Page 23 of The Unraveling

After he’s gone, I do another sweep through the apartment. My office is the last room I look in. Nothing seems out of place at first, but as I’m pulling the door shut, I notice my desk drawer isn’t closed all the way. So I go over and open it, shuffle through the items inside, take a mental inventory. Nothing seems to be missing. At least that I can remember.

At the doorway, I take one more glance back into the room, at my desk, before flicking the light switch and pulling the door closed. Then I head straight to the refrigerator. Wine is definitely needed to unknot the ball of tension at the back of my neck. I drink the first glass while still standing with the refrigerator door open and staring at the lock on the front door.

I try to replay leaving this morning. While I got dressed, I had the TV on, listening to the news. The weatherman said there was a chance of rain. I had on taupe open-toed shoes and briefly considered changing to closed flats so my feet wouldn’t get wet. But then I looked out the window and there wasn’t a cloud in the blue sky, so I didn’t change. After that, I flicked off the television, set the remote on my nightstand, and went into the kitchen to grab my purse from the chair. The round table in the entryway has a colorful Murano glass bowl sitting in the middle—Connor and I bought it on our honeymoon in Italy. It’s where I toss my keys as soon as I walk in every day. I remember scooping them out and swallowing down the ache I felt in my chest when I saw the new keychain I’d bought to replace the one I lost. Outside my apartment, the hallway had been dark. The overhead lightbulb has been out for at least a week. But most importantly, I remember pulling the door shut and lifting my hand with the key.

I locked the door.

I gulp back the rest of my wine.

Could I be remembering locking the door another day?

I don’t think so. The only time my mind seemed to be clear lately was in the morning, and the memory played out in my head like a video with no break.

I remember turning the key.

I remember the clank.

Which means…

I swallow. I need more wine, that’s what it means.

So I refill my glass and finally shut the refrigerator door. This pour is so full to the brim that I have to slurp a mouthful in order to not spill any when I walk. After I sip half an inch, I carry the glass with me to the door. My keys are in the bowl like always. I set my wine down and scoop them out like I remember I did this morning. My heart pounds as I turn the handle and the door creaks open. I peek my head out—left first, then right. But the damn light is still out in the hallway, and I’m too afraid to go back out there now. So I slam the door shut and lock it, leaning my head against the cold metal until my breathing returns to normal.

Not surprisingly, I finish off my second glass of wine faster than the first, chugging it back like it’s medicine I need for my health. I suppose maybe it is lately, my mental health anyway. I really need to relax, so I force myself to go sit in the living room and flick on the TV. But I take a seat on the far left of the couch, opposite from my normal spot. It gives me a clear view of the front door, allowing me to keep my eyes on the knob—waiting for someone to try and turn it again.

By my third glass of wine, I start flipping through the channels. Jeopardy! is on, so I occupy myself by playing along as I sip. Eventually, my shoulders loosen and I stop obsessing over the door. I even convince my tipsy self that what Mr. Hank said is right. One day bleeds into the next. I leave my apartment on autopilot. I’m remembering the lock-clanking sound from another day. After I get up to pour a fourth glass of wine, I return to sit in my usual spot. I can’t see the door anymore, and I don’t care. I slump into the cushions and lift my feet to the coffee table. My mind wanders now—back to what I talked about with Dr. Alexander earlier. How lonely I’ve been lately. If I had someone in my life, maybe they’d have been with me tonight when I came home, and I wouldn’t have had to rely on my eighty-year-old neighbor for protection.

I top off my glass once more, push the cork back into the nearly empty bottle of merlot, and head to the bedroom with my wine in hand. I’m physically tired, but my mind is still too stimulated from the events of the evening to wind down. So I pick up my phone, flip through the apps, then go to the app store and search dating. My finger hovers over the first one that pops up, considering. I rub my legs together, realizing I haven’t shaved them in at least a week. The bristly roughness leaves me annoyed—Jesus, how could I date when I’m such a mess? And what would come of it? One glance around the room shows remnants of my marriage. Our wedding picture is still on the dresser. Connor’s hockey bag, which I finally moved out of the entrance, still falls out of the closet every other time I open the door. I don’t even know why I still have all the reminders—yes, I loved my husband, but I hate him more now. Hate what he did to the Wright family, what he did to us. A few weeks back, Dr. Alexander had asked if I still kept memories of my marriage around. When I admitted to having a few, and told him how often I’d contemplated getting rid of them, he delved into why I hadn’t gone through with it yet and suggested perhaps I was punishing myself with the constant reminders. At the time, I didn’t think that was it, but as I sit here staring now, it certainly causes me pain to see them. Maybe the good doctor wasn’t that far off base after all.

An alert on my phone buzzes—just a CNN update, but it brings me back to the app store.

The dating app.

I stop thinking about it and press download. Hold my breath while the circle slowly fills, then open it. I tap through, creating a skeleton of a profile. I just want to do a search. Just want to know what it feels like to look at another man’s profile. Test the waters, know if it’s even something I should waste time considering. But it wants a photo of me. I’m not sure I’m ready to go that far, put myself fully out there. Though it won’t let me continue without uploading something. So I scroll through my old photos and find a photo Irina took while we were at a game in Canada what seems like a lifetime ago. It’s snowing out, the wind is blowing my hair so it covers almost my entire face, everything except a giant, painted-red smile. I look happy. Which is of course now a lie. But nonetheless, I upload it since I’m fairly certain no would recognize it as me.

I set up search parameters—between the ages of thirty and forty. Male. It defaults to living within a mile of me, and I hesitate—why would it do that unless it’s just a hookup app? But I leave it as is and skip past the stuff that doesn’t matter to me—color of eyes, hair, ethnicity—and then suddenly a list of men pops up. Images, with basic stats attached. My chest squeezes as I scroll through them. I stop, look up at our wedding photo one more time.

But it’s been twenty-two months, nearly two full years.

I scrub my face with my free hand and realize I’m trembling. God, why is this so hard?

I scroll again, and again. Hit the NEXT tab for more profiles. Just trying to normalize this in my head—get used to the idea of considering seeing someone. I open the profile of a moderately handsome man, ignoring the fact he actually looks a little like you, and swipe through his photos until I come across one that makes my jaw drop—a photo of him and a blonde who probably models in her spare time. Looking for a third, it reads. They’re wrapped up together, her ass practically hanging out of a shiny silver skirt. I swipe back as fast as I can. I’m not opposed to that sort of thing for others, just—just not what I’m looking for.

I take a steadying breath and scroll again, inspecting a few profiles more closely. I even hit the heart button once or twice, saving them so I can come back later. Or maybe it tells the man I’ve done it and puts the ball in his court? I’m not sure. I just know this is how everyone is doing it these days. Meeting people.

I finish my wine, rise long enough to apply a foaming facial cleansing mask, and to pour yet another full glass. An hour goes by, then two, maybe more, and I roll my wrists, getting the stiffness out of them. My eyelids droop with exhaustion. I’ve looked at hundreds of men, but none of them seems quite right. None of them I want to meet.

A heavy sigh works its way through my body.

I stare at our wedding photo again.

God, I love you so much.

God, I hate you so much.

My heart feels like it’s being strangled again. Or maybe it hasn’t stopped feeling that way since the night my phone rang. The night you ruined our life. But that’s it. I’m done. I stumble to my feet and walk over to the photo, taking one last long look, before placing it face down.

There. That’s something. Baby steps…

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