But these days, he woke as the morning light slowly shifted the sky from black to the watery blue of winter. He’d quietly leave the bed and head to the bathroom, keeping his step light along the warped hardwood floors and stairs that creaked beneath the tiniest bit of pressure. He’d retrieve the New York Times from the front stoop and head into the kitchen to boil water for coffee. Stephanie had the same French press she’d owned when they met, when everyone else he knew thought coffee came brewed from the local deli or a street vendor. Once he’d poured the boiling water over the grounds, he’d sit at the kitchen table and slowly page through the paper, waiting to hear a thump in the pipes, hot water making its way up from the basement, signaling Stephanie was up and had turned on the shower. Around the time he was done with the world and national news, he’d hear the shower turn off with a healthy screech. He’d plunge the center filter on the French press and pour himself a cup.
And it was at that exact moment on the day after meeting with Nathan, sitting in Stephanie’s kitchen, watching a fat slice of sun creep across the marble countertop and magnify every discoloration and imperfection, mulling the day ahead, that he started to feel the familiar darkness gathering inside, the glint of fear around its edges. It reminded him of that children’s book Melody had loved as a little girl, the one he’d read to her over and over when his parents demanded he babysit, about a French girl with a straw hat and the towering woman—he’d never understood who she was, a teacher? A nun? A nurse?—who had a second sense for trouble. “Something is not right,” she would say, abruptly waking in the middle of the night. No shit, Leo thought.
Leo hadn’t really trusted this new world order—the pretty house in Brooklyn, the comely redhead moving around upstairs, his triumphant return at Nathan’s side. He’d regarded the whole picture warily, like it was an opalescent shell found on the beach that was concealing something unsavory inside—the stink of seaweed, a putrefying mollusk, or, worse, something still alive, its pincers stirred and groping for a tender bit of flesh.
Decisions needed to be made. Deadlines were approaching. He was thinking about who he could send his proposal to; he knew it was worth something. If he wanted to stay, he was going to have to figure out what to do about the money he owed The Nest. If he wanted to stay.
Many days, he’d considered paying off his siblings because it could be nice, the grand gesture, the rescuing hero. But this is what he kept coming back to: What if he needed that money someday? What if he needed an escape hatch? He’d always had one. Thinking about not having one almost made him dizzy. He kept trying decisions on like jackets: stay, go, pay everyone off. In the past, he’d always been able to thrive in this place, the familiar sweet spot of avoidance, keeping a million plates spinning until they all gradually fell and he quickly moved along to something shinier, but this felt different.
Stephanie. He could hear her coming down the stairs now, ready for work, boots pounding the steps hard and fast, too fast; he always braced a little, expected to hear her slip and fall and tumble, but she never did. He’d downplayed the meeting with Nathan, said they’d spent “too much time catching up” and were going to meet again. He would present a milder version of what had happened once he had someone else interested. “Slow down,” he said as Stephanie rounded the corner into the kitchen. “You’re going to kill yourself on those stairs.”
She grinned at him and grabbed a banana from a bowl on the counter. “Already moving too fast for you, Leo?” She peeled the banana, poured milk in her coffee.
He smiled, too, but what he thought, reflexively, was, Here we go.
“Hey,” she said. “Were you supposed to read something for Bea? She called me yesterday.”
Crap. Bea. Her pages. “Crap,” Leo said. “I forgot. I’ll take a look.”
“If recent experience is any indicator, it won’t be a long read. Call me at the office if they’re decent.”
“I guess I’ll talk to you tonight,” he said, brightly.
“Funny.” She leaned over and kissed him. She tasted like banana and coffee, and he pulled her close. He slipped his hands inside her jacket, holding her tight, trying to right whatever was listing inside. He smoothed back her hair and kissed her, deeply, opening himself to her, and the darkness moving through him lightened. She seemed distracted, stiff, so he ran his hand over her silk blouse until he felt her nipple harden and then moved his tongue the way she liked, lightly across her lip first and then harder, more probing, until he felt her relax against him.
“No fair,” she said, softly, pulling away. “I have to go to work.” Stephanie knew she had to stop procrastinating and tell Leo what was going on. Tonight, she figured, was as good as any night. “Maybe I’ll leave early today.”
“Sounds good,” he said.
She gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. “Bea,” she said, grabbing her bag. “Don’t forget.”
AFTER STEPHANIE LEFT, he made another pot of coffee. For the first time in weeks, he didn’t have any desire to open his computer. Go to his “office.” Do work. The thought of sitting and looking out the small back window to the dreary quilt of adjacent brown yards was depressing. His phone vibrated on the counter. He picked it up to see the incoming call. There it was, again. Matilda Rodriguez. He dimly remembered insisting on getting her number the night of the accident and texting her repeatedly when she was still back in the kitchen getting her things before they headed for the car. She wasn’t supposed to call. He was going to have to talk to George. It wasn’t only Matilda he was avoiding; Jack was sending daily e-mails about a dinner party for Melody’s birthday, and Melody had left a handful of messages asking to have lunch. “Just the two of us. It’s urgent.”