SHORT STORIES
a collection of free short stories—
some simple, some thrilling.
STUMBLIN’ IN
“Little bit-a-lucks all you need,” she’d say around the cigarette dangling from the corner of her overly glossed mouth.
Every Sunday, she used that exact penny, rusted and thinned from her thumb and pointer finger, left resting in the ashtray on it’s off days. Small strips of foiled silver would begin to flake, left to carefully settle.
“You’re my good luck charm, baby,” she’d drawl before lifting the card slowly, just below his chin, “now blow.”
It was an eager feeling, a little sickening. As if the way he’d decide to breathe could change the outcome. If he wanted it badly enough, the numbers could rearrange themselves.
So, he’d close his eyes and he’d blow.
Then he’d blink himself back to reality. She’d stare, just for a moment, at the suddenly cheap-looking scratch ticket in her hand and then back to him with a small smile.
The outcome never changed, only wasted money.
His mom was the same person she always feared she might be, a loser.
And he was the same thing he’d suspected all along—unlucky.
Twenty years later and she’s died with nothing, and he’s still trying to prove his worth with a penny and a scratch ticket against the steering wheel.
The dash blinks a pale green “10:14 PM.”
He picks this gas station for the calm. It sits 5 miles out of town, with the same leather-faced attendant whose taken up residence on the creaking stool behind the register for 40-some years.
Headlights occasionally pass behind, always into town, never out. Otherwise, it’s just the buzzing of the outdoor ice cooler and the occasional tune drifting from, presumably, leather-faced man’s trailer out behind the station.
On this night, there’s one other vehicle taking up space in the parking lot. It’s not all that odd, doesn’t make him feel any particular sort of way. It’s a small red truck with a woman in it. She lights up a cigarette as he stashes the disappointment of a scratched card into the endless pile in the console. It reminds him of the cigarette pack in his glove compartment.
So, he picks one out, lights it, and breaths out through the open window.
He’s not sure how many weeks it’s been, or how many times he’s been there, when he finds the red truck back in that spot. The last spot on the right.
A book is settled against the steering wheel. A cigarette rests between the fingers of the hand she uses to turn the pages. She doesn’t spare him a glance as he shoves his hand in his pocket and scrunches himself back into the low car. The ticket is halfway scratched when he notices a melody settling around him.
Eyes closed, she murmurs along to a song he can almost hear through their open windows.
“Our love is a flame, burning within
Now and then firelight will catch us
Stumblin’ in
You were so young, ah, and I was so free
I may have been young, but, baby, that’s not what I wanted to be
Well, you were-”
She cuts it short, stashes the book in the backseat, shifts into gear and pulls away.
He notes the time, 9:57 PM, Thursday.
It’s 9:42 when he’s plucking a water bottle from the coolers the following Thursday. According to a book in the dustiest corner of the library, the last time they saw a heat wave like this was June 23rd, 1968. The entire town sticks and groans with it.
He lets the coolness rest against his palm before pressing it against his forehead.
“If you’re going to stand there all night, and I wouldn’t blame ya if you did, at least pass me one.”
His shoe squeaks against the cracked tile floor. Outside, the empty red truck idles. Inside, a brunette challenges him with crossed arms and a raised eyebrow over lightly wrinkled green eyes. He passes her the bottle that’s collected most of the sweat from his skin, but she doesn’t seem to mind. Just flashes a grin, genuine and white, and starts toward the counter.
“Howard,” she throws out casually as she slides the bottle to leather-face. Then the door chimes, and he’s left counting change against the counter, just enough for water and a scratch.
Two Thursdays from that one, they’ve both got their windows rolled. It’s not the same oppressive heat, but it’s warm nonetheless, even with the sun mostly set.
This time, she’s only parked one space away. He thinks she’s listening to the same song from before or something that sounds similar. The silver foil falls away and presents nothing. He lights up a cigarette to match the one she has hanging from her window.
“Hiding?”
It’s not startling exactly, but the way she’s looking at him, pointed, interested, open, it’s something different.
“Hmm?”
She uses her cigarette to point to his—“Filthy habit,” she laughs.
It’s hearty and rich. A voice below sea level.
“Yeah, I guess. You?”
“Hiding?”
“Sure.”
She shrugs, “Maybe.”
Her eyes go back to her book, and silence falls between them again for a time that could be minutes but may have been an hour.
She shifts into gear, “Same time next week?” She calls, and he nods only because he’s not sure what else to do.
It goes like that for weeks. They leave the designated space between them, sometimes they talk, and sometimes they don’t.
He can’t decide on anything that passes through his mind about her. She dresses like a rancher, all buttoned-up shirts tucked into jeans, but she’s always clean. She wears earrings and rings and bracelets, and makeup, he’s sure. She’s not too young, maybe 50, maybe 60 but her hair, dark and fairly wild in its unkempt curl, makes her hard to place.
She looks like she could be anyone’s mom but none of the moms he’s known. Maybe not a mom at all, or a wife.
He doesn’t know. He’s not sure he cares.
He’s less sure he doesn’t care.
“What’s your name?” He asks one day while he exhales through the window. She laughs so sincerely, so freely, her entire throat exposed to the night, that he can’t help but laugh right along with her.
She shrugs as she often seems to, “Isabelle,” exhale, “from Toledo.”
“You’re lying.”
“Course I’m fucking lying!” Her eyes smile with every passing word, “What’s your name?”
“Brian.”
“You’re not a Brian.”
“No, I’m not.”
A beat passes, “Best just to keep it this way,” she says nowhere toward him.
At some point, they take up smoking against the outdoor cooler. The temperatures have eased, and her books have lost her interest these days.
“When’s the last time you didn’t have to be just exactly who you are?”
When he looks at her there, under the lights, he puts her over 60 and waits for her to continue—she always does. “You know? Whatever you are, whoever you are. You could be an accountant, a janitor, a dad, or just—I don’t know, some fucking asshole, and none of it matters to me. When’s the last time you felt that way?”
He notices that when she curses, it doesn’t sound much like a curse at all.
“The last time someone suggested I look like a fucking accountant.”
“Oh, shut up.”
He shoulders her lightly and considers they may have never touched before.
Her lips twitch once, twice, before she starts again, “I’m being serious.”
“I don’t think I think too much about who I am or who I’m not. Or pretending to be either one.”
She hums a slight sound that makes him feel small.
“Lucky you don’t have to.”
Lucky.
“What do you mean?”
“There’s time,” she takes a drag, “I don’t have that anymore. I have to just keep being the person I’ve made myself to be. I have to keep doing exactly what I’m doing. This is it,” she gestures largely, at herself, at nothing, “There’s no other place to go. It’s all that it is. I’m all that I’ll be.”
“Well, that’s not true. You can go, you ca-”
She looks at him then, fully, completely, “I can’t.”
For two months, she doesn’t show up.
“Your hair’s getting too long,” it’s a disapproving grimace, staring him down between the vitamin waters and the energy drinks.
“My wife wanted me to grow it out.”
“You have a wife?”
“No.”
She sighs, “Sometimes this game is fun, and sometimes it’s not.”
The weather turns in the next few weeks, so they go in on a carton together, sometimes he brings two beers, no more, and they begin smoking in her truck.
He works the extinguished butt between his fingers, “How old are you?”
A smile and a laboured sigh, “Not part of the rules.”
“Oh, come on. What difference does it make if I know how old you are?”
She thinks, “62.”
“Really?”
“Yeah,” she laughs mirthlessly, “really.”
“I’m 32.”
“My son is 32.”
He thinks for a second because it doesn’t feel like much of a lie, “You fucking with me?”
“Not about that.”
“What’s he like?”
She shakes her head and turns on the radio.
He starts to suspect he’ll see her someplace. Begins placing her as the woman turning out of the aisle at the grocery store or the one he’s just passed in line at the bank. Every second glance confirms what he already knows to be true. It’s not her.
The diner bulletin board always has a new paper here, a flyer there, people looking for ranch hands, labourers.
Jim & Annetta Clark - J&A Holdings
Anthony & Sarah Bouvier - White Swan Farms
Clark & Brigitte Williams - Cedar River Ranch
Kirk & Diane Simmons - Bracken Hill
He tries to place her in all of them, but they slip over his idea of her like an ill-fitting sweater—possible but not quite right.
“You know this is weird, right?”
She’s just finished explaining the way she feels about a song that used to play in a bar she liked to dance in, and he relishes in a moment of knowing her before realizing he doesn’t.
She shakes her head and narrows her eyes, “What is?”
“This. You and me.”
“Why? We’re not doing anything wrong.”
