She stared at her knees. Both skinned up, pink and abraded, twin trickles of blood diluted by the steady, warm rain. Drops slid along her nose and cheeks as she rocked slowly, her fingers curled over her shins.
Her butt hurt. She shifted on the brick steps and winced. Her back hurt, too. Her fingernails were filthy, broken, and crusted with grime. Grit crunched between her teeth.
She raised her head as a memory came to her: teetering as her bike hit soft, loose sand. Her shoulder and hip hitting the ground. She lifted her left arm and hissed at the deep, dull ache.
In front of her was a narrow street, water carving its path through the silt at the edge of the asphalt. On either side of her were small cottages. Everything was gray. The buildings. The sky. Even her hands were tinged with it. She peered at them, wondering if she was actually alive or dead and in some weird in-between, a hazy, wet waiting place where she was all alone, the only soul in the world.
From behind her came a metallic squeak. She whipped around, ending up crouched at the bottom of the brick steps, looking up at a white-haired man wearing a blue robe and pajama pants who was leaning out the front door of his cottage, the stoop of which she’d apparently been sitting on. Number thirty-nine.
His eyebrows were raised. “Hi there,” he said quietly. “Can I help you?”
She backed off the porch and stood up. Her tongue writhed inside her mouth like an earthworm in rain-soaked dirt.
A younger, shirtless man with pink hair and black roots leaned around the white-haired guy, laying a hand on the older man’s arm. “Who—?” the younger guy began, then frowned when he caught sight of her. “Honey, is she okay?” he asked, looking up at his partner.
“Are you okay?” the white-haired man asked her, his gaze traveling from the top of her head down to her knees. He frowned. “Do you need anything, sweetheart? We have some croissants if you want something to eat.”
“How long has she been here?” the younger man whispered, but she heard it loud and clear.
Her fingers dug into her biceps as she waited for the answer.
The older man shrugged. “Did someone hurt you, dear? Do you have a phone? Need us to call someone for you?”
She shuddered and took another step back. Wiped the rain from her eyes. Smoothed her hair from her face. “I’m sorry,” she said, licking raindrops from her lips. “S-sorry to bother you.”
She turned and jogged onto the road. The two men didn’t chase after her. She heard the squeaky cottage door closing as she made it to an intersection. She was back on Commercial Street. The Pilgrim’s Monument was off to her left, and the ocean was in front of her, which meant she was in the West End.
Haverman’s was in the East End. When had she left work? Where had she left her bike?
She began to meander toward the center of town, pausing only to observe a lone pigeon, its purple-tinged neck puffed out with seeming determination, bobbing along the sidewalk as if it was setting out to see the world. The rain tapered to a sprinkle and then to a mist, and she breathed it in, imagining the tiny specks of water gathering on the inside of her nose, her throat, her chest. Filling up every space, every cell. She wrung out her soggy shirt. With every step, her heels exacted a sad, distressed squish from her saturated flip-flops.
She was not alone here. If she were dead, then these other people were, too, the ones out walking their dogs and carrying cups of coffee and folding up their umbrellas and squinting at the sky. She flinched as the ferry’s horn sounded off, a deep bellow of warning before the vessel shoved off into the bay. Unless the 8:30 a.m. fast ferry to Boston was piloted by Charon himself, she probably wasn’t dead.
But she was tired. Her pace slowed to a zombie shuffle, and she plopped down on the steps of a T-shirt store. Her hands found her face, sliding over the planes of her cheeks and forehead, over the dome of her skull and down to her scraggly, loose ponytail.
“Layla?”
A guy was standing in front of her, clutching a paper coffee cup and frowning. His name floated up to the surface of her thoughts, alone and unaccompanied. “Matt?”
Her voice was small and hoarse but hers.
“What are you doing?” Matt asked. He had curly brown hair that was thinning on top and a few days’ worth of stubble. He wore a shirt with Cory’s Bike Rentals emblazoned across the chest. He looked up and down the street. “Have you been out all night?”
“Yes.” Better than telling him she wasn’t sure.
“Doing what?” He glared at her skinned-up knees as he fished his phone from his pocket. “Jesus,” he muttered.
She wanted to ask how they knew each other, but she understood instinctively that it would make things worse. “Who are you texting?”
His thumb marched over the screen of his phone. “Who do you think?”
She began to push herself up from the steps, but Matt’s hand clamped over her shoulder. She yelped, and he drew his hand back as if she’d bitten him. Her butt hit the steps again. Matt shook his head. He said something she couldn’t catch because the buzz between her ears was too loud.
“I’m going to go get you something to eat,” he said, louder this time, pointing to the Portuguese bakery right across the street. “You want a muffin? Or one of those fried dough things?”
She put her hand on her stomach, then peered down at it. When she raised her head, he was gone, but then he was back, carrying a wax paper sack. He shoved it at her. “You can pay me back later.” His look said he doubted she was good for it.
The smell of cinnamon reached her, and she pushed her nose into the bag. Then she was shoving chunks of sweet, chewy pastry into her mouth. She couldn’t eat fast enough. She needed five more just like it. She needed a million of them.
“What the fuck.”
This voice she recognized, but she was too busy chewing to name its owner.
“That cost me three fifty,” Matt said to Esteban, who was now standing next to him, wearing worn-out boat shoes and khaki shorts and a Haverman’s T-shirt. His black hair was wet-looking, slicked back.
