I clear my throat, hang my coat in the hall closet.
“Holy shit! You’ve been robbed!” He pulls out his cell phone. “Here, I’ll call 9-1-1—”
“No!” I wave my hand. “The apartment was broken into this morning. That’s where I was all day. I’m sorry. I feel so . . . disconnected or something. I should have mentioned it in the elevator.” I do feel disconnected. My reactions are out of whack.
I study the living room. The credenza has been emptied, its contents littering the carpet like a flea market. I bend down, pick up a pair of pewter candlesticks, and place them back in the cabinet I think they came from. It’s such a small gesture, like taking a chip out of a block of ice. I shrug.
“Are you okay?” he asks, raising one arm to pat me and I involuntarily step back.
“I’m okay, let’s sit in the kitchen. There was nothing done there.” He follows me and takes a seat on the kitchen island. It’s been so long since I’ve had a friend, I feel like I’ve lost the skill. If he was Lydia, would I cry? Would I ramble about being insecure and violated and scared? Would I tell him about Mick? I can’t remember how to need someone. A year is a long time to be so emotionally self-reliant. I feel tired.
I open the fridge and pull out two water bottles. On second thought, I pull out a bottle of pinot grigio and uncork it. I tilt a wineglass in Cash’s direction and he shakes his head no.
“Thanks for the water, though.” He takes a long time to unscrew the cap and take a sip. I down my glass of wine and feel the heat behind my breastbone. My back relaxes almost immediately, that taut string between my shoulder blades, and the release tingle travels down my arms and into my fingertips. I flex my hands. I pour the second glass and take a deep swig. It’s cold and acidic. Cash doesn’t fill the silence, which I like. Neither does Henry. Where the fuck is Henry? And suddenly, I’m filled with anger. It’s bubbling up, fighting its way up my esophagus against the river of wine, and before I know it, I’m crying. The kind of crying where you can’t see and you can’t stop. It’s embarrassing, and I know that, but I can’t do anything about it. I’m just so tired of always trying to “do something about it.” The release feels good, if not vulnerable.
Cash half stands and I wave him down, blubbering and gasping like a fish out of water. I pull a paper towel off the roll and blow my nose in it, ungracefully. The whole outburst can’t last more than a minute. When I’m done, I feel better. Cash looks worried.
“Honestly, Zoe, you don’t seem okay.”
“God, Cash, I can’t explain it. I have no one. Not one person to call. To talk to. My ex–best friend thinks I’m pathetic. I have no family. My husband has chosen today of all days to be MIA. Do you have someone? Do you have people?”
He nods, slowly. “I have friends, yeah. My mom lives in Jersey. I have seven brothers and sisters.”
“Seven! I can’t even fucking imagine that!” I slam my hand down on the counter. Cash smiles. Dropping the f-bomb while wearing Chanel linen pants feels good.
“It was crazy growing up. We were all shoved in a three-bedroom duplex in Jersey City. I couldn’t hear myself think half the time.”
“I’m so tired of hearing myself think.”
“That’s why you want to find your biological mother?” Cash peels the label off his water bottle. He’s a fidgeter, it makes me feel at ease, all his outward discomfort.
“Yeah, I guess? I just can’t take this. I have no roots in the world. At all. It’s disconcerting.”
“You have Henry.” He rolls the label around his thick index finger and avoids my eyes.
“Do you see Henry?” I throw it out there, even though I know it’s irrational. But honestly, where the hell is the man? It would be nice to have another person to call.
“Zoe. I have to tell you. In that feature I wrote? Very rarely did the biological parents remain in the picture. In most cases, they had already moved on. They had new lives, new families.”
“I know all that.” I dismiss it, although I’m not entirely sure that I do know all that. “I can’t explain it. I have no roots. I just want a root. I feel . . . untethered. If I just floated away, who would notice?” I don’t mention that I’ve already done it once before, floated clear across the country and no one cared. Except maybe now, maybe now someone cares and they care enough to try to kill me. Or scare me. I’m still unsure, and the wine revolts in my stomach.