“I didn’t say we were. I’m saying it’s weird. We’re two people who show up at a gas station every week to see each other, and I don’t know your name.”
She sighs with the annoyance of someone who doesn’t want to have this conversation, and he resents her for it. Because he’s never asked her to have this conversation despite how totally fucking reasonable it all is.
“I don’t think it’s that weird.”
“You’re just saying that.”
“I’m not. I don’t.”
“You don’t leave here and wonde-”
“No.”
“You don’t know what I was going to say.”
“No, I don’t leave here and wonder about you.”
She isn’t there next Thursday.
Or the next.
Or the next.
Leather-faced Howard hands him his scratch ticket, and he turns back toward the emptied parking lot.
He’s not really sure he wants to do this for the fourth week in a row—take the scratch ticket back to his car, take a spare quarter to it, light a cigarette, pretend he’s not glancing sidelong at the space she should be.
“Howard?” The man looks up through worn, tired eyes and seems completely unphased by his name being uttered by a man who should be a stranger, “Have you seen her?”
“Who?”
“The woman I meet here sometimes. Red truck.”
“Oh, Maggie,” he swallows so hard he almost doesn’t hear the next sentence, “No. Holt’s been keeping her busy.”
“Mmm,” he nods, “Something happen?” He shrugs and pretends its town chatter, just two people discussing their neighbours down the way.
“Heart attack. She’ll be taking on most of the work with their boy gone.”
“Right.” He nods because he doesn’t think he can say anymore, but there it is anyway, “How long’s it been now?”
“What I remember.. oh, well, accident must’ve been two years ago now. Funeral was late, had it last spring.”
He nods again. Howard settles himself back onto the stool.
The door chimes as he lets himself out, back into the emptiness of the parking lot.
He settles himself against the cooler and places the ticket on the top. Silver flakes up against the ridges of his coin and reveals a 13 underneath.
Unlucky.
He folds himself back into his car and thinks of a man named Holt who lost his son and then nearly his own life. He thinks of a woman named Maggie, whose son is dead and whose husband almost was, who closes her eyes during the ballads of love songs written and sung in the 70s and smiles to a stranger who doesn’t know just how unlucky it feels to be her.
He shifts the car into gear, pulls out from the parking lot and onto the highway, and back toward his empty apartment 5 miles away.
ignored
Thursday, then this morning—Saturday.
One day in between.
The call log reflects an obvious pattern. Sunday, not Monday. Tuesday, but not Wednesday—every second day, a red, ignored "unknown caller." 2:15 pm, 1:37 pm, 12:09 pm, 12:06 pm, 10:41 am.
"Well, are you listed?"
“Listed? It's not 1997, babe. I'm not listed.”
We both laugh a little.
I continue as I tap through the listed times on the screen, "I'm not actually concerned. It could be anything—just weird."
"You're gonna have to answer next time."
"They call in the middle of the day when I'm working. This morning we were busy." I waggle an eyebrow at her; she rolls her eyes.
"No voicemails?"
"No, not one."
"It'll just be a telemarketer who stole your number from some website."
I roll my shoulders back, "I know, I know."
Zoe looks at me as if she wants to say more but doesn't. It's not a thing that needs to be a thing.
She sits a steaming mug of coffee on the table in front of me and turns back into the kitchen. Scattered along the countertop are remnants of last night's dinner—a dirtied pan, stained wine glasses, half-clean plates. Somewhere, balled up in a corner, is my tee shirt.
"You're sure you don't want to come tomorrow?" She scrapes a plate into the trash as she says it, only making eye contact with bits of meat that land atop moist coffee grounds.
"Zo, I never said I didn't."
She sighs. "Right."
"It's ok that we miss this one year together."
"It's not that I don't want you to be there—“
"I understand. It's ok." I smile at her, really, genuinely, reassuring her for what feels like the twentieth time.
I don't blame her. We've been dating for four months, and it's been good. If you'd asked either of us seven years ago, we'd say "more than good." We'd be infatuated, and we'd probably live together. But we're taking it easy, slow, so "good" is great and skipping Halloween with her kids is expected.
The boundaries have been firmly in place since our first date—Zoe is only available on the weeks her girls are with their other mom. She's still "on call" when they're not with her. No introductions will be made until the six-month mark. Only after that will we be able to evaluate—sleepovers, joining family time, potentially creating a home together. Nothing is guaranteed.
Needless guilt settled in when I'd told her, playfully, how jealous I was of a Halloween spent with kids. Thirty-three and kidless, my only options for one of my favourite holidays are parties I feel too old for, the same Rocky Horror Picture Show theatre production I've seen a dozen times, or accompanying my nephews, still too young to care.
She'd become defensive—“These are the rules. You knew that."
I know, I told her. It wasn't real jealousy, just seasonal musing. We'd have other years.
But she seemed worried it was deeper.
For weeks now, she'd been hesitant, anxious around the topic. Maybe now was the perfect time to meet? A fun event, the girls would be distracted, they'd care more about the candy than me—no pressure. But maybe that was all wrong? Perhaps they'd care more than Zoe could anticipate. Maybe they'd have questions and big feelings, and tainting their night with that was a horrible idea.
I reassured her, over and over, that she was making the right decision. That I didn't want to be the reason she negotiated the boundaries she'd set. We would do it another time. I would spend Halloween at my own house, drinking wine, allowing myself a handful of candy bars from the bowl at the door, so tiny they "don't count." I'd watch all my favourite classics, and she'd take her girls out for a fun night with mom in their adorable costumes.
"They'll be here in an hour."
"Guess you better toss me my shirt then."
The occasional gust of wind sends a biting chill over my skin, but the sun still sits high atop the lines of red and orange trees—the only bits of green, dying lawns just weeks away from being dusted with snow. I wish I had gloves as I shove another plastic skeleton arm into what was a bed of flowers only two weeks ago.
There's a buzz in my back pocket.
UNKNOWN CALLER
The street seems suddenly completely quiet, the wind gone. Neighbour kids no longer in their yard.
"Hello?"
I can't tell if what I hear on the other line is really there or just the sounds of blood thrumming in my ears. I think I hear a quiet voice.
"Hello?" I try again.
"Is Emily there?"
"Speaking."
"Can she come play?"
The voice is so quiet or so far away.
"What?"
"Can she play today?"
"Who?"
"Emily."
It's the voice of a child.
"I think you have the wrong number."
I swallow, trying to force this thick feeling down my throat and into my chest.
"She gave it to me."
"Emily did?"
”Yes."
"How old is Emily?"
"Eight."
"Then you have the wrong number."
I hang up.
When I'm done hanging white stringy dollar store "spiderwebs" across a few shrubs, I notice the neighbour kids in the yard, distant twangy country music as Dave down the street tinkers with his truck, a plane overhead.
"You hung up on a kid?" Zoe asks as I wipe makeup slipped under my eyes during a hot bath.
I look at myself in the mirror, no answer sitting on my lips. The phone call happened hours ago, but I can't shake it. The uneven, distant voice lingers in my ears. When I try to explain it to Zoe, lying in bed across town, she doesn't react. She doesn't feel any strangeness in my retelling.
"I don't think it was—I don't know.”
"You don't think it was a kid?"
"I don't know."
"It was a kid, Em? It was a weird coincidence, for sure. But it was just a kid looking for a friend she made at school or something."
“Do the girls really walk around school asking other kids for their numbers?"
There's a pause.
"Well, no, not really. We have class lists with everyone's numbers, so they don't have to."
"Right."
"But if they met a kid at daycare, or dance, or soccer, yeah, they might ask for their number.”
That does make sense.
"Hmm."
"Did she call back?"
"No."
"See. It's going to stop now. Sadly, you're not the eight-year-old she was looking for," she laughs.
"I hope she finds her," I say, mostly hoping it redeems me, the grown woman who hung up on a little kid. But also to convince me—somewhere, there's a kid looking for an eight-year-old named Emily that she met at a dance class.
Zoe yawns, and we say goodnight. I sink into the inviting fluff of my bed after three nights away. The warmth of tea soothes my limbs, the light glow of my television keeps me company. I'm lulled to sleep by the sounds of Dr. Frankenstein and his monster.
The alarm is loud, blaring. The light in the room spreads a quick, intense panic through me. Half-asleep, my hands claw clumsily through the thick duvet to fumble with my phone. Before I can find it, somewhere between my pillow and the mattress, I realize the room isn't full of daylight. The screensaver on my television, a serene mountain scene, casts a light near my window that is decidedly dark. The alarm sounds strange, not like my usual.
