Page 17 of The Heartbreak Hotel
“Did you bring a box or something?” Mei says. Nate glances at her, like he forgot she was here, too.
“Uh, yeah.” He jerks one thumb at the door, then lets his hand fall to rub the back of his hair. “I have a suitcase in the car. Um, Lou, can we—” He looks at me, hesitates. “Talk upstairs?”
“I’ll go,” Mei says. She catches my eye. “So you can talk down here. If that’s okay, Lou?”
I swallow. Hear myself say, “Sure.”
When Mei disappears up the stairs, Nate and I walk into the kitchen. He sits at the island and I stand across it, my hands flat on the cold granite. The expanse of stone is a wall between us, and I lean on it for support. I fight myself from sinking into the familiarity of this: Nate in our kitchen with the sun in his eyes. Nate spooning cereal while he reads the news. Nate mixing cocktails the night he gets home from tour. Nate telling me he loves me, so quiet, as he pulls the strap of my dress over one shoulder and presses me against the cream-colored fridge.
It’s not my heart pulling me toward him, it’s my muscle memory. But in the frenetic rush of my blood, the tumble of my pulse, it’s hard to discern the difference.
“You look good,” Nate says, softly.
“Thank you.”
He wets his bottom lip, and I have to look away. “I owe you an apology, Lou. I handled this all wrong.”
Ice clunks into the freezer bucket. I meet Nate’s eyes.
“I should have talked to you when I met Estelle.”Estelle.Of course it’s Estelle. If “Lou” and “Estelle” were cars, Lou would be a Prius and Estelle would be a Maserati.
“I should have been honest when you sent me that photo,” hecontinues. “Back in the spring.” This is how Nate’s always been: after his defensiveness, his thoughtfulness. Given time, the angry, obtuse person who broke up with me in Denver has always turned into the self-reflective one sitting, now, at our island. But I wish he wouldn’t; I wish he was awful. “I should have been honest even earlier than that, and ended it then.”
“When?” I say quietly. I don’t want to know, but I’m desperate to know. To rifle back through all my memories for the breadcrumbs of this betrayal.
“In the winter,” he tells me. My fingertips press into the counter. The first time I saw Estelle, a nameless woman kissing Nate in a photograph, it was April.April. “I met her in February, at this—”
“I don’t—” We both stop, watching each other unblinkingly. “I don’t want the details.”
“Okay,” he says, nodding. “That’s fair. I’m sorry. I just want you to know that you don’t—” He breaks off, looking across the kitchen. He takes in our living room, the couch we picked out together, the fake fiddle-leaf fig he teased me for buying until he saw how nice it looked. Especially at Christmas, string-lit and glowing. He draws a rickety breath and looks back at me. “You don’t deserve to be lied to. This isn’t an excuse, but things had been so distant between us for so long and I just—” He draws a breath. I watch him force it back down, whatever he was about to accuse me of. “I was a coward, and I’m sorry.”
I don’t thank him for apologizing. I don’t ask what it is about her. I don’t say,I hope you think of me every time you play “Purple Girl,” and I hope it hurts you.
I stand in silence, not wanting to give him anything at all. And then the doorbell rings.
“I’ll get it!” Mei shouts, muffled, from upstairs. When she thunders down the staircase, Nate turns on his stool to watch her open the door. Morning light floods in, cut by the outline of Henry holding an enormous espresso machine.
“Morning!” Mei chirps. Henry looks at her, then at Nate, then at me. He holds my eyes over the length of the hallway, sun reflecting from the metal surface of the espresso machine and making him squint.
“Nate,” Henry says. “Hi.” Nate lifts a hand in greeting, and then Henry’s eyes flicker back to mine. He sounds uncertain when he says, “Louisa?”
“Hi,” I say, and my voice betrays me. It’s reedy and wavering, right on the edge of tears. It makes Nate turn back toward me, and the pity in his eyes is enough to take me out. He doesn’t need to feelsorryfor me. We got here together—he’s just the one who sealed the coffin.
I cut around the island and head for the front door, clearing my throat. “This is my friend Mei,” I say, gesturing to her. Henry’s eyes stay on me, and I fight to swallow my tears before they become indisputable, before I become the woman who’s always weeping in front of him. “She’s helping me get things set up for the rentals.”
“Rentals?” Nate says, close enough that I realize he’s followed me.
“Yes,” I say curtly, as Henry’s eyes shift from me to Nate and back again. I reach for the espresso machine. “Thank you for this.”
I try to lift it out of Henry’s arms and immediately lose my balance from the weight of it. I gasp, stumbling backward, and both Henry and Nate jerk toward me to help, which results inall three of us with our hands on the machine and my fingers crushed under Henry’s. I yelp, and he lets go, and the machine smacks him in the kneecap before he catches it again. He curses, a guttural rumble of “Fuck” that I feel squarely in my stomach.
“I’m so sorry,” I squeak. Over the top of the machine, Mei looks at me with her eyes wide in horror.
Henry’s eyes are pressed shut. He exhales through his nose and they break open—unreasonable, biting blue. I think of Quinn, babbling to me over video chat a month ago, telling me how poison dart frogs are so brightly colored to warn everyone else they’re dangerous. When Henry’s eyes lock on mine, I feel it like a threat—like I’ll find myself deep, deep in trouble if I keep looking. Absurdly, I remember his fingers in Custard’s fur. His low, soothing voice:Good boy.
I swallow, and Henry makes a noise in his throat that eventually turns into the words, “Where do you want this?”
“Kitchen,” I whisper. Nate’s and Henry’s faces are inches apart, each of them supporting one end of the machine. They don’t make eye contact as they shuffle down the hall.
