I follow him into the subway station at Canal Street. On the train, I scan up and down looking for anyone suspicious. Jared Pritchett is just a shadowy figure in my mind. Mick’s thick blond hair five years later could even be thinning by now. The zigzag purple scar on his cheek that curled along his hairline from where he’d almost lost an ear in prison. I can’t recall how I know that story. I was fourteen when he was away the first time for about a year. DUI, Evelyn had said. Not his first. His absence both freeing and hollow, the refrigerator devoid of beer, the ashtrays wiped clean and stacked in the kitchen cabinet, waiting for his inevitable return, thirteen months later. One day he was gone, the apartment sunny and cool, and the next he was back, the air thick with sweat. He wasn’t mean, not always. But his breath smelled like Sen-Sen, those red-and-gold packets stacked like playing cards under the quartz ashtray at the kitchen table, the curling smoke while he and Evelyn played gin rummy, her high-pitched giggle as the nights wore on. They were mostly happy, until they weren’t. I suppose that’s true for most everyone.
The R train stops at Union Square and we exit without incident. No Jared. No Mick. No one is following us. I’m back to checking over my shoulder again, the way I used to, looking for men with guns. The streets are strangely deserted. We walk the four avenue blocks to Cash’s apartment. Cash lives in a walk-up, a skinny flimsy building with no doorman. I eye the window, which looks easy to break, and the dead bolt, which looks barely operational.
He ducks his head, shyly, as we enter, and holds his arm out, by way of a tour. His apartment is sparse but small and clean, and his kitchen is an efficiency. The tile linoleum and white steel stove scream fifties, complete with Formica-topped table and red vinyl stools. The living room houses one small plaid love seat and a faux wood entertainment center that even has the back cut out and magnetic doors. A sheet divides the bedroom area from the living room. I can see the whole apartment from the vantage point right inside the door, which could fit in Henry’s master bathroom.
“It’s so cozy.” I mean that as a compliment, but I can tell by his face that he receives it as an insult.
“That’s what nice people say when they mean small.” He smirks.
“No! Genuinely. Most days I could lose my mind in Henry’s apartment.” It’s the first time I’ve ever said it that way, Henry’s apartment. It’s always been our apartment.
I fish my cell phone out of my purse and pull out a kitchen chair. The first phone call I make is to Officer Yates.
“Zoe.” Her voice is all business. “Glad you called, girl. Listen, I found something you should—”
“Officer Yates, a man tried to break in my apartment tonight. Again. He came up the service steps into the kitchen. I ran, but the doorman called the police. Can you go?”
“What? Where are you?”
I sigh. I’m so tired. I relay the events of the evening, in more detail and slower. I don’t tell her about Caroline or the phone call and I can’t decide if I should. It seems excessive, a distraction from everything else that’s happened. I can tell her when I see her, which I’m sure I will. She hmmm-mmm’s and uh-huh’s as I talk—I think she’s taking notes. I hear the clicking of her long fingernails on computer keys. She promises she’s on her way, and I hear the swoosh of her windbreaker as I imagine her getting up from her chair, motioning to her partner to come with her. The phone disconnects.
I dial Henry.
“Zoe where are you what’s going on?” he answers, in one sentence, one breath.
I close my eyes. Perhaps, then, he still cares. But do I? It’s so hard to know. I tell him about the latest break-in, the man at the service door.
“There are things I haven’t told you. I know why all this is happening. There are things you don’t know.” It comes out of my mouth in a jumble of facts. “I testified against some terrible men in California. My testimony put them away for a long time—I can tell you more when you come home. I’m not relaying the entire story now, but I think one or both of them is out of prison and has found me. Someone is trying to scare me. The break-in at the apartment must be connected and same with that car. Remember, a week ago? It’s all just a hunch.” I don’t tell him about Caroline. About the phone call.
“I don’t even understand what you’re saying. Where are you now?”
I’m silent for a moment. “Lydia’s.”
The lie slips out easily, before I have time to think about it. It just seems easier, I justify, than having him worry the entire time he’s on the plane about an affair that’s not actually going to happen.
“Are you coming home or going to Japan?” I ask, hopefully. I tap my fingers against my cheek, a nervous gesture I’d seen Evelyn do a million times.
“I’m in L.A. right now for a layover, but I’m coming home. My plane boards in . . .” he’s silent for a minute, “ten minutes. I’ll be home in six hours. It’s a red-eye.” A chuckle comes through the line, soft and insistent. Familiar. “Zoe, I’ve never taken a red-eye in my life.”
“Well, I’m honored.” We’re both quiet then.
“Zoe, I’ve been so stupid. Willfully ignorant of your past. Ignoring my past. Thinking we can live in this bubble where neither of us has baggage. It’s just . . . not real. We’ll fix this, okay? Together?”
I press the phone tighter against my face, wanting to feel his breath against my cheek, feel his whisper in my ear. My stomach swoops like a roller coaster. I want this love, the one he promises me when we’re apart. The love we try to reclaim again and again, chasing it like dandelion seeds. I want that love.