The room is silent. Had I not turned on my irritating fan?
When I blink into the screen, I see it.
UNKNOWN CALLER
In the top left corner—4:37 am.
Without much thought, I hold my fingers over the buttons and take several screenshots. No one will doubt me.
With dread buzzing under my skin, I slide my thumb along the bottom of the screen.
The call sounds somehow hollow.
I say nothing.
"Can Emily come play?" The voice is small, tinny, and distant.
My throat tightens, silenced.
"Can Emily come play?"
"There's no Emily here."
"This is her number."
"You have the wrong number."
"No."
"It's late. Where are your parents?"
"Not here."
"You can't keep calling me. Your friend isn't here."
"Yes, she is."
The line goes dead.
The fan whirs to life in the corner.
My chest feels heavy, and tears prick at the corners of my eyes though I don't feel like crying. I feel angry. Someone is trying to scare me—a Halloween prank gone too far. Some weird calls in the middle of the day? Fine. Waking me up at the crack of dawn, scared in my own home. No.
The need to move thrums throughout my body—get up, do anything. With nothing else to do, I walk through every room of the house. I'm not afraid someone is there, not really. It just feels like something one should do. I wash a few errant dishes in the sink, watch the bubbles spiral into the drain and decide to take another bath just a handful of hours after the first. By the time I pull myself out, it's nearing 6 am, and while the sky is still dark, the edges are starting to lighten.
I make coffee and sit in the corner of my dark green sofa.
Zoe will be up soon. Unfortunately, her youngest has yet to learn the luxury of sleeping in.
I flip through several movies and shows with daunting theme songs and screaming women—it’s Halloween morning.
When 7 am finally comes, I open my messages and click on "photos." There are several to choose from though they're all the same. I choose the first and, with my index finger, draw a light yellow circle around the time before pressing send.
A few minutes later, I get a notification, "Zoe S. reacted to your message."
When I open the conversation, I notice first the question mark. Then I notice the photo I sent. It's nothing more than a black rectangle. I huff and click into the camera roll again, choose another option and press send.
It sends clearly.
Two minutes later, a message. "Hah, not sure what you're trying to show me, but good morning to you too?"
The second photo is now just a black rectangle.
With a shaky hand, I open the camera, turn it back to me and lift my coffee cup under my chin. After forcing a smile, the camera shutters, and I hit send.
A moment later, her reply comes through, "Ah, there she is. Good morning, indeed :)"
Another one comes shortly after, something about morning coffee brewed by her probably tasting better. It's cute and light; flirtation worthy of a response, but I'm too distracted. This was supposed to be my evidence.
I open the conversation below ours, my best friend, Michael. With no context, I send one of the photos.
I see the preview of his text that only reads "Ominous." But my heart sinks when I open the conversation, and the photo is all black.
"Call me." I write back.
Twenty-two minutes later, he does. He sounds hungover and a bit preoccupied, but when I start at the beginning—the first missed call—I know he's listening.
I tell him everything, the 3 am call, the black photos. He's uneasy, timid in his response. Trying to be gentle, not scare me—“You're right. It could just be a prank, Em."
"But why? And who?"
"It seems like someone you know."
"It does?"
He starts but cuts himself short. I can hear him click his tongue, sigh, before stuttering through a few thoughts, "It just—have you thought that it might be—I don't know, dude, it seems like someone who knows about Tara."
"I don’t—why would you say that?"
"You didn't think that?"
"No."
"Em. Eight. You were eight."
"It's not about that."
“How do you know? You have no idea what it's about."
"That was 25 fucking years ago, Michael. I don't even talk about it anymore.
"So you haven't told anyone recently?"
"No."
"Zoe?"
"No."
"Well, it could be anybody. Anyone who knows you and thinks it would be funny to scare you."
"No one who knows me thinks that would be a funny way to scare me."
He breathes. "Right, of course not. If you're scared, you could call the cops."
"I don't think I can call the cops because a kid called me a few times."
"Not sure what else to tell you, dude. It's fucked up."
Without much thought, I heave out a sigh. He's right. There's not much to do, not too much to say either.
"Thanks for listening, though."
"You want me to come over tonight? Could you come over here? We can order food and watch one of these shitty ghost movies you like."
"It's alright. I know you have plans already."
"I'd cancel."
"It's alright. I'll be fine. Probably just need a nap and to turn my phone off."
"Yeah, get some rest and block that little bitch."
We laugh, him because he thinks it's funny and me because I don't know what to think.
As the day slips away and morning gives way to afternoon, the tension slips away too. My skin doesn't feel too tight over my bones, the fabric of my clothes doesn't itch at my skin. The edges of my mind get softer and fuzzier.
The light coming through the window is slightly darker when my eyes blink open.
I shake away the remnants of a fading dream. A dream about a girl, forever eight years old, because her best friend didn't know she couldn't swim and kept expecting her to come up for air.
I try not to think about Tara anymore. My therapist told me long ago that I had to let it go. Tara was gone, her parents never blamed me. Nothing could be done.
But in the dreams, she's always so angry.
Music rises loudly as another movie starts. Perhaps an entire one played as I recovered last night's lost sleep.
My phone, with only one notification from Zoe, shows the time—5:07 pm. Her message is a photo, just her in the mirror with what looks to be a rushed but adorable "Queen of Hearts" makeup job. The youngest will be dressed as Alice in Wonderland, and the oldest as the Mad Hatter. I suddenly wish I could see her. Kiss her silly stencilled lips.
Instead, I send back a few too many emojis and tell her to have the best time.
In a half hour, candy is poured into a black, shiny bowl by the front door, sushi is ordered for delivery, wine is poured, the bottle conveniently placed on the windows ledge behind the couch. Nightmare on Elm Street starts to play, so the lights go off—candles lit.
When the doorbell rings for the first time, I'm 45 minutes into the movie, and the sun has completely set. There's a toddler dressed as a turtle, a small princess and a frazzled-looking mom.
"Our first house!" She remarks as if it's a triumph just to have arrived. So I give them all an extra piece before they disappear down the walkway.
Nightmare on Elm Street loses priority to a door swung open for the next hour. The crowd ranges from young moms with toddlers who probably can't eat candy to middle school kids who thought they could do their makeup, up to high schoolers too cool to wear anything but a mask and wield a plastic knife. I don't care—if you knock, you get candy.
Eventually, the traffic slows, trickling down to one knock every 20 minutes or so. Before long, it's 8:30, and the street is empty.
The opening credits of Carrie are just ending when there's a light knock. I'm half tempted to leave it, but the thought of a small-fisted kid on the other side forces me up and off the plush softness of the couch.
"Happy Hall—“
There's no one there.
The street, still empty, is quiet. I listen for the sounds of feet on pavement or leaves rustling, but there's nothing. My feet meet the cool concrete of my top step.
Had it taken that long for me to decide to answer the door?
My head moves on a swivel in either direction. There's no child at anyone's door. The neighbours to my left have their porch lights off—no Trick or Treaters welcome.
I start to wonder if I had imagined the sound. It was a dull sound, and the movie was loud. It could've been anything.
I settle back in, watch Sissy Spacek begin to meltdown on screen.
Then there's a chime. My phone, smushed under my thigh where I'm sitting cross-legged, is vibrating. I don't want to look.
It cuts shorter than a phone call—just two messages from Zoe.
"Still up, gorgeous?"
"In the mood for two more trick-or-treaters?"
Confused, I tap out a "Sure!"
The reply comes quickly, "We're in the area at one of the girl's friend's houses. I thought it might be nice just to say hi. Be there shortly!"
The bathroom feels miles away. Ripping open the top drawer, I pump a bit of lotion and a bit of foundation onto my fingertips and start massaging it into my face while rooting around for mascara with the other hand.
My bottom lashes are just being coated when the doorbell rings and excited little knocks echo through the hall. Running seems too eager, so I walk—quickly.
I have to unlock the deadbolt, but then the door is open to the chilled night air, and another "Happy Halloween!" dies on my lips.
The step is empty, and the street is quiet. No one is around.
"No, no, no," I find myself repeatedly muttering, staring into the darkness of my neighbour's porch. Could someone be over there? Hiding? Ding dong ditch on Halloween seems like the perfect thing for a few teenagers in masks, and that porch is the only place they coul—
"Hey!"
It stings, the way the air I suck in hits the back of my throat with force, a hand clutching at the fabric over my chest.
Zoe's face is all concern and confusion, her daughters startled as I turn toward them, coming up the walkway from the opposite direction.
"Hi!" I yell to them, "Sorry! I was just—uh—sorry. You look adorable! Come!"
