wants me to trace her whereabouts during her crazy trip overseas? I’m exhausted and feel flimsy, miserable, depressed. I don’t want to chase after Zelda right now.
A car pulls up outside, and moments later, the front door opens. I struggle to look less dejected. Judging from Marlon’s and Opal’s expressions, I have not been successful.
“Ava, sweetie, are you okay?” my grandmother coos. “You look a little under the weather.” Swooping to my side and pawing at my hair, my forehead. I probably stink of wine, but she doesn’t seem to notice as she ministers to me, her wrinkled fingers fondling the contours of my face. “Oh, my goodness, you really should go back to bed. I’m not sure what you’re thinking, being up and around!”
“I’m okay, Grandma. Just stayed up kind of late. Might have a touch of the flu or something,” I mumble. I can see Marlon’s raised eyebrow. He doesn’t buy that.
“Well, drinking wine certainly can’t help,” Opal chides. “Honestly. Ava, I think we should talk some more about your decision making. I know young women today are encouraged to experiment, but you’re not getting any younger, and maybe it’s time to start acting like the adult you are—or should be.”
I sit up, looking for an escape route. Opal is perched on the edge of the couch, hemming me in, her body pressed too close.
“I brought you a Coke,” Marlon says, holding up a familiar red can and setting it down with a metallic clink on the counter. Oh, sweet Jesus. He gives me a knowing smile that encompasses an ironic nod to this blatant bribery and an awareness of my pitiful condition.
“Thanks,” I manage, scampering off the couch and seizing the chilled can.
“And…a straw!” He produces a straw from the bag he’s holding and hands it to me. I shoot him an expression of profound gratitude that in this one instant is not even a little jaded.
“Did you guys go for breakfast?” I ask.
“The diner up the road,” Opal responds. “A very…gritty place. No pun intended. Though the grits are a poor impression of the dish. But it’s very…inexpensive.”
I snort. I know the place, of course: $2.55 for eggs, toast, home fries, and coffee. I don’t even want to think about where they get their eggs. My stomach flip-flops portentously as I imagine dappled grease coating the surface of those lemon-colored yolks.