Sara. An image of her long black hair and soft lips flutters through my still-foggy brain. And then I remember: Sara is pissed at me. Kicked me out of her place earlier, sent me home with no dinner and no sex. Some shit about not understanding her needs, not being responsible, not taking life seriously. I know what her needs are—she needs a boyfriend she can parade around the marketing firm where she scored a job a few months earlier. Not some college dropout who earns a living running lights at frat parties.
The banging doesn’t stop. It’s not a polite, sweet dog anymore. It’s a dog who’s like, “Dude. I have to go out right fucking now.”
I fumble for the bat I keep under the bed. The wood is smooth and cool and I hold it tight. I slip out and head down the hall, bits of cat litter crunching under my feet. My big toe nudges a pile of wet goo and I pull back and mutter under my breath. Goddamn cat gets sick every single night.
I reach the foyer and listen. Someone is definitely pounding on the front door. A few knocks, then a pause, then more knocks. Sherlock is sitting a safe distance away, his ears cocked, his pink nose twitching, and I think for the hundredth time how stupid it is to have a cat instead of a dog. A dog would bark and growl and scare the shit out of anyone. The cat just sits there. Waits for me to do something about the noise so he can go back to sleep. After he throws up a hairball or kicks more litter out of his box.
I take a tentative step forward and lean toward the peephole. My heart races a little, wondering if I’m all wrong about what mad knocks sound like and maybe Joey is out there, wild-eyed and high as fuck, aiming a gun at the peephole, ready to blow my brains out. He’s my friend—was, I guess—but I wouldn’t put it past him. Because he’s a crazy ass motherfucker.
I level my eye with the peephole and steal a quick glance. But there’s water on the hole ‘cuz it’s raining outside and all I see is a murky silhouette, like some dark, watery painting.
I clear my throat and move to the left of the door, up against the wall, clutching the bat a little tighter. If someone has a gun, they’re gonna aim dead center, right?
“Who’s there?”
The knocking stops. “Hello?”
It’s a girl’s voice. Not one I recognize.
I step toward the peephole and peer through it again. It still looks like a Monet painting—the one with the fog and the building that looks like Dracula’s castle, all blurry and out of focus—but the figure is more visible. Or maybe I just think it is, because I now know there’s a female voice attached to it, which means the person standing on my doorstep is not my drug-dealing ex-roommate looking for revenge. Or a dog that needs to take a piss.
“Who’s there?” I repeat. Just because I know it’s not Joey doesn’t mean the fear is totally gone. Because there’s still someone knocking on my door at one o’clock in the morning. And if it’s a girl…hell, I don’t even want to think about what that might mean.
“Lydia.”
I frown and mentally go through the list of ex-girlfriends, hook-ups, and old classmates. Pre-Sara, of course. No Lydia.
“I think you have the wrong house,” I tell her through the closed door. Rain taps at the windows and a streak of lightning flashes the sky.
“Nash, is that you?”
She knows my name. Shit.
I set the bat down and turn the deadbolt.
A girl in jeans and a skimpy black tank top is on my doorstep. Her hair is wet, plastered to her scalp. I think it’s brown but don’t know for sure. Her eyes are red-rimmed and I can’t tell if it’s because she’s been crying or because she’s high. Or both. Beads of water trickle down her cheeks and she wipes at them. Rain.
“Can I… can I come in?” she asks.
There is nothing familiar about her. I haven’t dated her. I haven’t slept with her. I didn’t have classes with her.
But she’s on my doorstep and she knows my name. She’s wet and shivering and she’s either scared or stoned. She’s looking at me and she’s asking me if she can come in.
And I don’t know what the fuck to do.
INTERLUDE releases October 2015.
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