Page 21 of The Vacancy In Room 10

“Thirty-nine, why?” I say.

“And you’re what, thirty-six?”

“Five,” I correct her.

“And you said the new chick is twenty-two. It’s probably a midlife crisis thing. It’s not over. He’ll get tired of a girl that age. Stick it out.”

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Crystal says.

“What?”

“Is it the 1950s? Did I miss something? You don’t want him back, do you?” Crystal turns to me, and I guess my frozen look answers her question. “Oh, Jesus.”

“You’re one to talk, you got three and a half babies and zero baby daddies,” Jackie says.

“That’s ’cause I don’t take shit like that from no dude. Listen. You gotta go and show this new chick she don’t bother you—that you ain’t afraid of her.”

“We’ll go with you!” Jackie says, suddenly delighted by her own epiphany. She yells across to Gordy to shut up and stop hitting Amber with a pool noodle, and then sits at the edge of her chair to explain how great of an idea it is. “We can take Crystal’s minivan. It’ll be like a party bus!”

“It’s not really an open-to-the-public sort of thing,” I say, but she stabs a finger into my phone.

“I saw that shit. It says Cassidy Abbott and family. We’re your family. How are they gonna say we ain’t?”

I think about my Oscar de La Renta—the strapless, silky black one he always loved me in, sitting in a box in storage and how it would feel to put it on again and walk in there—an invited guest—like I belonged—like I don’t care anymore. None of those people have seen me in months. They don’t know I live here. Maybe Barry from 206 could come as my date. He’s a weird guy, don’t get me wrong. He collects Samurai swords and enters hot dog eating contests, but they don’t know that. He’s tall and pretty good-looking, as long as he doesn’t talk.

I could look like I moved on—with a new man and friends to boot. Like I don’t need them anymore. I could get closure—have them all think I’m successful in my new life. Maybe Reid would even talk to me. Congratulate me.

“It’s formal,” I say, hoping that they actually have formal attire but without actually wanting to ask that.

“We won’t embarrass you, Cass,” Jackie says.

“Oooh, we’ll go shopping,” Crystal says.

“And get our nails done at Luxx. They give you free wine even though you can’t drink it ’cause your hands are stuck in little plastic dryers,” Rosa says.

Jackie shakes my shoulder and jumps up and down. “Yeah! We’re going to a fancy ball! Woot!”

I pause. This might be a terrible idea, but in this moment, it feels like all I’ve been waiting for—an opportunity to get my old life back. If they see me as one of them, there would be more invites, and I’d be a peer again. Maybe there’d be brunches and dinner parties again. I have a better shot, at least, than rotting here with no in at all.

“Okay,” I say quickly, and they all cheer.

Crystal stands and does a little dance, then clicks her cup into everyone’s one by one and starts singing to herself, “We’re going to a party, hey-hey—fancy ball, yeah!”

Three High Lifes later, the sky turns purple with ribbons of pinks and oranges burning on the horizon, and the katydids and cicadas buzz in the treetops. The girls have taken their kids inside for dinner, and the property is quiet except for the humming box fans and the low rumble of TVs behind apartment doors. I can smell the skirt steak Leonard in 111 is grilling, and maybe it’s the slight buzz from the beer or the satisfaction that I have a job and a master plan to see Reid finally, but it feels something close to what happiness used to feel like.

The moment is short-lived because as I walk back to my apartment, I hear voices coming from the laundry room. The door to the laundry room is next to the office and is always propped open with the lights on. There are four quarter-pay washers and five dryers, but two are broken.

I see Rosa inside under the flickering fluorescent light, holding a basket full of folded clothes. In front of her is the back of a man in a sweaty white T-shirt. He’s raising his voice, but he’s speaking Spanish, so I don’t know what’s being said.

When he slams his fist on the top of the washer, the clang of metal makes her cringe and back up. That’s when I duck behind the garbage bin next to the laundry door and hold my phone on top of the lid, aimed inside, and start recording. If this fucker thinks he can get away with what I saw last night, he’s sorely mistaken. I’m not gonna let this happen.

Now she’s speaking really quickly and crying. It sounds like pleading, but I still can’t understand it. Then he strikes her. I cannot believe I’m seeing this. How has no one else here done anything to help her? I’m peeking with one eye around the side of the bin, and I see her on the ground, the back of her hand dabbing at the cut on the side of her lip. He hisses out some final words, and then he’s gone.

I want to help her, but I can’t imagine how she’d respond to seeing me witness this. A second time. Lord help me, if it’s twice in as many days and in a common area, what the hell goes on behind their closed door? I mean, how the hell often does this happen? I don’t want to upset her, but I have to help. I watch as she pushes herself to standing and hunches over the washer, steadying herself with both hands, and just breathes for a moment, trying to collect herself. I don’t go to her this time. Because I have a better idea.

It’s worked before, so I can make it work again, only this time, I don’t need to roofie his drink or take sexy photos next to him. I just need to let him know he crossed the wrong person—someone who has no tolerance for lowlife men, and I’ll show him the video and tell him I’ll take it to the cops, get him arrested and evicted, even—that I’ll testify for a restraining order or whatever she needs if he ever hurts her again. I’ll put a stop to this, and he won’t know what hit him.

What’s he gonna do?

---