Page 12 of Things We Left Behind
“You never do.”
She nodded briskly. There was no hint of emotion on her lovely face. “Good.” She took the coat from me and slid her arms through the too-long sleeves. “When are you going to sell this place?” she asked, fluffing that silvery blond hair out of the collar.
“Spring,” I said.
“Good,” she said again. “It’ll be nice having decent neighbors for a change,” she said.
Then Sloane Walton walked out of my house without looking back.
I ate the cold burger and fries instead of the chicken, then washed the plate and returned it to the cabinet. The counters and floors were next as I wiped away any trace my unwanted visitor may have left behind.
I was tired. That hadn’t been a lie. I wanted nothing more than to take a hot shower and go to bed with a book. But I wouldn’t sleep. Not until she did. Besides, there was work to be done. I headed upstairs to my old bedroom, a space I now used primarily as an office.
I sat down at the desk under the large bay window that overlooked the backyard and offered a view of Sloane’s. My phone signaled a text.
Karen:We’re having a wonderful time. Just what the soul needed today. Thank you again for being so thoughtful and generous! P.S. My friend has a daughter she wants you to meet.
She included a winking smiley face and a selfie of her and her friends in matching robes, all with green goop on their faces. Their eyes were red and swollen, but the smiles looked genuine. Some people could withstand the worst without it damaging their souls. The Waltons were those people. I, on the other hand, had been born damaged.
Me:You’re welcome. No daughters.
I scrolled through the rest of my text messages until I found the thread I was looking for.
Simon:If I could have chosen a son in this lifetime, it would have been you. Take care of my girls.
It was the last text I’d ever receive from the man I’d admired. The man who had so foolishly believed I could be saved. I dropped the phone, my fingers flexing, and once again I wished I’d saved the day’s cigarette for now. Instead, I pressed the heels of my hands to my eyes, willing away the burn I felt there.
I tamped it down, picked up the phone again, and scrolled through my contacts. She shouldn’t be alone, I rationalized.
Me:Sloane isn’t at her sister’s. She’s home alone.
Naomi:Thanks for the heads-up. I had a feeling she was going to try to wrangle some sneaky alone time. Lina and I will handle it.
Duty performed, I booted up my laptop and opened the first of eight reports that required my attention. I’d barely made it through the financials on the first when my phone vibrated on the desk. This time, it was a call.
Emry Sadik.
Deciding to wallow in my misery instead of discussing it, I let it go to voicemail.
A text arrived moments later.
Emry:I’ll just keep calling. You might as well save us both the time and answer.
I had barely finished rolling my eyes when the next call came through.
“Yes?” I answered dryly.
“Oh good. You’re not completely spiraling into self-destruction.” Dr. Emry Sadik was a psychologist, elite performance coach, and—worst of all—an accidental friend. The man knew most of my deepest, darkest secrets. I’d given up trying to disabuse him of the belief that I was worth saving.
“Did you call for a specific reason or just to annoy me?” I asked.
I heard the unmistakable crack and clink of his predinner pistachios shells as they hit the bowl. I could picture him at the table in his study, a basketball game on mute, the day’s crossword in front of him. Emry was a man who believed in routine and efficiency…and being there for his friends even when they didn’t want him.
“How did it go today?”
“Fine. Depressing. Sad.”
Crack. Clink.
