Page 77 of The Vacancy In Room 10

We agreed to meet for a drink at Reid’s before dinner. Calling my house “Reid’s” feels odd—as strange and unfamiliar as sitting here in his living room on my own couch like it’s a stranger’s, in my favorite dress he used to love, drinking a bottle of vintage wine from our collection that I bought myself a couple of years before. There is a sense of uneasiness mixed with longing.

“I thought we’d meet Becca and Drew for a drink after dinner at the Moonlighter if you want,” he says as he pours me a glass and meets my eyes. “You look stunning, by the way.”

“Why would we do that?” I ask.

“Huh? What?”

“Becca hasn’t answered my calls in months—zero contact, and all of a sudden, you like me again so, so does she? Or is it that she thinks I’m famous now?”

“Come on, Cass. That’s not fair.”

“It’s not?” I ask.

“It was a confusing time for everyone.” He brushes it under the rug. “I’m sure she’ll apologize.” He sits next to me and changes the topic. “Cheers. To your incredible bravery and...”

I don’t let him finish because the words make me want to gag, so I just prematurely clink glasses and wave away what I know he means as a compliment.

“I know I’ve said this before, Cass, but—okay, I’m not trying to push you at all, but why don’t you think about staying just the weekend and see how you feel?” And he has said that before, and I have thought about it. My own bed, my own TV that doesn’t need to be slapped in the right corner.

“I don’t know,” I say.

“Listen,” he says, putting my wineglass down and taking my hands. He looks me in the eye. “I won’t make excuses anymore. It wasn’t a midlife crisis or you not doing enough or anything like that. It was my utter stupidity, and I will be telling you I’m sorry for the rest of my life because I am so sorry. I’ll do anything to make it up to you,” he says.

I want to believe him. I think about all of the mistakes I’ve made and what he did seems to pale in comparison, and I think about Henry and what he did and why, and maybe people fuck up, and maybe that doesn’t make him a total monster.

“I don’t know how to do this,” I say. “I don’t know how to pretend all kinds of horrible shit didn’t happen.”

“We don’t have to pretend,” he says, flashing his palm in surrender and then giving me back my wine as if it’s settled. “Just take it a step at a time, think about it.” He looks like he might kiss me, so I take my wine from his outstretched hand and stand.

“Well, come on,” he says, leading into the kitchen. “You must be starving.” I follow him in to see a spread of fancy finger foods across the marble kitchen island.

“You made this!?” I ask, thinking he was trying to impress me because I love cooking.

“God no, catered. I wanted it to be special,” he says, and he’s trying so hard it’s sort of embarrassing. I mean, who actually has appetizers catered in for two people before a dinner out? There are flickering candles and bad elevator jazz playing from built-in speakers, and it’s all overkill, but it feels sort of nice to have someone care so much. Is that what this is? Or maybe it’s manipulation. Whatever the reason, after almost a year at The Sycamores, it seems like I’m in another dimension. It’s so clean, and it smells like cinnamon candles and aftershave instead of dirty mop water and mold. I pick up a cream puff and eat it.

“Holy crap. I’m used to Oscar Mayer hot dogs and baked beans,” I say.

“Ugh,” he says.

“No, it’s actually kind of... I don’t know. Rosa makes them from scratch and uses molasses as her secret ingredient. It’s...” And then I stop myself and switch gears. “Anyway. It’s good. Thanks.” I look around the kitchen with my double ovens and pot filler, and I feel like I’m staying in a fancy hotel for a moment. It’s so foreign and strange.

Then I think about The Sycamores and never having to go back and smell tuna casserole or never pulling a hunk of greasy hair out of somebody’s drain or staring at the yellow water stain on the ceiling above my bed, and in a way, my heart leaps with joy. He wants me here. This is my house.

But then I keep looking around, and something is happening to me. I feel pricks of heat climb my spine and a cold sweat across my forehead. This is all a facade. I sit on a kitchen stool and take a breath. None of it was really mine. At The Sycamores, I earned every High Life by the pool and the view of the water stain on the ceiling. My skill and hours of hard work got me that.

The only thing left here are pieces of the old me. Everything here is not only not mine, but it represents a slow unraveling of myself as I came undone—it represents years of becoming someone so far away from my real self that I was unrecognizable, even to me.

And so even though I never have to go back to the land of misfit toys again if I don’t want to, those are the people who...love me? Shit, am I saying that? It’s hard to admit to myself that the family I’ve always wanted, that I always talked about having—isn’t Reid and a baby of our own in this single-family home with a media room and tub jets, but is one I already have across town. It’s Jackie DJing the party with her Boys II Men CDs and Barry giving history lessons on samurai swords that nobody is listening to, and it’s Crystal flicking Junior Mints at all the kids like a strange game of dodgeball, which they oddly love.

And it’s Rosa who is actually, possibly, my only real friend, and it’s especially Frank who’s waiting for me—who needs me. Frank, who everyone else has left behind.

I hand Reid my wineglass. “I’m so sorry, but I have to go.”

“What?” he says, his face dropping in palpable disappointment. “Please. You don’t have to go. Just...”

“I do.”

“What about dinner? Are you...”

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