Page 7 of Under Locke & Key
We share a smile, put money on the table, and walk out into the spring night. Cool, a bit of a bite, but there’s promise there in the scent of flowers and the green leaves unfurling overhead as we walk back to the Metro.
“I’ll see you next week?” I ask. Fridays are kind of our thing and somehow showing up to the bar two nights in a row feels wrong.
“I’m off on Friday but I’ll be back the week after. Depending on if you’re still in the District or slumming it in a cute Maryland town.”
“You know, wecanmeet up to hang outside of the bar.”
“I know. But I enjoy watching you swat men away, and getting fantastic tips. Don’t take away the one night at work that I don’t hate.”
Scoffing, I give him a quick hug and head back into Mt Pleasant. Unlocking my basement apartment, I drop my purse by the door, kick off my heels, and head into the kitchen. One giant glass of water later I trudge into the bedroom. Collapsing on the bed, I promptly pass out.
My inbox pings around 2AM, and I crack open one eye to make sure it’s not an emergency. Small text is illegible when put up against sleep and bleariness but the subject line is bigger and in bold:
Rachel Mackey — Locke Box Interview
Rubbing the fuzz from my eyes, I blink a few times to clear them before reading on.
Hi Rachel,
I appreciate your prompt response. Your resume is impressive. I would love to schedule a time to discuss the prospect of having you join me in making Locke Box a reality. It’s a passion project for me and to say your cover letter intrigued me would be an understatement.
Please let me know whether next week will work for you. I really want to get the ball rolling on this project and I’d like to get a feel for you and your style before I offer.
I look forward to hearing from you.
Good night,
Bryce Dawson
I don’t know why the short message affects me the way it does but something warm shoots through me at the words “impressive” and “intrigued” and “please.” It’s been such a long time since someone asked me please and didn’t just demand it. The “Good night” feels strangely intimate even though it’s appropriate given the hour.
Before I can “logic” my way out of it like Ángel said I draft a resignation letter for Andrew and shoot off a reply to Bryce.
Hi Bryce,
Next week will be perfect. Just tell me when and where.
If these walls could talk,they’d curse Stephanie Dawson. Or maybe I just wish I could. Does she evengoby Dawson anymore? Or is it just one more thing she’s content to leave behind along with me?
I follow the hollow clacks of her shoes against bare floors—the rugs rolled up and stowed away with sticky notes on each denoting their loyalties. It’s so faint the new owners will miss it, or paint over it if they do notice, but there are little shapes bleached into the walls from the sun on our photographs and a larger one from the giant canvas we did that photoshoot for.
With a dog that wasn’t even our own.
The silence between us stretches five years, a canyon of words unsaid that might have made a difference at any point other than this one, ‘cause they’re useless now. The lawyers have been paid. The papers are signed. Our lives intersected and cleaved from each other with the flick of ink on a dotted line. I’ve never hated the sight of my name more than I do in those documents.
There’s so much said about the stages of grief for when someone dies, but can you grieve someone who is very much alive? How do you mourn the death of what lived between you? How do you feel their loss when their high heels click in front of you and you know the shape of their calves and the feel of their skin beneath your hands—skin that’s closer than it’s been in almost a year and no longer yours to touch?
“I’ll take care of the cleaning fee.” Stephanie has no idea where my mind’s at, or maybe she doesn’t care.
It’s not her job to care anymore.
I’d like to get angry, to lash out and say that I busted my ass packing and moving and cleaning this place from top to bottom by my kick-out date, but it wouldn’t do anything. Holding my tongue has been a constant almost as long as the stupid combination robot vacuum mop that never worked but Stephanie insisted we needed.
“Thank you.” My voice is rough with misuse. Between boxing up the last of my stuff and getting it in a storage unit by the date she wanted to start showing the house to other people, I haven’t spoken to anyone.
My parents call. Of course they do. But I haven’t answered them beyond a few short text messages for over a week. I feel bad. I should. I’ve barely seen them over the last few years since Stephanie preferred not to go visit them. I’ve been busy—watching the last part of my marriage and my life disappear with each piece of furniture until it’s just me and her and the walls that are as quiet as I am. I hate that I’m slinking home a failure when all I’ve ever wanted is what my parents have. It just goes to show that signatures on a paper don’t make a marriage, and that a document doesn’t denote a true partnership.
“The agent will be by in the morning but I wanted to get a look at it before I brought her over.” She’s rambling, I realize. The closest she gets to it. Stephanie is ruthlessly efficient and stalling for time with little bits of conversation is beneath her.
