Alan had met Corbin Dell shortly after he’d moved to Bury Street. This was before he’d begun watching Audrey Marshall, back when Quinn and he were an amorous young couple sharing their first apartment.
They’d met—Alan and Corbin—in the lobby of the building. Corbin was talking with the doorman named Bob and Alan was checking his mail on his way to play racquetball. The tape-wrapped handle of his racket poked out of his gym bag.
“Squash or racquetball?” Corbin asked Alan, noticing the racket.
“I’ve played both,” Alan said, “but lately I’ve been playing racquetball. Do you play?”
“I do. Where do you play?” Corbin asked. He was almost impossibly square jawed. In fact, everything about him was square—his wide shoulders, his thick hands, his head, its sharp corners accented by a blond crew cut. Alan knew, just by looking at him, that he would be a far superior player.
“The Y,” Alan said.
“Where? On the river?”
“Uh-huh.”
“I didn’t know they had racquetball courts. We should play some time. You could come to my club.”
“I’m not very good,” Alan said.
“I don’t care about that,” Corbin said. “The guy I play with now is so competitive it’s stopped being fun.”
They introduced themselves. Alan had a business card from the software company he worked at that had his e-mail on it, and he gave it to Corbin.
“You in marketing?” Corbin asked.
“I am. What about you?”
“Financial advisor. At Briar-Crane.” Alan recognized the name. Of course he was in finance. Guys who looked like Corbin loved nothing more than currency speculation and talking about rates of exchange. They said goodbye, Corbin telling Alan that he’d be in touch about racquetball. Alan exited through the courtyard on his way to the Y, knowing that Corbin would probably never e-mail, but feeling a strange surge of pleasure that he suddenly lived in a building where men made racquetball dates in the lobby. This was his new life, now that he was with Quinn, who’d always had family money and always would have family money. She’d insisted on moving into 101 Bury Street, even though the rent was four times what Alan had been paying for a two-bedroom in South Boston.
Alan forgot about Corbin Dell, and was surprised when, a week later, he got an e-mail from him that read:
Let’s play that game of racquetball. I can do Saturday morning if you can. I got a court for 10 am. Corbin
They’d played, and Alan had been right: Corbin was a far superior player, not just in skill level, but in fitness. After the game, Corbin looked like he didn’t need a shower, while Alan, dripping with sweat, worked hard to form complete sentences. Still, after showering and walking back from Corbin’s swank club to the apartment building, Corbin said they should play again.
And they did, but just once. It was right before Christmas week, and afterward they got a beer together at the Sevens on Charles Street. The drink at the bar felt to Alan like their racquetball games—Corbin in control and Alan scrambling to catch up. Corbin talked about great restaurants in Boston, mentioned his portfolio, and swiveled his head to watch a beautiful brunette walk across the room. Alan thought Corbin was overcompensating for something, although what that was he didn’t know. Maybe it was that stupid, preppy name—Corbin—that he’d been saddled with, or maybe he was secretly gay and trying desperately to hide it. After the beer they walked together down Charles Street. It was just past five but dark already, the store windows festooned and glittery with Christmas lights. “I hate Christmas,” Corbin said, almost to himself, then quickly laughed.
“I’m ambivalent. I don’t celebrate it,” Alan said.
That had been their last time hanging out, except for occasionally running into one another in the building’s lobby or courtyard. Alan registered guilt on Corbin’s face during those brief run-ins, as though the fact that they no longer played racquetball was a breakup perpetrated by Corbin. Alan wanted to tell him that the breakup was mutual.
Then Audrey entered Alan’s life and Alan forgot all about Corbin, all about other people, really. He’d forgotten Corbin so completely that it actually took him a moment to identify him when he first saw him in Audrey’s apartment. His blond hair was a little longer, but nothing else had changed. Tall and muscular, dressed in a suit or workout gear. He settled into Audrey’s apartment as though he owned it, sprawling on her couch, watching her television. They were always sharing wine. They were rarely physical with one another, although Alan had watched them enter the bedroom together several times and pull the curtains closed. He’d also watched, once, as Corbin lifted Audrey into his arms, her legs around his waist, and kissed her. One of Corbin’s massive hands slid under Audrey’s skirt and Alan had to look away. Alan told himself that his disgust at seeing Corbin and Audrey together was a good thing, that it might cure him of his need to watch Audrey at all hours. If nothing else, Audrey was not the woman he thought she was, not if she was dating someone like Corbin.