“This is where you found her?” he asked Matt as he took her by the arm. He pulled her up and steadied her with a hand on the small of her back. The wax paper sack crumpled in her fist.
“Ask her, dude,” Matt said. “I have to get to work.” He tossed an exasperated, disapproving look over his shoulder as he headed up the street toward the East End.
“I was out looking for you until three,” Esteban snapped, steering her up the sidewalk. “I called Jaliesa, and she said you took off before your shift was even over. Where the hell have you been?”
“I worked last night,” she said. The memories were hazy but there, a relief and a worry at the same time.
Esteban sighed, but he didn’t say more. He simply guided her along, and she didn’t fight him. She even knew where they were going. The boardinghouse. Robin’s egg blue, paint peeling from the wooden siding, narrow stairs. He unlocked the front door and pushed her upward, to the third floor, and then to the second room on the right, with a loose doorknob that he had to twist a few times to open. The place was hushed, though she could hear strains of Led Zeppelin coming through the door next to Esteban’s.
The cramped room was taken up almost entirely by a double bed, its headboard a shuttered window, the walls tilting inward as if they were about to collapse on top of them. She was several inches shorter than Esteban, and still she wanted to duck her head. He pushed her onto the bed and removed her flip-flops, then her shirt, his movements brusque. He knelt by the bed and pulled a battered suitcase from underneath. “Do you want a shower or just dry clothes?”
When she didn’t answer, he sighed again and pushed a red shirt at her chest. She put it on. It was huge, the hem hitting her midthigh. She rose and unbuttoned her shorts. They slid down her legs, soggy and cold, and suddenly she was desperate to get them off, to get them away. She kicked them toward the door. Underwear, too, because it was soaked through. She sat down on the foot of the bed again.
Esteban slid the suitcase under the bed. “Are you okay?” he asked. “Matt said you were messed up. Did you party last night?” He rose and took her face in his hands, turning her head up so she was looking at the old glass light fixture on the ceiling. “Did you take something?”
She tried to shake her head, but his hands prevented much movement. “I need to sleep,” she said. “I’m tired.”
He let her go. “I have to be in at ten anyway.” He worked days at Haverman’s and the occasional double. “Did Lou pay you last night?”
Her gaze flicked to her shorts, in a heap by the door. “I don’t think so.”
“It’s the end of the month, and I need to pay rent. It’d be nice if you chipped in.”
“Oh. Okay.”
He crossed his arms over his chest. “You’ve been here longer than I expected.”
“Sure.” She frowned. “You told me I could stay for as long as I wanted.”
It was more of a question, a need for confirmation, but it was also the wrong thing to say. “I’ve done everything for you that I could, Layla! I stuck my neck out for you with Lou. I gave you a place to stay.” He looked at her there, the edge of the red shirt barely covering her upper thighs. “I’ve been your friend.”
Layla tugged the hem all the way down to her knees.
He let out an exasperated groan. “How long do you think you’ll need a place?”
She shrugged, gaze focused on her own feet. Her knees were stinging. Her left arm ached. She had no idea where her bike was.
“Look,” he said, then paused. “Okay, look. Do you have anywhere to go? Did your folks kick you out or something? Are you from the Cape? You got people who might come get you?”
He had asked her this before.
“Because you don’t seem like you should be on your own,” he continued. “I mean, look at you.”
She raised her knees, tucking them under the shirt until it stretched over her legs like a tent, pulling at the raw skin underneath. The pain was warm. It connected her to her body. “I can go.”
“I’m not asking you to go, dammit! I’m just trying to know you, okay? I figured you’d talk to me when you got comfortable, but you’re… I don’t know. I can’t figure out what’s up with you.” He sank down on the bed next to her, shoulders slumped. “You can trust me. I’ve been looking out for you, haven’t I?”
She nodded.
He made a pained face. “Oh, honey. Look. I’m sorry.” He put his arm around her, pulled her to him. It hurt her shoulder and arm, but she didn’t resist. Her gaze rested on the loose doorknob. It still worked, but not well. Like her, she supposed.
“I can give you some money,” she said.
“Forget I mentioned it. It was just—it was a rough night. I was worried about you.”
“Why?”
“I like you.” He looked down at her. “I care about you. I wish you’d trust me enough to let me in. And I thought we were headed in the right direction, but then last night…”
“I’m sorry.”
“Forget it. I’m glad you’re okay. You really should have a phone, though. I can probably get you one if you want. For cheap. I know a guy.” He smiled. His upper left canine was gray. He let her go and stood up again. “I’d better head out, though. Gotta sling the drinks and pay the bills.”
He was still smiling, but she could tell he wasn’t actually happy. She didn’t move as he opened the door, as he stepped into the hall and then turned back to her. “I’m gonna see you tonight?” he asked. “We could go for a walk. Talk a little more?”
She smiled at him. He nodded and closed the door.
She fell back onto the bed and stared up at the light fixture. Assorted bug carcasses littered the glass bowl that covered the light bulb. She wondered if the heat had killed them. Or the light, flooding every inch of that space, magnified by the glass, too bright and confusing.
Esteban wanted to talk. Wanted to know her. Where she came from. What she was doing in Provincetown. Where she was headed next. He thought she didn’t trust him, and that was why she’d kept to herself, hadn’t told him a thing.
But that wasn’t it.
She couldn’t tell him about herself.
Because she honestly didn’t know.