Page 94 of The Single Dad

When I lived alone in my apartment, I cleaned pretty often. There was almost always clutter; I left messes wherever I went, and I didn’t exactly have a housekeeper. I quickly developed a habit of cleaning anytime I had too much time on my hands; it’s a perfect way to create a distraction.

I go to the kitchen to fetch a duster and disinfectant from a low cabinet. Then I make my way through all of the cabinets, cleaning the undersides of shelves and places that the housekeeper might skip from time to time.

I wander into the hallway, searching for another target. There’s a coat closet near the front door, beneath the stairs. I pull it open and lean inside, trying to swipe the duster through the back corners.

The second I step into the closet, I hear the door creak behind me. A bolt of alarm shoots through me, and I whirl around, but it’s too late.

The door slams shut on its own. Forcing down the panic, I grab at the handle—and, just as I feared, it doesn’t turn.

I’m locked in.

I take a deep, shaky breath. The closet is dark and small, and I’ve never been a fan of tight spaces.

The panic wells inside me, and despite my attempts to calm myself down, I start to hyperventilate. The breaths are desperate, like my body is convinced that I’m not getting enough air.

It’s impossible to tell how much time I spend jiggling the door, slamming a fist on it—maybe Archie will hear the sounds and wake up, come downstairs, and let me out. It’s unlikely, though. The house is huge, the walls are mostly soundproof, and he’s too far away.

I can feel myself spiraling, holding on by a thread.

I press myself into the jackets hanging in the back, which smell like Cole, and let out a desperate sob.

Minutes pass. I try to count the time, to distract myself, but I keep trailing off, unable to focus on the count. My eyes adjust to the darkness, which only makes things worse; from the feeble sliver of light that filters under the door, I can see the walls to either side of me, closing in.

After what feels like hours, I hear the sound of the door closing and keys jingling. Realization shoots through my panicked mind—that must be Cole. He’s home from work.

I pound on the door, shouting. “Cole! I’m stuck in this closet! Let me—”

I don’t even need to finish my cry for help. Cole yanks the door open at once, and I tumble out, sprawling onto the hardwood floor.

I gulp down lungfuls of air, desperately trying to calm my frantic breathing. Cole and I look at each other, and he tilts his head, confused.

“How on earth did you get stuck in the closet?” There’s a note of humor in his voice, like he’s about to turn this into a joke.

After the time I’ve had—an hour? Two hours? I’m not ready to joke about it. My jaw tightens, and tears sting at my eyes.

Goddammit… am I about to cry in front of him? Seriously?

Cole notices the change in my expression. He frowns. “What’s wrong?”

I shake my head quickly, scowling. I’m so freaked out that I can’t stop myself from blurting out, “What’s wrong with me? What’s wrong with you! You have a closet with a broken lock! Why haven’t you gotten that fixed?”

My heart is still fluttering in my chest like it’s trapped there, pounding at my ribs the same way I pounded at the locked door.

“That’s dangerous,” I continue, babbling now. “What if Archie got stuck in there? What if—”

I break off, abruptly out of breath, as if there’s no air left in my lungs.

At this point, Cole seems to realize how panicked I am. “Riley, what’s going on?”

I shake my head, unable to answer. Instead, I lurch for the door. I need air.

I burst outside and gasp a few huge, heaving lungfuls of the fresh air. It’s late, and somewhat chilly; the sky above is dark, and the street is almost soundless.

I sit down on the steps, hunched over, continuing to take deep breaths. I hear the door close behind me, and for a moment, I think that Cole shut it from inside. But then I hear the scuffle of his shoes as he sits down beside me.

“What’s going on?” he repeats, his voice softer than I’ve ever heard it. His hand rubs circles on my back, and it’s so soothing—not just the gentle motion, but also the simple fact that he’s touching me.

Still, I hesitate. I’m not sure I want to get into this.

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