Still, despite these thoughts, Alan found himself watching Audrey as much as he ever had, cherishing those moments when she was alone in her apartment, reading on her couch like she always had. She’d started a new book, Gone Girl by Gillian Flynn, and Alan, on his way home from work, stopped at a Barnes & Noble and bought a copy, just so they could read it at the same time. Days would go by with no appearance by Corbin, and Alan would begin to hope that the relationship was over, but then Corbin would show up on a Friday night, always with a bottle of wine. They rarely seemed to go out together. Alan wondered if they’d come to some kind of sex agreement—neighbors with benefits. The thought bothered him. What did she possibly see in him? Even as someone just for sex.
On one of the nights when Corbin was in Audrey’s apartment, Alan, after several beers, decided to send an e-mail to Corbin. It had been nearly a year since they’d last had contact. Alan composed the e-mail, working hard to make it sound dashed off, apologizing for how long it had been, then asking Corbin if he wanted to get together for a quick game followed by another beer at the Sevens. “Or we could skip the racquetball and just grab a drink, if you want,” Alan added, thinking that having a conversation with Corbin was his only goal. He hit send as soon as he’d written the e-mail, so as not to give himself time to reconsider. Alan sat back and sighed. If Corbin took the bait, then he’d be able to quiz him about Audrey, maybe find out what was happening in the relationship. Maybe Corbin and Alan would become friends, this second time around, and that would allow Alan to formally meet Audrey, get to know her. Alan found his mind galloping forward, toward scenarios where Audrey would leave Corbin to be with him. He stopped himself from going too far with these fantasies, got up from the computer, and returned to the window. Corbin was looking at his phone. Alan wondered if he was reading the e-mail he’d just sent. If so, he didn’t respond until the following day:
Hey man. Nice to hear from you. I actually stopped playing racquetball, and only play squash now. But let’s get that drink anyway. I’m free Wednesday next week.
Alan replied that he was free as well. As the day neared, he began to wonder if there was any chance that Corbin would bring Audrey along. Because of this slight possibility, Alan dressed in his best pair of jeans and his Rag & Bone blazer. But when he arrived at the Sevens at the appointed time, Corbin wasn’t there. And when Corbin finally showed, twenty minutes late, he was alone.
They small-talked through half a beer, Corbin checking his cell phone at two-minute intervals. Realizing he had limited time, Alan asked, trying to sound casual: “Who you seeing these days?”
“Seeing?” Corbin replied. “No one, actually. Well, there’s this girl at work. Married, unfortunately—”
“I thought I heard from someone that you were seeing someone in the building. That girl who lives across from you—I don’t know her name . . .”
“Audrey?”
“Yeah, that might be it.”
Corbin took a long pull at his Smuttynose beer, a thin line of foam clinging to his upper lip. “I barely know her. Why? Who’d you hear that from?”
“I must have dreamt it, I guess. Or seen you two together.”
“Nah, man. I really don’t know her. I’ve seen her, and wouldn’t mind knowing her, but nah. How ’bout you? Your girlfriend moved out, didn’t she?”
Alan gave Corbin the short-story version of his breakup with Quinn and his plans to either find a new place soon or get a housemate to split the rent. They each finished their beer. The busy bartender swung past, asking them if they wanted another. Alan, not done interrogating Corbin about his love life, was about to say yes when Corbin jumped in and said he had to take off. “Sorry. I’ve got somewhere to be, unfortunately. Let’s do this again, though,” he said, unconvincingly.
Corbin left, but Alan stayed, ordering a rye and ginger ale, and wondering why Corbin would deny knowing Audrey. It didn’t make any sense. Even if they were trying to keep the relationship a secret for some reason, why would it matter if Alan knew about it?
When Alan returned to his apartment from the Sevens, he went straight to the window. Audrey’s apartment was dark.
But the following night she was there, on her couch, reading a Vanity Fair and occasionally checking her phone. She seemed jittery, twisting a strand of her short hair around a finger.
Alan went to make himself a drink, something he had learned to do in complete darkness, and when he returned, Corbin was now in Audrey’s apartment. They stood talking near her door, and Alan thought it looked like an impromptu visit. There was no bottle of wine, and Audrey was dressed in the black tights and oversized hoodie that she often wore when she was alone. Alan stood back a little from the window, even though he knew there was no way he could be seen. He watched them talking and knew that something was up. Corbin swung his head in the direction of Audrey’s window, and Audrey’s gaze followed, a frown creasing her face.
Both of them were staring directly across in Alan’s direction.
Alan turned cold. He took another step backward. His binoculars were on the end table next to the couch, and he went and got them, continuing to watch from deep within his apartment.
Corbin and Audrey talked some more. At one point, Audrey shrugged, a smile on her face. Then Alan watched, his skin flushed, as Corbin crossed Audrey’s living room and pulled her curtains all the way closed.
