A lot of love at first sight is like the first time you meet a sociopath.
–Karen Kilgariff
My Favorite Murder episode 66
Bethany
After Mr. Crawford and Brent leave, the rest of the day hums with activity. There’s a mad dash to rearrange schedules and appease ruffled feathers since Mr. Crawford left early. In addition, a good chunk of the day is spent making sure everyone in the building has what they need from Mr. Crawford’s office. Which is a lot, since there’s a mass infiltration as soon as he exits the premises.
On top of that, I have to deal with a missing pallet in the Jersey warehouse, act as a buffer between payroll and a distraught salesman yelling about a missing commission check, and answer the never-ending phone line with calls from investors, buyers, and anyone and everyone else in the kitchen supply industry.
By the time I’m leaving, the sun is setting on another day. I wave goodbye to Stan the security man and then begin the trek home, which involves three different subway changes.
It’s not too bad, though. The subway isn’t as frightening a place as I always imagined it would be. Back home, there’s nothing like it for public transportation. I’ve had to adjust.
And it’s not just the subway. Everything here is so different from home. Out west, everything is large and open. A mortgage for a five-bedroom house costs the same as my teeny tiny apartment. Manhattan Island is tightly packed, over a million people in a twenty-two-mile radius. Reno has a population of four hundred thousand over a hundred-mile radius. New York smells like greasy food and exhaust. Nevada is all clear mountain air and sagebrush.
I’m surrounded by all of these people, but I know almost no one.
All my best friends still live back home. But at least I’m three thousand miles away from my mother. Even though her long tentacles of guilt manage to reach me from afar.
I’ve got my key in the lock when the neighbor’s door opens.
“Hey there, Bethany. Work late?”
Dammit. So close. “Hey, Steven. Yeah this whole adulting thing is bullshit.”
Steven is close to my age, maybe a couple years younger. He’s tall and trim and has dark hair and a mustache. Not a hipster handlebar mustache, or a giant state trooper ’stache, more like a fluffy dead caterpillar that ends before the curve of his lips. It’s totally a porn ’stache. He’s friendly, if a bit odd. And hard to get away from, one of those people who just wants to chat and won’t shut up and you have to edge your way out of the conversation.
Also, I’m pretty sure he’s in a cult.
“We’re having ornithology club tonight. Did you want to come over? We’re going to come up with a new name for the group.”
See? Cult. Who belongs to a club about birds? In New York City, no less. What are they studying, pigeons? Hard pass. Besides, the only person I’ve seen showing up for these meetings is a guy named Adrian with dead eyes.
“You know, it sounds like so much fun, but I have plans.” I’ve got the first lock open. I stick my key in the dead bolt.
“Grandma Martha made crab cakes,” he says, like that will change my mind.
Martha’s cooking is terrible. She brought me cookies when I first moved in and I think she used salt instead of sugar. Gwen was always going on about how great Martha’s cooking was, but that ship has sailed. She has dementia and Steven moved in a couple months ago to help her out.
“Aw man, bummer I’m going to miss it.”
“We have a new member in the club. Natalie Furmeyer.”
“That’s . . . nice. Tell Martha and all the cul-ub members I said hi!” I finish unlocking the door and slide in, shutting it behind me before he has a chance to say anything else.
Now on to my big plans for the night.
Twenty minutes later, I’m in PJs, eyeballing my dinner choices: frozen meal or questionably aged takeout leftovers? How does one really decide? Before I can choose between explosive diarrhea now or explosive diarrhea later, my phone rings.
Ted.
“Tell me something exciting,” he says in lieu of a greeting.
“Did you know Ed Kemper, a.k.a. the co-ed killer, has voiced over five hundred audiobooks? There you are, enjoying a nice relaxing listen to Flowers in the Attic, and really it’s the voice of a serial killer.”
He groans. “You and serial killers. You have a problem. Gimme something less murder-y, please. Anything exciting happen lately that doesn’t involve death and dismemberment?”
