Page 18 of The Tenant
And then I finish off my second glass of wine.
“No offense intended, Blake,” Becky says gently. “Nobody thinks you’re a murderer. But some people have that vibe, like they might do something…you know,unexpected.”
I don’t like the turn this conversation is taking.
“And you have to admit,” Malcolm adds, “you’ve fallen apart a bit the last couple of months. Krista says all you do is clean the house and go to the gym obsessively. We’ve all been worried about you, man.”
I don’t know what they’re talking about. Yeah, it hasn’t been so great since I got fired. But there’s a big difference between hitting the gym a little too often and going on a killing spree in the living room.
“I’m fine,” I say for what feels like the millionth time. “And I’ve got a job starting Monday, so everything will get back to normal, and Krista won’t be murdered.”
Krista reaches out to take my hand. For a moment, I don’t feel like giving it to her. I mean, what the hell wasthatabout? Why did she tell everyone about that nutcase? Now everyone in the room thinks I have a screw loose. But then she coaxes her fingers into mine, and honestly, it’s hard to stay mad at her.
“We’re just teasing you, Blake,” she says. “Obviously, I know you’re not going to kill me.” She winks. “At least not until the wedding planning starts.”
“Ooh!” Becky perks up. “Have you two set a date yet?”
I don’t think I’ve ever been so relieved for the conversation to turn to the lack of a date for our upcoming nuptials. I sit back against the couch, scratching my arm absently and sipping my third glass of wine while the two women discuss the best possible month to get married. (May, apparently?) But I can’t help noticing that Becky is studiously avoiding my gaze, and when she speaks to me, she is painfully polite.
What is going on here? Does Becky really think I’m capable of killing my fiancée?
That’s ridiculous. IloveKrista. I wouldneverdo anything to hurt her.
Never.
10
After dinnerat Becky and Malcolm’s house, I can’t sleep.
It’s one in the morning, and I’ve been staring at the ceiling for the last hour. I got up to take a piss twenty minutes ago, thinking that might help, but it didn’t. Krista is not having the same issue. She’s passed out next to me, her mouth hanging open, an adorable little puddle of drool on the pillow next to her. (I wore her out apparently.)
As I look at the cracks in the plaster over my head, I keep replaying the events of the evening. It’s obvious Becky and Malcolm both think I’m a huge loser. But the worst part of all was the way Becky looked at me when Krista told them what that psychic said. How could anyone think I would ever hurt the woman I love? How could they all turn on me so quickly?
I finally give up on sleep. I climb out of bed and creep down the stairs as quietly as I can so I don’t wake anyone up. But when I get to the foot of the steps, I’m surprised to discover that the first floor of the house isn’t dead silent, as I expected it to be. There are soft sounds coming from the living room, and although the overhead lights are out, there’s a faint glow from the television.
Whitney must be awake.
I walk into the living room, and sure enough, there she is. She’s sitting on the sofa, wearing that same skimpy pajama set she sleeps in, her eyes pinned to the screen of the television. When she notices me, she startles and clutches her chest.
“Blake!” she cries. “You scared me half to death!”
“Sorry.” I offer a crooked smile. “I couldn’t sleep.”
“Me either,” she sighs.
“Mind if I join you?”
“Absolutely. The more the merrier at the Insomniac Club.”
Before I join her on the sofa, I grab myself a glass of water from the kitchen. And while I’m in there, I notice some leftover cookies Krista baked that didn’t make it to our little dinner party. I drop a handful of them on a plate and carry them to the living room.
“Oh my gosh, are those Krista’s cookies?” Whitney gasps.
I place the plate on the coffee table. “Oatmeal raisin.”
“These are insanely addictive.” Whitney reaches for a cookie, her straight hair falling in her face. “She should be a professional baker or something.”
“Yeah, she’s amazing.” I reach for a cookie of my own and take a bite. It’s just the right amount of soft and chewy. “If you see me eat more than four of them, feel free to stage an intervention.”