Zoe nudges the girls along, the wideness of their eyes softening as I smile at them.
Reaching into the door, I stash the bowl under my arm and take the three steps down to meet them on the walkway.
"Girls, this is Emily. This is the friend I've been spending time with, remember?" she's crouched between them and they both nod to her shyly, "Why don't you tell her Happy Halloween?"
The five-year-old does, loudly and excitedly, finally given permission to start her candy-receiving routine. The seven-year-old says it quietly, looking only at her shoes.
With a reluctant nod from Zoe, the girls reach into the bowl and take more than their share of candy. The five-year-old chatters happily as we all sit on a step, unwrapping a piece for ourselves. She tells me about houses with big scary skeletons and life-sized dolls, how brave she was, and really, she didn't care at all—obviously. The sentences run on and on, I nearly miss her asking her mom if she can use the bathroom.
I nod, "of course, of course!"
And Zoe takes her by the hand, leading her inside.
It feels suddenly too dark, too quiet and uncomfortable, sitting alone with a seven-year-old who seems more interested in her torn candy wrapper than she does me.
"So, did you have fun tonight?"
"Yeah."
"I like your costume."
"Thanks."
"It's really cool."
"Thanks."
"Did your friends like it?"
"Mhm."
Blood from a stone. I search for questions I might ask my friends’ kids.
"Your mom said you went to some friend's houses? Were they all dressed up?"
"Yeah, everyone dresses up."
"What was your favourite costume?"
"Mmm," she perks up a bit, "Probably Micah's. She was a doctor, and her mom let her wear lots of fake blood and stuff."
"That's cool. Is that your best friend? Micah."
"No."
"Who's your best friend?"
"Tara."
Blood rushes in my ears.
"What?"
"Tara."
"Does she, uh, go to your school?"
"No. I just know her."
"How?"
She shrugs, "Maybe you can come over and meet her."
"She's at your house?”
"Mhm."
"What does she do there?"
"We play." Through the screen door, I can hear little feet coming down the hall. I turn back, and her eyes, intense now, staring, finally look into mine. "She wants to know if you can come play."
The screen door clangs.
"Sorry!" Comes Zoe's breathless voice, "Costume malfunction.”
She's rolling her eyes playfully, smiling, as sweat pricks under my arms and the corners of my mouth turn down bit by bit.
"Is everything ok?" She asks with a skeptical smile, looking between her daughter and me.
"Yeah!" I say brightly.
"Well, we should get going, girls! Past your bedtime."
She begins to shuffle a tiny Alice in Wonderland down the steps and sends the two girls down the walkway a bit before leaning in to whisper, "I'm sorry I can't kiss you." A coy smile turns her lips up, and she turns away.
"Hey!" I yell after them and shake the bowl, "You want the last of this?"
"None for you, Alice! You've got plenty!" Zoe says, grabbing her by the shoulder and sending her Mad Hatter forward.
I kneel to her level and start placing the candy into her bag, piece by piece.
"Hey," it comes out as a whisper, but still she looks at me, "Tara,"
"Yeah?"
"Is she, uh, is she mad at me?"
She smiles a smile that feels like it might turn into a laugh. "Mhm."
The candy's gone, and she's walking away from me. The three girls, my girlfriend and her daughters stand feet away at the end of my walkway. They whisper to each other before Zoe turns to me with an encouraging grin.
"They'd love it if you came to play sometime!"
I can only send a small thumbs up as they turn, disappearing into the darkness down the street.
Really is a shame she couldn't kiss me.
I think we might be breaking up soon.
PATCHES
Me, I forget things. Many things, little things.
I'm surprised by every story told around a table I find myself in. "I wasn't there for that?" Everyone nods at once, a symphony of "yes, you were."
My sister explains a bicycle ramp poorly built by neighbourhood kids. She'd taken the first jump, then a few of the boys and finally me, kid sister. It'd fallen apart, and I'd gone crashing to the ground, opened the skin of my knee, and ended up with a lengthy, jagged, silver scar. For years I'd been saying it'd come from tripping over a crack in the sidewalk.
The memory, it's not for lack of trying or any reason at all, really. I can't remember days, weeks, months, or entire years that have passed. I pull, and I pull, fingers through cotton thoughts to break through the top, then nothing.
But I recall a dimple, a freckle in the base of the spine, glints of light across skin and shades that change behind the eye. I remember touches and tones, complete sentences—those who gave them.
It's what we're made up of—little things, seemingly meaningless. Within everyone, something you'll continue to search for in other people, something not to be found again.
It was in her fingers. The way they wrapped around a wine glass, worked through hair, grazed a keyboard, and reached for me. They took up corners of my mind better used for dates or facts, a history lesson perhaps.
But she was a history all her own.
She looks older now because she is older now. Her hair is longer, maybe lighter. But it's hard to know if this is just where I fantasize, in the small empty things. She clutches a jacket in front of her, eyes unfocused. I remember then how uncomfortable she was with crowds and seem to remember scrawling "socially awkward" somewhere on a list of pros and cons all those years ago.
Then again, maybe I just thought it. Journaling seems to be one of those things I romanticize about myself—a forgotten hobby that never really was much of one at all.
There's a quick warm flash of gratitude as I realize she doesn't notice me. I'm afforded the small luxury of being the one who stops, watches, and steels herself.
The bride and groom have already been whisked off someplace—photos, champagne, and obligations. There's extravagant talk of the beauty of it all, whispers about parking and low grumbles from those who forgot to eat or regret their shoes. People mill and congregate, clap shoulders and share hugs. I stand alone.
"Diana?"
I forgot to steel.
She's striding toward me, awkward in the long limbs unaccustomed to heels and dresses.
"Zoe," I lift a hand to wave from where I hold my clutch and quickly return it to the soft leather, "hi."
She probably would've reached for me if I'd been anyone else, but I've never been much like that. Acutely aware, all too much, of space. Maybe she remembers because she stands so far away that people pass right through our conversation in a near-constant flow.
"How are you?" The natural crinkles of her eyes, always jovial, are a bit deeper now.
"Good, good, yeah. Beautiful day right? I mean, Sophie. Gorgeous."
"Stunning, as always."
"As is her way, right?" I say as if I really know Sophie at all anymore.
More people pass through.
I take three steps closer.
She looks above my head and starts a sentence that doesn't become anything.
"And you," I start, "how are you?"
"Good! Yeah, great."
I wonder if it would be rude to sigh too loudly, rub my eyes, chip away at the manicure I'd given myself seven minutes before I left the house.
Can't we exchange a passing hello at the bar and just go about our days?
She clears her throat, and I feel an intense affection for her suddenly, the way she never seemed to mind leaning into her discomfort— "So, alone?"
I almost laugh, decide against it, decide to do it anyway, and she laughs a bit with me, "Yes, alone. The engagement didn't exactly pan out."
"Right. I'd heard that, actually. Tonya."
"Oh? I didn't think she'd know."
"Yeah, through Michael."
"Oh," I shrug, "didn't know he'd know either."
"Really?"
"Really."
"Just," she stumbles, gestures, "never kept in touch?"
"No, no. They uhm-"
"Were mine?"
"Yours."
"I never minded, you know? If people wanted to keep in touch, I wanted them to."
"Oh, well. They always do, for a while," those fingers, they clutch harder, and I try to smile, offer a laugh, comfort, "I don't blame them. I wouldn't have either."
"Well, I don't think that's very fair."
What is this thing we do, with the niceties and the grace and kindnesses to people whose worlds we once set on fire?
I nod, and she looks to the street.
"I'll see you at the reception?" I ask.
"Course!" It comes out a little too chipper, and I'm suddenly reminded of that, too. Slight overreactions to almost everything. It'd been so endearing once.
We're seated at banquet tables completely opposite each other. It feels intentional. I imagine they'd debated if they'd have to send invites to us both. Upon deciding yes, our names would be scribbled down for seating arrangements—"nowhere near each other."
She sits in a group, but I know she's alone.
I also know she's married—three years, at least.
Dinner wraps up with speeches that are not too long or too sincere, and seamlessly there's a DJ, the lighting low.
"Red, please." Red or white, those are the wine options at the bar.
"Really?"
I turn, and Zoe is just a few feet behind, earnest and confused.
"Yes? Can I—" I sweep a hand in front of me, "Can I get you something?"
She joins me at my side, slightly flushed, "Gin and tonic, please."
I stare at the hands of the bartender, and I think Zoe is looking at me.
"But the headaches?" she says suddenly. I must look confused because her face flushes down into her chest, where I know a cluster of beauty marks lie over her right breast. But, she doesn't meet my eye, "You never used to drink red. Because of the headaches."
