Page 12 of The Seven Year Slip

“No.” Because Miss Norris passed away three years ago, and a young couple moved into her apartment and threw away all of her antique music boxes and her violin, since she didn’t have anyone to will them to. My aunt wanted to save them, but before she could, they were ruined out on the curb in the rain. “I’m not sure what you thinksublettingmeans, but it doesn’t mean you can waltz in just any summer you want to.”

His eyebrows scrunched together in vexation. “Any summer? No, I just spoke to her last week—”

“You’re not funny,” I snapped, hugging the sequined face of Jeff Goldblum to my chest.

He blinked then, and gave a slow nod. “All right... let me get my things, and I’ll be gone, okay?”

I tried not to look too relieved as I said, “Good.”

He dropped his hands and quietly turned back into my aunt’s bedroom. Inside, I expected to see my full bed on its IKEA black metal frame, and instead caught a glimpse of a blanket I hadn’t seen since I’d packed it up six months ago. I quickly looked away. It just looked like that blanket. It wasn’t really.

My chest constricted, but I tried to push the feeling down.It happened almost six months ago, I told myself, rubbing my sternum.She’s not here.

As he began to pack up, I turned and paced the living room—I always paced when I was nervous. The apartment was brighter than I remembered, sunlight streaming in through the large bay windows.

I passed a picture on the wall—one of my aunt smiling in front of the Richard Rodgers Theatre the opening night ofThe Heart Mattered. One that I knew I had taken down when I moved in the week before. It was in storage, along with the vase that was now on the table and the colorful porcelain peacocks on the windowsill she’d bought in Morocco.

And then I noticed the calendar on the coffee table. I could’ve sworn I threw it out, and I knew Aunt Analea had stopped keeping track of the days, but not forseven years...

“Well, I think that’s all of my things. I’ll leave the groceries in the refrigerator,” he added, a duffel bag over his shoulder as he came out of my aunt’s room, but I barely noticed him. My chest felt tighter.

I could barely breathe.

Seven years—why was the calendar set to seven years ago?

And where weremythings? The boxes I’d yet to unpack that were in the corner? And the pictures I’d hung up on the walls?

Had he moved my things? Put them somewhere to mess with me?

He paused in the living room. “Are you... okay?”

No. No, I wasn’t.

I sat down—hard—on the couch, curling my fingers so tightly around Jeff Goldblum’s face that the sequins began to crinkle. I started noticing all of the little things, now—because my aunt never changed anything in her apartment, so when something went missing or changed, it was easy to tell. The curtains that she’d thrown away three years ago after a cat she brought in off the street peed on them. The Saint Dolly Parton candle on the coffee table that set fire to her feather boa robe, both tossed out the window. The afghan I’d covered up with last night that should’ve been boxed up and put into the hall closet.

There were so many things that wereherethatweren’t here anymore.

Including...

My eyes fell on the wingback chair the color of robin’s egg. The chair that was no longer there. Thatshouldn’tbe there. Because—because it was where—

“My aunt. Did she say where she went?” I asked, my voice wobbling, even though I already knew. If it was seven years ago, she’d be...

He rubbed the back of his neck. “Um, I think she said Norway?”

Norway. Running from walruses and taking photos of glaciers and looking up train tickets down to Switzerland and Spain, nursing a bottle of vintage wine she’d bought from a corner store across from our hostel.

Black spots began to eat at the edges of my vision. I couldn’t get a deep enough breath. It felt like there was something lodged in mythroat, and there wasn’t enough air, and my lungs wouldn’t cooperate, and—

“Shit,” he whispered, dropping his duffel. “What’s wrong? What can I do?”

“Air,” I gasped. “I need—I need fresh—I need—”

To leave. To never come back. To sell this apartment and move halfway across the world and—

In two strides, he was over to the window.

Alarmed, I shook my head. “No, not—!”

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