Page 43 of Murder

I watch the gentle thrum of his pulse in his throat for a moment before I make myself go to the laundry room. I happily—albeit a little nuttily—leave the fluorescent light on almost all the time for my pink gardenias, and feed them special fertilizer that I order from Australia. When the laundry room warms with the heat of the dryer, hot, gardenia-scented air spills into the cooler kitchen, so the fragrance wafts into the rest of the house. The moisture from repeated loads of laundry makes the plants happy.

It’s weird, I realize, but so am I. At 26, I finally don’t care.

I flip the load of laundry over, open the door into the kitchen, and get a thrill when I realize Barrett’s still asleep. If I didn’t wake him, would he sleep all night?

The way my heart pounds makes me feel pathetic.

I hover in the space afforded by the partial wall between kitchen and den. Then I step back into the kitchen and get a chocolate granola bar from the pantry. One of the things I can do for myself, for my battle-scarred body, is treat it well, so I try to eat healthy minus any baking I do.

I mill around the kitchen telling myself that I should wake him up. Instead I decide to unload the dishwasher. I don’t think the clinking of plates would twist his dreams in the direction of wartime. Not unless I really bang around—and I’m not going to. Maybe he’d prefer to wake up naturally to me shaking his shoulder.

Yeahhhh. Keep telling yourself that, honey.

I think about that way he looks at me. The quiet, soulful way. I like him. Lots. More than is logical, I would imagine…not that I’m too much in touch with logic.

Why do I like him? I wonder as I peer into the den. His looks—sure. But I never felt this way toward any of the guy models I knew. It’s not just his looks. It’s his…everything. I like him unconditionally. Which reminds me of a quote by C.S. Lewis: “Love is not an affectionate feeling, but a steady wish for the loved person’s ultimate good as far as it can be obtained.”

I tell myself that quote is bunk. I don’t love Barrett, whom I barely even know. But really—what if he’s my person? What if it’s fate that he moved in next door?

I roll my eyes and step back over by the table. Still, I’m unable to do anything but stand here rooted to the floor, trying to imagine other nights like this.

I’m lonely. That’s all. And he’s pretty, mysterious, and nice. He touched my face after I snariled. If he’s always been this type of guy, he’s probably had women falling at his feet since he was 7.

I catch my lip between my teeth. I pull out my phone and text Jamie.

‘Neighbor guy is here. He fell asleep on my couch. I’m feeling all domestic and I want him. Help!’

I see the little bubble, letting me know she’s typing. I’m like Pavlov’s dog, smiling at the site of it. ‘I knew it!’

‘Fuck you.’ I add one of those adorable new flipping-the-bird icons my iPhone has. ‘Fuck HIM,’ I type, adding the laughing face with tears dripping from its little emoticon eyes.

‘You’re hopeless,’ she writes back.

‘You love me.’

I set the phone down on the counter and decide to make some jam out of the blackberries I bought the other day at the farmer’s market.

When I’ve got my little metal and glass food mill, a soup pot, and a bunch of sugar set out on the counter, I take a picture and text it to Jamie, tacking on the little smilie with the half-smile, half-frown face. Then I type, ‘#SadSpinster.’

She sends me a photo reply. I click the picture to enlarge. It’s an empty ice-cream carton.

‘#AbandonedGirlfriend.’

She fires off another text. It’s a picture of the Mafioso with a smug smile and a thumbs up. ‘Before he left,’ she adds.

‘Cute.’

“Hashtag sarcasm,” I murmur to myself. I pour the blackberries into the pot and start to crush them with a wooden spoon.

That’s when I hear it: a low moan like a strong wind moving along the cabin’s logs. I stop and swallow. I don’t think it’s that windy tonight. A whimper reaches my ears and my heart kicks up into my throat.

BARRETT

I fumble for my pocket. Many nights, it’s the first thing that I do. Go for my medic bag. Because I think the pain is physical. I think I got blown up and need to fix myself.

A few more grains of sand in the hourglass of consciousness, and my mind lights up like a bomb. Regret cuts through me, slicing through my heart, puncturing my lungs so I can’t breathe. I can’t move, and Breck—he couldn’t move.

It all makes sense, a kind of cosmic sense. I never try to fight it. Vaguely aware of something softer than the floor beneath me, I curl over on my side and hold my head. With every cell in my body, I know I deserve this. I lie here and try to take it.

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