Page 94 of Love in Training
“Are you happy?”
“Nope,” she says firmly. “Let’s go for an elevator ride.”
I sigh, following her orders, showing her every nook and cranny of my building’s lobby and empty corridors until I’m standing in front of my apartment door.
“No creepy packages, envelopes, notes, or floral arrangements.” I exhale, admittedly relieved.
“Great. Open the door and let me follow you inside,” she says. “Do you have your pepper spray?”
“Have you been talking to Theo?”
She laughs me off and waits. I stand in the hall, clutching my stomach. Not because I’m scared—well, I am, as much as any harassed woman would be. But mostly I dread what Iknowis on the other side of the door. Or more precisely, what isn’t.
“Okay, here goes.”
It’s remarkable how huge four hundred square feet can feel once it isn’t being occupied by a sixty-pound animal. I do a quick tour for Lydia’s sake, poking into the bathroom and closets, then circling back and making sure the front door is locked.
“We’re going couch shopping this weekend,” she says. It’s not a question.
“Sure,” I say, navigating around the now-empty living room space as if my destroyed piece of furniture is still there. “Okay, I have work to catch up on. I’m safe, I’m alive. I’m going to go.”
“Great. I love you. Call me tomorrow!” she singsongs as we disconnect.
I set my things down on the kitchen counter next to a pretty glass bottle I repurposed as a bud vase. I spent the first five days vacuuming and Cloroxing every surface after Drew took Rufus. The downside now is there’s nothing left to clean. My entire apartment is spotless.
“Fine, shower it is,” I mutter, then close my eyes. I never used to talk to myself before I had the dog.
Once I’ve unwrapped my hair and snuggled up in my PJs, I work on my CV for an hour, then settle at the counter with a bowl of noodles and steel myself to open my email. I’m notlookingto freak myself out. But I’d almost feel better if something unpleasant was waiting for me. Nothing too intense—a nasty note. Something criticizing my use of verbs. Maybe a comment about my name. A week of silence was not at all what I expected to follow a dead bouquet.
But when I open my inbox, what I find hits me harder than any nasty comment or threat.
There’s an email from Kyle. Sent an hour ago.
Bile rises in my throat. If this is someone’s idea of a sick joke, they’re going to be so fucking sorry when I track them down. I click on the message, bracing myself for whatever they’ve written while trying to focus through a blur of tears.
Monday, April 12, 20__, 9:11 PM
From:[email protected]
Subject: Re: no subject
Caprice, this is Drew. Sorry—I hope this doesn’t freak you out. I read your article yesterday. It wasperfect. Rufus and I have been sitting here, trying to figure out the right thing to say. But then I opened up Kyle’s laptop and... I hope you don’t mind. I read the emails you’ve been sending.
Can we talk?
-Drew
Below his reply is the long string of messages I’ve been sending Kyle over the past year, culminating in the long one I wrote after reading his letter, two years late. I close my eyes, thinking aboutDrew reading them—that message in particular. My lungs seize up, my entire body prickling with fear, with hope, possibility... and at least a hundred other things. I hop out of my chair. Then back into it immediately to send a reply.
Monday, April 12, 20__, 10:09 PM
From:[email protected]
Subject: Re: Re: no subject
