Page 80 of The Unraveling

Usually, when I arrive home, there is fresh produce, and often there is dinner waiting for me.

There’s never anyone else in the place, but there’s evidence they’ve been there.

Someone has cooked and prepared dinner; someone has cleaned the bathroom and made the bed.

Someone has handwashed my ballet clothes and done laundry.

Someone has brought in an extravagant bouquet of fresh flowers.

It really is like living in a hotel and, from what people say, like visiting a nice parents’ house where they just want to take care of you. Except that I’m hyperaware of every little spill, slosh, and stub.

Tonight, however, there is no dinner. I feel like a psychology test subject: how long does it take her to expect a warm dinner prepared every night?

It’s not that I feel entitled to it, only that it’s what usually happens and I haven’t really prepared for what to do if it’s not provided.

I open the fridge, and see that there’s not really anything but eggs and random ingredients like a bed of wheatgrass and microgreens.

I’ll have to order something. I’ve done the eating-nothing-but-eggs-and-spinach starving-ballerina routine for the past few weeks and now I’m working hard enough that I feel like I don’t need to do that. Not tonight at least. Not when it’s snowing and I’ve got good news to celebrate.

First, I decide, I need to get out of these clothes. There are lots of places open late on a Saturday night, and it’s not that late yet, so I don’t think I have to worry about places closing, even in the snow.

I put on an old Beyoncé album and get into my loosest sweatpants and an old, oversized Nike T-shirt from the nineties that I found at a thrift store once and have worn to sleep in since high school. I put my hair in a loose bun and paint dark green mud onto my face. I grab my phone and the book Manon Lescaut to read again and curl up on the sofa.

I sing along with the music and scroll through Deliveroo, trying to drown out the urge that is once again creeping into my mind. Jordan versus Alistair.

I really want to text Jordan. I want to tell him I got the role. In some weird, perverse way, I want to show him this crazy penthouse and have him enjoy it with me. Yet, there’s another part of me fantasizing about being here with Alistair.

Ugh. I need to stop obsessing.

I want him to like me. Like I like him. I want to know if he thinks of me.

I shake off the forbidden thoughts of Alistair. I’m only thinking about him because I’m living in his space.

As much as I miss Jordan, I can’t call him. Or text him. Out of sheer pride, I have to resist. I mean, he hasn’t once tried to contact me. Not once. Probably because he’s got that other blond girl in his life now who says I love you and picks things up from his place. And who has a key, for fuck’s sake.

If I texted him, he’d probably say something awful like, I’m so happy for you. It’s good to hear you’re doing well. Something distant and uninvolved, something that makes me seem like a distant friend who just got out of rehab and is really getting her life back in shape.

Or he could ignore me. Or he could tell me to leave him alone.

Then there’s the small chance he’ll say something like, I’m so glad you texted. I can’t stop thinking about you.

How likely is that, though? Not likely, since he hasn’t even tried to call. Not even after too many glasses of wine or late on a lonely night. Even if he did say that, would I even be ready for that? Or would I just push him away again?

There’s no reason to text him. There’s no good outcome.

Instead, I just sit with my feet on the chair beneath me, the novel of Manon in my lap, my fingernails between my teeth, and I stare at my phone still resting on the coffee table.

I’m startled out of my skin when I hear the bell of the elevator ring, the sound almost lost in the loud music, but startling nonetheless.

Is it someone dropping off food? They usually do it when I’m not here, but maybe?

The doors open, and to my horror, it’s Alistair. I honestly think it would have been more desirable to see a cat burglar.

“Ah!” I say, seeing him. I open the book and put it in front of my face.

“Don’t you look pretty?” he asks, with that wry tone of his.

“Alistair, why—I didn’t know you were coming. I—”

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