Page 34 of The Quiet Tenant

“Excuse me?”

Bob, Mrs.Cooper’s husband, stands in front of the table, paper cup in hand.

“Sorry,” I say, and go to pour him some hot cocoa. Aidan puts his phone away.

Runners turn into walkers. A trio of residents from the retirement home cross the finish line together, holding hands. We wait a few more seconds, but Judge Byrne confirms that they were the last participants. There’s one last round of congratulations, then people start scattering.

I stack abandoned paper cups, wipe splatters of hot cocoa off the table. Aidan follows me to the restaurant, helps me bring back the dispenser and the folding table. I don’t tell him he doesn’t have to. I’m done pretending I don’t want his help.

Once the dispenser is scrubbed clean and the table tucked back in the pantry, Aidan searches for his words.

“Thanks for letting me keep you company,” he says. “It was really…Well. I enjoyed it.”

“I’m the one who should thank you.” The moment is warm, with the lightness of a secret held close for too long and finally released. “I couldn’t have asked for a better sous-chef.”

He smiles and says he has to go find his kid. I tell him to go, go, go, dismiss him with a wave as if I don’t dread his looming absence.

I lock up and walk back to the Civic, where I lay my coat on the backseat. When I look up again, my body tenses. My car keys dig into the palm of my hand. My armpits prickle with sweat.

There is a silhouette on the other side of my car, visible through the passenger-side window. Someone’s leaning against the frame. Someone I didn’t see or hear when I walked across the parking lot a few seconds ago.

“Sorry. Did I scare you again?”

Every muscle in my body relaxes.

“No,” I tell him. “I’m sorry. It’s me. I didn’t recognize you.”

Aidan pulls his phone out of his pocket and gives it a little waggle. “I wanted you to have my number. In case you ever need anything, you know? Shoot me a text. Give me a call.”

With the focus of a surgeon opening a patient’s chest cavity, I fish my own phone out of the back pocket of my jeans. He waits until I’m ready, screen unlocked, contacts list pulled up, then dictates the string of numbers.

“There you go,” he says when I’m done typing.

He goes to step away, then hangs back and eyes the Civic.

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but isn’t your car older than you?”

His eyes are gleaming, his smile crooked. He’s not mocking me. Just teasing.

“Almost,” I tell him. “Used to be my father’s. Wait until you hear the drive belt squeak. And don’t get me started on the transmission.”

“Bad?”

“Terrible. And manual.”

He scrunches up his nose in sympathy.

“She’s not all bad,” I say, and pat the Civic’s roof. “She’s just been through a lot.”

He nods. I look down at my phone, where his number is still displayed across the screen, and hit “new contact.” By the time I add his name and save, he’s gone.

I slip the phone into the front pocket of my jeans. For the entirety of the drive home, the screen stays warm against my thigh.

CHAPTER 21

The woman in the house

The morning after you start bleeding is a Saturday. With the tip of your toes, you nudge your bloodied underwear into a corner of the bathroom. He hands you a new pair. You line it with toilet paper, your best option for now. He watches for a second, then looks away.

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