Right.
But those stopped four years ago. Seemingly no reason at all.
"Cured."
"Incredible."
We take the glasses; I slip the bartender a few dollars. Lingering next to the dance floor seems safer and less committal than choosing one or the other table.
Three glasses of wine, warmed and bold, I offer up an out that's also an acknowledgment.
"We don't have to do this. Catch up. If you didn't want to, I'd understand."
She breathes into that place high in her long torso. "I think I do. Don't you?"
I sip, "Honestly? I don't know."
But we do.
It's friendly and mundane. Back and forth with highlights and accomplishments that are somehow both boring and startling to have missed. The sort of thing that made me stop emailing when she'd reached out four years earlier.
When she touches my arm, I wonder if anyone in this room recognizes us as a couple—just two people from a distant social circle they'd seen once or twice years back. Eyes may be flickering over us, "Oh yes, there's so and so and so and so. Those women, they look nice."
We swap empty glasses for full ones until everything is swimmy and blurred, and I remember all the mornings I thought she looked so beautiful it didn't matter that she'd missed my calls and slipped into bed long after I'd already fallen asleep.
"Do you have any cigarettes?"
I startle. Had I been a smoker then? I can't remember.
"No?"
"Shame."
"Indeed." It isn't a shame. I don't know when I quit, maybe not as long ago as I thought, but now it turns my stomach.
Eventually, we do sit at the table with her name card.
"I'm sorry about the engagement."
"Oh, don't be."
"Really, Di, you deser-"
There's an exhale I don't plan to release, "Don't."
"No, come on. Yo-"
"Don't."
"I wish-"
"Really. Please."
Seven years ago, she'd sobbed while I shoved t-shirts into a bag. "You never let me explain," she cried over and over.
"How did you feel when you heard I'd got married?"
"Happy."
"Really?"
"Yes, that's all you wanted."
She makes a sound, something like a surprised "Hmph."
"Are you happy?"
"Of course."
But she doesn't look it. I don't know when I'd last seen her happy. It hadn't been with me, not later, maybe not in the beginning.
"Chronically dissatisfied," a friend once said.
"Good."
"I thought of you a lot then," it feels like many moments pass before she finishes, "about us."
Us.
It's so strange. A thing that feels only like an idea but was real. A thing as real as her and her wife in a different world and different time. With a life that still lives in pictures and memories. In the cluster of beauty marks and the fingers in the corners of my mind.
I click my tongue and rub my palms against my bare knees where her hands have landed more than once in the hour past.
"I need another drink."
There's a moment of near shock that bleeds into resignation.
When the minutes pass and the night grows dark, I'm sure the hint of shock fades away when I don't return.
11:41
Someone had joked once, called her a ghost. Her office sat at the end of the hall, the end with its own entrance. She never ventured much further.
Though there was no shortage of lunches, both catered and at the pub down the street, we never saw her. When her name appeared on the monthly birthday list, I was surprised they knew even that much about her. When the outing was organized, a small Thai place a few blocks over, she never RSVP’d.
“Should we get her something?”
Danielle laughed. Michael, in his own birthday crown, rolled his eyes.
Seemed like a nice thing to do, but then again, I was the new girl. Not yet worn down by rejections, cancellations, or ignored invitations.
When we arrived back at the office, they unpacked a box of too-sweet gourmet cupcakes. She never came for hers.
The clock hit 4:45, and I knocked against the wood of her door. The tip of the frosting on the vanilla bean cupcake beginning to discolour and harden in the open air.
“Come in!”
We’d seen each other in the bathroom, in the hall, been introduced once before. She’d been nice enough—she looked nice now, just confused.
“I uh-” I raised the cupcake, “I brought this for you.”
“Oh!”
“It’s yours,” I said as I set the cupcake down on the few inches of desk not strewn with papers, “the birthday month cupcake thing.”
She blinked at it.
“They sent out a message,” I offered up lamely, suddenly feeling silly.
“Oh, right. I-” she chuckled a small sound, “I may have turned those notifications off.”
She didn’t seem embarrassed by the truth of it, just that she’d said it at all.
I’d only gotten the job a few months ago but found myself quickly sunk in. With the team, the projects, the office, there was a sense of ease and comfort to it all. The dynamic was simple, to enjoy, to be entertained by. But even I found myself exhausted by the consistency of it—the round-the-clock exchange of jokes, the daily outings for post-work beers, the constant chatter. For me and my risky tendency toward quiet and isolation, it was as restorative as it was challenging.
I could imagine that for a different person it would only be a challenge.
“Understood,” I laughed.
Our eyes met for a moment, and she made no move toward the cupcake. She didn’t look as if she had anything to say, so I turned on my heel.
“Thank you,” she said a little too hastily like she was worried I may miss it.
And I didn’t completely turn back as I nodded.
When she caught me in the bathroom weeks later, my cheeks coloured darkly and quickly. The coffee stain on my shirt had needed immediate attention, and I hadn’t realized how much fabric had been pulled up and away from my belly until we were making eye contact in the mirror.
“Sorry,” I mumbled, “coffee.”
She nearly laughed as I tore myself away from the sink.
“Need another then?”
Barely a 7-minute walk down the block, the coffee shop was nice. So was she. Nice and ordinary and not at all deserving of the speculation or whispers.
“I’ve been here for two years, and I don’t think we’ve exchanged more than five sentences?” Danielle remarked into her beer, eyebrow raised.
Michael continued to stare over the rim of his glasses, and I had to laugh.
“I feel like you guys are disappointed or something, but what did you expect?”
“Well, it’s weird, right?” Came Danielle’s impatient reply, more to Michael than me.
I didn’t think it was weird. Coffee with Sawyer had only been proof of the obvious—she was kind of quiet, kind of shy, and frankly, a poor fit for the majority of the team. I hadn’t been surprised when she’d asked if I wanted to grab that coffee. I’d always been that person, the one who could flex and mold as needed. If they needed me to be loud and quick and obnoxious, I’d do it. If she needed me to be calm and mild, simply there, I’d do it - and so I did. We discussed the books we’d been reading over the weekend.
“I don’t know if it’s weird,” Michael finally shrugged, “Joss is a comfortable person.”
Danielle looked annoyed, like a person learning for the first time that they may not be adored by everyone.
“I’m just a better chameleon.”
I asked her for coffee next. It seemed like the polite thing to do.
A lazy writer might compare her to a bird and me to a cat, or something of the sort. I was aware that something in her was delicate and flighty, not a person to come at quickly or hard. But I was curious. Curious enough to break the ice.
“You never come out with us. Why’s that?”
She seemed to choke lightly on the bitter black coffee in her paper cup, then recovered, blinking as if it didn’t happen.
“I really do like the job, you know,” she said after thinking for a moment, “it’s just-”
“The people?”
“They’re all perfectly nice.”
“Doesn’t mean you have to like them,” I chuckled.
“Do you?”
“Like them?”
“Yes.”
“Sure,” I shrugged, “but it’s a lot sometimes.”
She seemed to relax after that.
It’d been late. The office had been quiet when suddenly the lights in the room had gone out. I let out a pathetic squeak of fear only to be met by a quick apology and a laugh.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you were still here,” Sawyer said as she came around the corner.
She looked pale and thin under the strange fluorescent lighting of the back hall, and I thought again of what they’d called her - a ghost.
I felt a near immediate regret, some small sense of dread, the moment I told her I was wrapping up, followed up by an invite to the bar across the street. I was certain she would say no. Then she didn’t.
There we were.
I was surprised when they settled the tequila shot in front of her.
I made a face, and she laughed.
“What?”
“Didn’t take you for the type.”
“I’m fun too.”
She always found ways to talk about something, to fill the silence with what was ultimately nothing. She didn’t wear a ring if she was married, but it didn’t mean she wasn’t. She was out late on a Thursday, so probably no kids, no dogs. As the Production Manager, I knew she must have a business degree. She was perhaps in her early forties.
These were all things I had to assume because she’d never told me.
Her eyes seemed heavy when we went our separate ways. When I caught her in the bathroom the next morning, they didn’t seem any lighter, like maybe she hadn’t slept.
“I had fun last night.” In the low lighting of the deep orange bathroom it felt almost seedy to say.
“Same,” she said with a small smile that was both weak and unconvincing.
I didn’t question it. She washed her hands and excused herself.
The following Monday, she was out sick.
Tuesday, her office door was closed and never opened. Wednesday, we met in the supply closet.
She startled when she noticed me crouched looking through the coloured pens. I half expected her to turn and walk away, but she continued to the stack of printer paper.
