Page 48 of The Tenant
You know that feeling when you eat something that you realize has a strand of hair in it? The way it winds itself into knots at the back of your throat? You know how gross that is?
Well, at this moment, it feels like I have a mouthfullof hair. It feels like I’m eatinghair…wound around a noodle or two. And the hairs seem to be growing longer in my mouth.
I drop the container onto the sofa beside me as I gag again, spitting the food into my hand. My stomach turns as I peer down at what I spit out. And sure enough, I see it. Except it’s not just one.
I snatch the container off the sofa where I dropped it and squint inside. I hadn’t looked closely in the takeout container before I started eating—why would I?—but now I can see that it is threaded with long, brown hairs. There are almost as many hairs as lo mein. Maybe more.
There is hair in my food.Plural.
Oh Christ. I think I’m going to throw up.
I run to the kitchen sink, coughing. In between desperate gasps of air, I end up pulling five intact strands out of my throat, and it still feels like there’s more in there, threatening to strangle me. I gag and feel around until my fingers locate one strand that had already made its way partially down my throat, and it scratches against my voice box as I extract a hair about as long as a ruler. Nothing ends up coming up though. Thankfully, I hadn’t swallowed anything, or else I really would be sick. But there ishairin my food. And by the appearance of it, I’m pretty sure who it belongs to.
A surge of rage like nothing I have ever experienced builds in my chest. I run the water in the sink, gulping down a handful of water. My head is buzzing. If Whitney were standing here, I would grab one of the knives from the knife block and I’d…
No. Stop it. Get ahold of yourself, Blake.
I take deep breaths, but I can’t calm myself down. Whitney has infested my home with fruit flies, given me a horrible rash, killed my fish, and wrecked my relationship with the only woman I’ve ever loved. And forwhat? I can’t take one more second of this.
This is it. It’s over. She’sdone.
I storm up the two flights of stairs, my anger mounting with each step. When I get to the third floor, I spot the light on under Whitney’s door. I am very, very glad she is home.
I slam the palm of my hand against her door. Repeatedly. And each time, the sound gets louder.
It takes a good minute of me pounding on Whitney’s door before she leisurely pulls it open. She looks like she’s in for the night, dressed in one of her tank tops with the pajama shorts, her brown hair pulled into pigtails on either side of her head. Her shirt is almost see-through, and for a quick moment, that stops me in my tracks. But then I remember how I want to wrap my fingers around her neck until she’s dead.
It takes all my self-restraint to keep from doing it.
“I want you out,” I hiss at her.
“Good evening to you too, Blake.” Her lips twitch. “Where’sKristatonight?
My hands ball into fists. “I want you outnow.”
She blinks at me. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me. You need to get the hell out of my house right now.”
“It’s the middle of the night,” she points out. “You can’t possibly expect me to pack up my things and go right this minute.”
“I don’t care what time it is,” I spit in her face. “This ismyhome, and I want yougone. I’ve had enough.Enough. You hear me?”
Her eyes harden. “Well, that’s too damn bad, Blake. You can’t just throw me out in the middle of the night without any notice because you feel like it. Ilivehere. I have rights.”
“Yeah, well…” I glare at her with such venom that it’s hard not to imagine her skin sizzling off her bones. I speak slowly. Deliberately. “You might want to leave for the sake of your own safety.”
She arches an eyebrow. “Yeah? What are you going to do?”
Is she kidding? I’ve got at least half a foot of height on her and a hell of a lot more muscle. I could do alot. I couldwreckher.
I imagine my fist making contact with Whitney’s smug face. I imagine my fingers wrapping around her skinny little neck and squeezing until her lips turn blue. It would feel so good.
I take a threatening step toward her, my hands still clenched into tight fists. But Whitney doesn’t flinch.
She’s called my bluff. As angry as I am, I won’t hurt her. I’ve never laid a finger on a woman in my life, and I’m not going to break that rule for Whitney. Even if I wanted to, I don’t have it in me.
I grit my teeth. “Consider this your thirty-day notice.”
