The bedroom door was shut, and a piece of paper from a yellow legal pad had been slid underneath it. I walked gingerly there and picked it up. Gavin had written that he’d left for work. He explained where he kept the coffee in his kitchen and that there was Advil in the medicine cabinet. He wrote the name of a friend in the building and gave me his number, and said the guy would be happy to drive me to the Sears parking lot so I could retrieve my car. I sighed: I was the embodiment that morning of high maintenance. I was the definition of hot mess.
I reached for the door handle and saw it had a push-button lock on the knob and it was pressed in. Locked. Had I locked him out of his own bedroom after throwing myself at him in Montreal? Didn’t seem likely, but the idea caused me a pang of anxiety. I had no idea if he had slept in the bed with me. It was possible he had pushed the button before closing the door and going to work. I’d have to ask him.
I opened the door and saw a short corridor to the living room and the kitchen. There was a blue blanket and a sheet on the couch. So, he had slept out here. Above the couch was a long black-and-white photograph of a dairy barn in the winter. The snow was fresh and the trees were skeletal. The apartment was sparse, but clearly that way by design. The furniture was sleek and modern: a lot of hard edges and chrome. The only clutter was his skis and boots leaning near the front door, along with a pair of sneakers.
I found the bathroom and peed, popped a couple of Advils, and drank from the faucet. Then I drank some more. I squeezed out some toothpaste onto my finger, spread it onto my teeth and my tongue, and rinsed. I would shower when I got home. I would get some coffee at the nearby diner. Not here. And I wouldn’t call his friend, I’d call a taxi.
I regretted both the way I had drunk too much and the way I had chosen not to ask him more about my mother’s parasomnia—and, yes, about his. I couldn’t do anything other than apologize about the former, but perhaps I could learn a little more about Gavin before leaving. Was it a violation? Of course. But that didn’t stop me. I decided I would explore his apartment, but not ransack it. I understood it was a fine line, and I would try not to cross it.
His home was a one-bedroom on either the sixth or seventh floor of the Vermont House, an eight-story apartment in Burlington. The building was among the taller structures in the city, once the city’s most elegant hotel before its conversion to co-op apartments, and Gavin’s place faced the lake. I opened a random drawer on the credenza below the TV and saw it was filled with nothing but snapshots. I looked at a few, recognizing his sister from the birthday party, and gazing at one of his parents. He resembled his father: same iron cheekbones, same yellow hair. There were a few of him as a teenager or college student with a dog. A springer spaniel. Along an inside bedroom wall was a tall bookcase that was filled with military history tomes and police handbooks, and a couple of novels set in the midst of different wars. There were framed photographs of him fly-fishing, and with his mother and father at his college graduation. There was one of him with either a group of friends or a bunch of cousins—women as well as men—in bathing suits on three great boulders in the midst of a river I presumed was somewhere in Vermont. I peeked into his closet and saw a couple of blazers and a black suit. There were two coat hangers draped with neckties. The floor there was clearly where he piled his dirty clothes. In the back I saw a fly rod, a tackle box, and a hunting rifle. I imagined if I really searched the place, I’d find a handgun.
I went to the window to see the lake and squinted against the sun. Then I closed my eyes and backed away. Too soon, I thought, way too soon. But I had seen enough to know the view was lovely. Romantic. The sunsets over the Adirondacks must have been glorious.
The kitchen was cleaner than I expected, but I wasn’t sure why I thought it would be messy. My mother would have approved of the white cabinetry and slate-colored countertops, and I shivered at the very thought of my mom. Could she have been here, too? God, I hoped not.
I knew I should phone Gavin to thank him. I dreaded it, but wanted to get it over with. So I pushed the blanket and sheet onto one side of the couch, collapsed into the cushions, and called him.
“I am so sorry,” I began when he picked up. “I am so embarrassed and I am so sorry.”
“Don’t be. I feel bad. I should have stopped you when you ordered that second glass of wine at the show. Maybe I should have stopped you when you ordered the first. I had a feeling that was the tipping point.”
“Next time, feel free.”
“I will. You know, I’m older, but I think I was afraid to advertise that. I think it would have felt too, I don’t know, controlling to weigh in. I’m just glad you still want a next time.”
“I do if you do. But I won’t drink.”
“I gather you don’t drink much at college.”
“No, I smoke a lot of”—and I remembered he was a detective and stopped myself.
“Dope,” he said, finishing the sentence for me, almost laughing as he spoke. “Don’t worry, I won’t judge you or arrest you.”
“Thank you. And thank you for last night. I had fun. I had a great time.”
“Me, too.”
“And thank you for, um, putting me to bed.”
“It took about three seconds. I pulled off your boots and you were out like a light. Again.”