“Feeling ok?”
“Better, yeah.”
“Fancy a coffee?”
“Mmm,” she nearly hummed, “I’ll let you know.”
She didn’t.
I didn’t see her until the following Monday, another late night. The light of her office was glowing into the otherwise darkened hallway. We were the only two people there.
I thought of her and the people I’d known like her. The type of people who just don’t know exactly how to settle themselves into a room, into a group. People who don’t want to be alone but don’t really know how not to be.
I let myself into her office, lit only by an orange lamp in the corner. I could feel her looking at me but didn’t make eye contact until I’d settled myself into the plush chair across from her desk with a huff.
“Two ladies, one office, and another late night. You know what that means?”
“Is this a punchline I should know?” Her eyebrow raised.
“Well, we’ve done it once before. Tequila?”
I really looked at her then, those eyes that in a week’s time had yet to liven. But she sighed in near relief with a nod.
We looked up at the closed sign next to the hours on the door.
“Monday,” she sighed.
“Monday.”
Then, in a sweep of bravery, I swallowed. “I know a place.”
There was less in the tequila bottle in my cupboard than I’d expected, but it was enough.
“I could do something nicer with this, you know?”
“Doesn’t need to be nice,” she said as I filled two small shot glasses.
With a slightly nicer tequila and soda in hand, we settled into the overstuffed couch in the middle of my living room. I could hear my mother creeping into my throat, the lingering desire to apologize for the mess, though all I could see was this morning’s coffee cup and a takeout box on the dining table.
“Nice place.”
“Mmm, thanks.”
“Roommates?”
“Oh, no. Getting a little old for that.”
“Partner?”
“Just me.”
“Do you ever get lonely?”
It seemed an odd, intimate question. I thought about the many answers.
“I’m sure if I sat with it long enough, I’d say yes. But it’s easy to keep busy and pretend that you’re not. Or forget that you are.”
Her eyes stayed on me while she sipped as if she expected me to say more. All that was left to say was everything, things that would take hours to say or hear, so I said nothing at all.
Finally, I asked, “What about you? Do you ever get lonely?”
“I didn’t think I would, but I am.”
Her mouth missed mine, landing on the corner, cold against my cheek. But I turned into it, laid mine gently over hers. A few moments passed, and it no longer seemed she wanted me to be very gentle.
She was gone when my morning alarm sounded. I wasn’t surprised.
It’s much easier to fall into habits and routines with another person than people seem to think. Looking at life as though it were a giant board, a game with milestones and markers, makes it difficult to experience things. If you don’t choose “first date” to get yourself from the green square to the blue, if you don’t roll the dice on a marriage card to get yourself halfway through the board, suddenly you’re not on it at all, and there are no questions to ask or cards to collect. You simply move.
Sawyer and I continued to move with no direction and no final square.
The night she fell asleep in my bed, she’d seemed so exhausted. The energy she’d held while she grasped and searched and felt her way through me on the couch was suddenly gone, replaced again with a hollowness that had seemed to grow over the weeks.
I left her there, covered her with the soft white blanket folded at the end of the bed. The clock read 11:27 when I turned the shower to a scalding warmth. It must’ve been 11:34 when I thought I heard the phone ring. The hum of the shower cut out to a near complete silence. My phone on the counter was blank, nothing incoming, nothing missed.
Through the closed door, there was a hiss—quiet and low. I pressed myself near the crack. A whisper, perhaps from Sawyer in the bed. Pushing myself away and toward the towel, I told myself it was none of my business.
We’d done this before—returned back to the office together in the morning after having taken my car back to mine. We were silently diligent about the whole thing, never talked about it, but never so much as spoke openly if others were still around and always returned early or late enough that the place had cleared out.
On that morning, there were vehicles in the lot, Sawyers and Michaels. It could’ve been avoidable, but we were just a moment behind him, still standing just inside the door, rifling through his bag.
He startled as the door banged closed behind us, his eyes widening, softening, and widening again as we all adjusted to the light.
“Morning,” he said flatly.
Sawyer only nodded before ducking her head and retreating to her office.
“Yeah, hi. Morning,” I mumbled as I brushed past him and toward the front of the office.
The large dark wooden table that accommodated our entire team was dark, the room silent. Michael flipped the light behind me. As I turned toward him, a slight smirk began to lift at the corner of my mouth. He had his own reputation for a short-lived fling with a former company president and some casual nights with discrete clients. But he wasn’t smiling.
He only looked at me for a moment before moving to his spot across from me. The silence as he unpacked his bag grew a knot into my stomach. Swallowing the discomfort, I pulled my things from my own bag.
“Did anyone really tell you about her?” He asked finally. When I looked up he was sat on his chair, eyes hard behind his glasses.
I tsk’d. “I know you guys don’t like her. But she’s been-”
“I meant about her daughter.”
“What?”
Sawyer didn’t have a daughter. Or a partner, or anyone.
Michael looked down at his hands, “Just Google her some time.” Then he popped in his earbuds and left me alone.
It was right there, just above her LinkedIn.
“Local Man Suspected in Disappearance of Missing Child”
It seemed like something that should be everywhere, highly publicized, but it wasn’t. A smattering of articles, a few armchair detective Reddit threads, the latest update from two years earlier.
There was no real evidence. The little girl had gone missing along with her father about four years earlier. His apartment had been largely untouched. The only things missing were their passports, his wallet, and vehicle. His cellphone and wallet were later recovered about three hours outside of the city; the passports and vehicle were never found. There’d been no activity on his phone or in his bank accounts since the day they’d last been seen.
It was all too typical, one detective was quoted as saying. These things happened when divorced couples went through vicious custody battles. He’d been awarded only partial custody a month earlier.
All I could find were occasional Facebook posts from the local police department reminding the public that they were still considered missing persons.
I didn’t feel much of anything right away. A sort of sick feeling took root as I combed through what little detail I could find. I’d been sleeping with a woman who must be experiencing an immeasurable amount of agony. Some part of me continued to repeat the sentiment that I wished I’d known. That I would’ve been different with her, that I would’ve dug deeper or asked more questions. A bigger part of me knew that we’d only worked because I hadn’t.
I wasn’t going to say anything, not to her.
When Michael and I found ourselves alone late in the afternoon, I turned to him. “So you wanted me to find out that people don’t like her because her ex-husband fucked off with her kid?” I couldn’t help the ugliness that crept into my voice.
He only shook his head lightly.
“It’s not like that, Joss.”
“What is it then?”
“She already worked here then, so did I.” He looked around, his eyes not fearful or nervous but sad, “Something wasn’t right.”
“What do you mean?”
“She was just strange. No one even knew she had a kid, which, ok, wasn’t that weird because no one really knew anything about her. But she didn’t take more than like six days off,” he leaned in as he continued, “obviously the office was fucking rocked by the news. They were even looking into temps, but then she was just back.”
I shrugged, a hot defensiveness spreading throughout my limbs, “So? Some people need to throw themselves into work when things are going on, distract themselves.”
Michael nearly laughed, a bitter sound, “This wasn’t a fucking breakup, Joss, or like a parent getting sick. Her kid was probably dead.”
“Don’t say that,” I hissed.
“How many four-year-olds go missing with no suspected sightings in four years and suddenly turn up alive?”
We turned away from each other. That was the last time we spoke about it.
I didn’t see her again until nearly a week later. I couldn’t help the desire to stare at her longer, to listen a little more closely, to ask an extra question. I desired, all at once, to be much further and much closer to her.
We were up later than we usually were during our quick evenings. Music played softly in the background, her hair fell back over the edge of the couch. We chatted about the politics of a pandemic. Lapsing into silence for only a moment, a shrill ringing pierced the air. She startled, eyes widened. The phone was clearly still in her coat pocket, hanging off the back of an armchair in the corner.
“Do you want me to grab your coat?”
“Oh, no. It’s too late for someone to be calling.”
But someone was calling. I noted the time over the stove—11:34.
The holidays were slipping away. None of us were ducking into the office to do the little work coming in, opting instead to stay off the frozen roads and inside with horrible made for TV Christmas movies. I didn’t see her at all.
Then a text came through on Wednesday evening. “Plans tomorrow night?”
Only plans I was willing to blow off, so I texted back. “None.”
She arrived at 9 pm, and nervousness crept in. Would we watch the countdown? Should we avoid it altogether? The midnight tradition of New Year’s Eve felt suddenly intimate, too romantic for co-workers just sort of sleeping together. I worried about how dull the apartment looked.