Alan lowered the binoculars. He hadn’t been spotted, but it was just as bad. He’d been figured out. Corbin had realized that the only way Alan would know that he and Audrey were seeing each other was if Alan had been spying from across the way. Had it occurred to him immediately after the drink? Had he returned to the apartment, checked to see where Alan lived, the location of the apartment, and then realized that it was the exact mirror apartment from across the courtyard? Alan felt physically sick, his stomach clenching. For a brief, horrible moment he wondered if Corbin, and maybe Corbin and Audrey, would come over to his apartment to confront him. He instinctively pushed the binoculars down between the sofa’s cushions. The lights were out. He wouldn’t have to answer the door.
Then Alan told himself to relax, to take a deep breath, to begin to analyze the situation. Even if Corbin had figured out that they’d been spotted through the window, it didn’t necessarily mean that they knew that Alan had been obsessively spying on Audrey. What if Corbin did confront him about it? All Alan would have to say would be something casual, like Oh yeah, maybe that’s where I saw you two together. Audrey never pulls her curtains all the way shut. That thought relaxed him, and he stood again, walked toward the window to look through it. Audrey’s curtains were still pulled shut.
Over the next few months, Alan gave up on the fantasy that he could somehow meet Audrey in the flesh. He knew it would never happen. He also knew that if it did, Audrey would recognize him as the creep from the other side of the building, the one Corbin had accused of spying. She must have taken Corbin seriously that night, because she became a lot more vigilant about pulling her curtains all the way shut, especially in the evenings. She did occasionally leave them open, but Alan had decided to attempt to curb the amount of time he spent looking out of his window. He knew it was unhealthy, and definitely immoral, along with probably being illegal.
He reconnected with some friends he’d lost touch with and accepted invitations from coworkers to get drinks after work. On one of those nights he wound up kissing an intern from Suffolk University. Bella was an avid softball player with long blond hair who photographed everything with her phone. Even though Alan was still in his late twenties, he felt like Bella came from another generation. They went to a movie, and afterward back to Alan’s place. He realized she was the only other human who had set foot in his apartment since Quinn had left. The sex was bad, perfunctory and awkward, and Bella talked nonstop out of embarrassment. After she’d fallen asleep—“Is it okay if I spend the night, even though I totally know this is just a hookup?”—Alan, wide awake, had gone into the living room. It had been a few days since he’d checked on Audrey’s apartment, but he pulled his curtains apart by an inch and looked across the way. She’d left her curtains slightly open as well. She was on the sofa, curled up asleep, her book facedown on the floor next to her. He’d seen her sleep on the sofa before. Her right hand was curled, palm out, along the center of her chest, her index finger grazing the soft skin under her chin.
Alan went to his own sofa, buried his own face into a pillow, and cried for the first time in years.
No more Audrey, he told himself.
He needed to erase her from his mind. And he’d succeeded lately. For the most part.
Then, on Saturday morning he’d found a stale, brittle cigarette and gone outside to smoke. He’d spoken to the pretty English girl—Kate something, maybe she hadn’t told him her last name—and she told him that Audrey was missing. It had been a strange and unsettling conversation. In some ways, Kate had reminded Alan of Audrey. Not the way she looked, although they shared the same pale coloring. Kate—and maybe it was just because he was meeting her face-to-face—had seemed more grounded, while Audrey had always been more ethereal. Pixieish, with her small features, long limbs, and that still quality, as though she’d never move unless it was absolutely necessary. To flip a page of her book, or take a sip of her tea. That was the difference, Alan thought. Kate, almost as pretty as Audrey, with a face that was rounder and hair that was a shade darker, was definitely not still. She shifted her weight from leg to leg when they talked. When she pushed a loose strand of hair back behind an ear, Alan noticed that her unvarnished fingernails had been bitten down to the quick.
Then the police had arrived, and Carol, Alan’s elderly neighbor from across the hall, had confirmed that a body had been found.
That evening a police officer, a woman who identified herself as Officer Karen Gibson, came to take a statement. He told her the truth. He knew Audrey Marshall by sight, but he didn’t know her.
That night Alan had slept, but it had been fitful, punctuated by thin dreams in which Audrey was with Alan in his apartment, touching him, speaking with him, whispering in his ear. He’d woken before dawn and gone to look toward Audrey’s apartment. It was dark, but he could tell that the curtain was open. He caught a flicker of movement and stared for a long time. The sky was lightening from black to orange, but the interior of Audrey’s apartment stayed dark. Still, he watched, scared to even blink too much. Then there was another suggestion of movement, a trace of light as Alan was sure he saw Audrey’s door open and shut quickly, a figure leaving the apartment.