“I woke up in bed with Brent Crawford yesterday morning.”
He snorts. “Right. So really, who’d you bang?”
“I didn’t bang anyone. I had to go over to Marc and Gwen’s to sleep—”
He cuts me off with a groan. “Not the poltergeist crap again?” He heaves an exaggerated sigh. “Bethany. Ghosts aren’t real. Neither is Santa, the Easter bunny, or trustworthy old men in positions of authority.”
I gasp. “You’ve ruined Christmas. And the Electoral College.”
“You’re going to ruin your vagina.”
“I told you, there was no banging.”
“I’ve heard that story before.”
“Because it’s true,” I mutter. Back home it was always easier to let my friends believe I was clinging to my wild and randy youth rather than admit the reality. I didn’t want to go home. I still haven’t told them the full truth, and I probably never will. “Look, I haven’t actually gotten legitimate sleep in like a week. I was desperate and exhausted. Not horny. I woke up and he was there and I bolted like a total loser who doesn’t know how to socialize.”
“Like Lucy?”
“Exactly. Except I don’t have the science smarts, only the zero social skills. Then he came to my work to see his dad and witnessed another lovely firing from our favorite CEO.”
“How many times has Mr. Crawford fired you now?”
“I lost count around twelve. He doesn’t mean it. He’s just ornery. I think it’s because he’s lonely.”
Seriously. I found him once lingering in Marc’s empty office. He said he was looking for a file, but there was a hitch in his voice and a sheen in his eyes. He tried to hide it by yelling at me about the dust, but I saw it anyway.
“He’s lonely so he fires you?”
“He’s like a kicked puppy. He growls to protect himself, but inside he just wants love and maybe a doggie bone.”
Ted snorts. “You mean you want the bone.”
“Hell yeah I want the bone, but I swear I didn’t sleep with Brent. I’m keeping it in my pants, just like I told you I would.”
“Fine. I believe you. But I still think you’re tripping about the ghost thing. Ghosts aren’t real. It’s probably rats or noisy neighbors or something.”
A siren sounds outside. I move a few steps into the living room and shift the corner of the drapes with one finger. Lights flash in the distance, moving away and down the street. “Maybe.” I let the curtain drop. “I asked Steven and he hasn’t heard anything odd.”
“Steven! I love that guy. How’s the bird cult?”
“Ugh, don’t even get me started. He invited me over again tonight for their meeting.”
“Are you gonna go?”
“What? No. Are you insane?”
“Bethany, you need to get out. You need to make new friends, even if they are a bit culty and weird. I know it’s going to be hard to find someone as amazing and talented and good-looking as I am, but I’m three thousand miles away. I can’t meet all your needs.”
“No one can,” I murmur, more to myself than to Ted.
“I gotta go. It’s our twenty-three-month anniversary. Tony’s taking me to dinner.”
“Puke. Do you guys have to celebrate every month?”
“Yes. We’re adorable. Don’t be jealous. Actually, do be jealous because I kind of enjoy being envied.”
I laugh. “You’re such a bitch.”
We hang up and I finally decide to eat the questionable takeout. While it’s spinning in the microwave, I gaze up at the ceiling and think about what the hell I’m doing here.
I originally decided to move to New York to escape my mother and all of her issues, which had somehow morphed into mine. But it hasn’t turned out like I thought it would. I fantasized about making all kinds of friends, spending nights out on the town, really enjoying life without stress.
Instead, I’ve been working myself ragged and coming home alone to an apartment I can’t sleep in. And I’m still getting sucked into Mom’s problems. I thought she would be better without me but it’s getting worse.
Ted’s right. I need to find friends. A shoulder to cry on. Someone to distract me from my problems.
The most pressing one being my inability to sleep through the night.
Maybe there is a plausible explanation for the weird noises—one that won’t freak me out and make me think of every horror movie I’ve ever seen. And maybe tonight will be quiet.
A door slams somewhere down the hall and I nearly jump out of my skin.
Then again, maybe not.