I was suddenly achy and raw as she stood in her thick black coat alone in my hallway. I wondered how she’d spent the holidays, if she was entirely alone. But she smiled, and I swallowed it down.
No questions were exchanged about the past week. Instead, I handed her a glass of champagne and told her stories of New Years’ past, unimpressive but laughable debauchery.
I couldn’t help but watch the time tick down, closer and closer to the dot at the top of the clock. When she excused herself to the bathroom, I refilled our glasses and checked myself in the hallway mirror. The door creaked open a moment later, and she returned to her glass, raising it to her lips. Liquid poured smoothly from the thin flute down into her throat until it was nearly gone. She hovered near where I settled on the couch but never came closer, her eyes on the screen of the television.
When she pushed her arms inside her coat a minute or two later, I wondered if I had the date wrong.
“Did you,” I started as she turned around to look at me, “did you not want to stay for the-”
“What?” The word was short, but she didn’t seem angry, not upset with me, just far away.
“Nothing.”
Her arms were limp when she pulled me into a hug, and her lips hit some part between my neck and my jaw.
At 11:41, I found myself alone.
Returning to work felt cold and lacking in the way that January does. Snow turned brown from the dirt of tires, sunlight lasting only long enough to accompany the working hours. I was tired.
Sawyer began leaving early, and I continued to stay late.
When the month was nearing its end, her office light was on past usual hours. It felt wise to hurry past, but I heard my name as I tried.
“Drink?” she called into the hallway.
We found ourselves on elbows over the bartop, chatting intensely about music we’d loved years ago. She kissed me there in the dark light.
My apartment felt somehow less empty with her in my bed. Chest rising and falling with shallow breaths, the lines of her face were soft. It was the most relaxed I’d seen her since maybe we’d met.
When the phone rang, it broke through both the darkness and the quiet of the room, volume just low enough not to wake her. On the nightstand closest to me, I reached to silence it before I realized it was not my own but hers. Still, I pulled it toward me and tried to thumb the button on the side. In my haste, something happened and suddenly, the line connected.
There was a hum around me as the voice broke through the silence, tiny and distant.
Heat rushed to my face.
“Mommy?”
I couldn’t speak. The room was still, the sound from the phone so small I couldn’t be sure I heard it. Raising it to my ear, I swallowed, terrified to make a sound.
There was silence for a long time and, finally, a voice.
I couldn’t be sure of the words, not immediately. It sounded muffled. “Sawyer?” It was a man, “Why, honey?”
There was no feeling as the shiver worked through me, hand trembling as it lowered. The call was disconnected, the phone blank aside from the time, 11:34.
When I shifted on my hip she was there, eyes open and wide - “You can’t answer when they call.”
Written for the prompt: Killer begins receiving calls from their victim.
THIRTEEN
We were thirteen, and I knew enough to know that was absurd.
We still shared a schoolyard with children learning their ABCs, and girls our own age still wore training bras.
Aren't our brains, like, too underdeveloped for this?
A few nights, I just watched.
They came in fun colours, like the vitamins a mom would set out with your breakfast.
I found the whole thing anxious and boring. Anxious because it was drugs, and we were thirteen, and what if we got caught or what if something happened. Boring because they bored me.
Nothing happened.
I made sure they had water and popsicles and candies to suck on.
"You'll bite your tongue off," Kallie had said one night.
A small trickle of blood came from her mouth a while later, and she looked pleased. I knew she'd done it. When I looked at her, I wanted to call her a liar.
"I know," I wanted to say, "You did that to yourself."
I felt very young and very old all at once.
They asked for lotion—lotioned themselves from head to toe.
One night, one of the girls did a runner. Just opened the front door to suburbia and took off into the chilled night air, down the street in nothing but shorts and a tank top.
I worried about her, but I didn't go after her.
There were babies to look after, real babies. Six years old and one year.
I don't remember their names, but I remember caring about them. I remember feeling sad for them.
Every weekend their mom would leave. She was pretty and young and had a thirteen-year-old she trusted to handle things.
"Where does she go?"
"To the bars in some small town. I think a guy lives there."
They had family photos in the house. She had a husband. I remember wondering how things had fallen apart so quickly. They'd had a baby only a year ago, and now they were getting a divorce?
Except they weren't—he just worked out of the city for months at a time, and neither of them cared, I suppose.
I sat on a bed with the 6-year-old once, playing a game or reading a story, I heard laughter downstairs, and I was so angry.
I was angry that no one cared that there were children upstairs. I was angry that I would put a child to bed who had a mother but seemingly didn't. I was angry that I had to do it at all—that I was expected to.
I didn't want to handle it.
I wanted to call my mom.
I wanted to tell her what was happening and that someone needed to hold these babies or feed them right and love them. Because surely, I didn't know how.
But I didn't want to ruin the fun. I didn't want Kallie's mom to be in trouble. I didn't want my mom, who also had a seventeen-year-old who just couldn't seem to keep it together, to realize that a house she'd deemed safe by proximity in our good neighbourhood probably wasn't.
"Give me one."
No one teased or questioned it; they just handed over the small plastic bag.
I don't remember what it felt like, only that I didn't care for it. I didn't understand it. I was bored by it.
I stopped going.
I started to see my childhood best friend, Maddy, a lot after that. She was pretty, athletic, loud, adventurous, and young, my age but young.
She lived a few blocks away, in the opposite direction from Kallie.
Her mom was in the midst of a divorce. She was older than most moms because Maddy had been a "surprise." A blessing, she'd say, but a surprise. So, the rest of her kids were grown and gone. She'd done it all, seen it all.
We were in the eighth grade, just a few months away from high school, when she offered to buy us booze.
She promised it would stay within the walls of the house, and my parents wouldn't have to know. She just wanted us to get a feel for it so we could test our limits and learn our boundaries.
When she presented us with those sickly-sweet orange coolers, I winced. Alcohol had never really interested me. I didn't feel mystified by it or interested in it.
We drank them anyway.
We had one each. Then shoved two more under our thick sweaters and walked to the nearby park.
There were always kids in that strange age range where you have some sense of freedom without actually having any, and you crave it always. You know how to sneak alcohol and ask people outside the convenience store to buy you cigarettes.
Uncool teens, acting very cool leaning against slides and monkey bars we earnestly used only a few years earlier.
By then, I'd decided I liked Logan. He was in high school already, two years older than us, and seemed nice and attractive enough to like, so I guessed I did. I showed him the stashed coolers under my sweater and shivered when the air hit me. He offered me his jacket.
I was only wearing it maybe a minute, not even long enough to brag, when the sirens hit, and the park was lit up with red and blue. Everyone scattered in different directions. We hopped a fence and then another and another until we collapsed on her lawn, one cooler lost to our epic and brave journey.
The patrol car circled the block.
"It's almost 2 am," they told us. We nodded.
They asked how old we were, and I told them we were 16.
Maybe they believed us because it was dark, but perhaps they didn't because we weren't.
"Do you live here?"
"Yes."
"Go inside."
We did.
I didn't drink much after that. All we could get our hands on were drinks that seemed to be a half pound of sugar and something that tasted like mouthwash. The group favourite was Troika which smelt like hand sanitizer and cost about $25 for more than a litre. Everything was vodka.
I was immediately and violently ill whenever I drank any of it.
My entire body would flush, an ache in my collar bones that radiated and buzzed down my arms and go on and on and on until I'd have to peel my clothes off and stick myself to the coldest surface, let my body wretch and wretch until I'd vomited everything.
I'd find out a few years later that I'm alcohol intolerant with a vodka allergy.
But I'd given up trying long before then. Found my way to pot. I loved it immediately. It calmed me down. It made me laugh. It made me hungry. I suffered far fewer embarrassing stories and hallway whispers than most.
I had a starring role in only one story that would go down in infamy.
There was a birthday party. Someone had made an ice cream cake that was immediately forgotten in favour of solo cups and bongs. I smoked my own joint and remembered that cake. In a haze, I found myself alone in a tiny storage room in front of a deep freeze. Opening the lid, there it was, creamy and beautiful.
"Fuck yes."
Then the door opened.
I turned, and there he was. He was the hottest guy in our grade, and he'd been calling me a dirty hippie for two years. I closed the lid.
"What are you doing?" He asked
"Waiting."
"For?"
"You."
He looked confused. He should've. I had no reason to wait for him. I hadn't even spoken to him. I was 16 and stoned, and I wanted to eat an ice cream cake at this dumb birthday party by my fucking self. I pushed myself on top of the freezer.
"Come here."
He did. We made out on top of the freezer until I felt he was sufficiently distracted, and my job was done, and then I pushed him out of the room.
Then I ate some of that cake alone as I'd intended.
Upstairs my best friend sobbed in a bathroom. Wrapped in teenage angst and hormones, she could be prickly, angry, and deeply unaffectionate.
She wanted to be alone, but I stayed—shoved myself into a corner of the bathtub as she refused to look at me or tell me why she was so upset. I waited her out mostly because I was stoned and relieved to be in a room away from a crowd of sweaty, horny 16-year-olds.
Suddenly, she confessed something to me quietly. She'd made out with that guy—the hot one from on top of the freezer—at a party the weekend before. I hadn't known, and she hadn't stopped thinking about him, and he hadn't looked at her since.
"I just want him," she whined.
"I just made out with him on top of a freezer."
She turned her startling green eyes on me. "You what?"
"I don't know," I felt deeply guilty, "there was a cake inside."
She choked, and then she laughed, and then I laughed. We left, and we laughed the whole walk back to wherever we slept that night.
I went to a performing arts college with less than twenty students, which became lesser and lesser as we viciously vied for the same thing. There were no parties or binge drinking, or even any outings. We worked quietly and quickly and most kept to ourselves.
If school was a competition, I won.
My instructor called me into his office, "I want you to go to this interview. You're ready."
I wasn't supposed to be graduating for at least two, maybe three months. I wasn't ready. But I went. I got the job, and I left the school and the city.
I was alone, and I was terrified, and I was working most hours of every day and waking up every morning feeling like I'd made a massive mistake. I hadn't, I was just 19 with no idea what I was doing, only that people seemed to believe I could, and I didn't know why.
As people I loved became sicker and sicker with addiction, I stopped smoking pot almost completely. I'd found alcohol that didn't upset my entire system, but I never drank alone. I was afraid that if I did, I wouldn't stop. I'd fill the hole, and then just like them, I'd never learn how to be whole on my own. I went for runs, and I journaled and worked and tried to make friends.
I came home for a weekend, there was a party, and I felt 13, lonely and bored. I wanted to leave.
The best friend I'd made a few years earlier, Elliot, cornered me in the empty kitchen. Most people had settled into the living room for conversations or the basement for beer pong, and I hovered in the kitchen, feeling entirely silly in my cheap white dress.
Elliot smelled like whiskey while he hugged me, and I wanted to cry. I'd missed him.
We'd had plans to grow up together. We'd rent a house, spend afternoons drinking beer, working on our art, and break into stunning careers before we were 25.
I cried when I took the job that meant I'd leave all those things behind.
He pulled out of the hug in that kitchen and looked at me for a long time with big open eyes. A nearly childish, wide stare. He took a deep breath before he told me he was in love with me.
I pulled away from him, startled, and hit my hip hard against the stove. I was angry immediately—because I was gay, because people had been telling me he was in love with me. Because I chose not to believe them. I felt my trust had been broken. Because why? What could I do with that?
I loved him. I couldn't be in love with him. If I could’ve, I would've wanted to be. He was so good.
And I was so mad because he was drunk.
I was sick of whispered late-night confessions and people telling me things that weren't true. I was tired of people making promises and telling me they loved me. I was just so fucking sick of everyone being wasted on something all the time.
It wasn't his fault. I'd always felt loved by him, I appreciated him, I loved him. I wanted to be gentle with him. I should've been. It was just—well, there were so many things.
"What am I supposed to do with that?" I asked him.
"I just needed you to know."
I left. He called me so many times, he left voicemails I deleted, and I never answered. I went back to my small town and my small job the next day. I re-read his texts, "I'm sorry, I was drunk," over and over and felt no relief.
I didn't drink for a long time.
A man I thought I knew told me he was in love with me.
I found a person I loved, cold and blue, on a floor. They miraculously survived.
People vomited on themselves in the back of vans on the way to a dry-out centre.
Life was so tiring.
When I moved back to the city, I found comfort in things again. I could drink and be fine. The world didn't end, I didn't crave it in the morning or when things got hard. I started smoking pot again. It calmed me down, it made me laugh. It made me hungry.
I took mushrooms a handful of times with my friends. I cried the first time because I felt like me—present and responsible and in control and so profoundly, disappointingly myself. I'd wanted drugs to be a void, even if I never took them. I wanted to believe that somewhere there was a way to just not be myself for a while.
I was bored with myself.
I wanted to escape, and it wasn't happening.
But the second or third time, I learned to enjoy them for what they were and felt all too proud for simply having a nice time.
I begged my roommate to come to this EDM show with me. It was my co-worker's birthday, and she'd always been excessively, exceedingly lovely to me. When she sheepishly asked if I would be interested in going to this live show to celebrate her 37th, I swallowed down the price of tickets and said yes—emphatically.
Matt, good-natured and so easy, said yes. He liked live music and whiskey.
We got there, and she was alone.
I asked about her husband. He stayed home with the baby. And her friends? Coming, she said.
There were three of them. I thought back to days she'd cried to me in the bathroom and the coffees we'd shared in her office. I'd always thought of her as a sort of leaky faucet, spilling out without control. I hadn't realized I was actually just in her circle—one of five.
She got adorably drunk. "Mom's night out!" They all chanted, and Matt and I stood off to the side a bit while I apologized to him on a loop for painting this night as an in-and-out affair.
"We can just leave whenever. I'm sure she won't notice." I'd said.
Eventually, she asked me if I wanted to "score" in the alley. I laughed because it sounded so seedy and suspicious coming from the mouth of this suburban mom who I only knew as a woman sitting in a blazer in an office, next to her family portraits.
I asked Matt if he wanted any. No, he'd brought his vape pen.
We went outside—me, her and her curvy friend with the insane curly hair. Some guy was already there, and the exchange was quick. She turned back and announced, "To the bathroom."
The bathroom? Fuck.
It'd seemed seedy and suspicious because it kind of was.
"Dumb stoner," I thought to myself as we marched back inside with the bag of cocaine I'd thought would be a Ziplock of weak weed.
I don't like coke. It makes me angry.
She lined it up, wide-eyed, on the hard back of her red wallet. She yammered and mumbled and stumbled over her words quickly and excitedly. It'd been years, I couldn't tell anyone at work. Her husband could never find out, was I sure?
Once again, I felt bored. "I'm sure."
The friend took her bump and turned back to me, "What's your sign?"
"Cancer."
Her eyes were frenzied like I'd said something important.
"I knew it. I'm a Scorpio." She wound her fingers into the hair at the back of my neck and whispered to me, "We're like sisters." Then she kissed me hard and square. Her breath was sour, her lips were chapped, and she pulled away with a toothy grin before offering the wallet up to my nose.
I looked at them, their excitement. I felt the overwhelming emptiness in my chest. I felt sad for someone, them or me, and how dull I found the whole thing to be.
I sniffed it through a receipt from a kids' play centre and wondered, idly, if there are people who think mothers don't behave this way.
I wiped and sniffled and felt the light burn in my crooked once-broken nose, now irritated by thin white powder.
"Well, that took for-fucking-ever," Matt yelled over his whiskey.
"It wasn't pot."
"Did you do it?"
"Yeah."
He laughed, slung his arm around my shoulders, and we moved into the crowd of dancing bodies. Mostly I felt sober and a little annoyed about the money I'd spent.
I found the group, buttoned one of their torn open shirts and hugged them goodbye.
Matt checked his watch in the cab, "We have to be up in, like, less than 5 hours," he groaned and then called the wing place to make sure we could have some delivered.
He's a sneaky drunk. You never know until it's too late. As he poured himself a whiskey at our bar cart, I knew it was too late.
We settled on the couch, waiting for our food. He kept dozing off, and I kept saving the glass tumbler he refused to relinquish from falling to the floor and sloshing all over our new area rug.
When the food arrived, I ran to get it. I had the energy.
I decided to take the stairs and took a turn too sharply, smashed myself against a railing and yelped in pain. A bruise blossomed on my arm before I got back to our apartment.
I tried to sleep and kept waking with my knees knocking and my thighs wobbling. Matt came to my door, bleary-eyed and dull. It was 6:30 am. I hadn't slept for more than seven minutes at a time.
"We gotta go, G."
I looked at my packed bags on the floor. We were driving to his mom's, 2.5 hours away.
"Yeah, I'm ready."
He turned away and called over his shoulder, "Happy Easter."
Jesus, I laughed. It is fucking Easter.
And while I sipped my third mid-afternoon coffee over a card game with his mom and sister, I thought—I guess if there's a day to decide, I probably never have to sniff anything through my nose ever again, Easters as good as any.