At first, only the tiniest things seemed to go missing.
An invoice for one of my freelance clients. The leftovers of an expensive meal I’d wanted to reheat. A favorite pair of socks. My bright blue Sharpie. The scarf of my mother’s. Gone, or so I thought. In a different place altogether. The invoice, tucked underneath a stack of books. The leftovers, turning moldy in the cabinet instead of in the fridge. The socks, in the bottom of Dusty’s bin of toys. The Sharpie, inexplicably dropped into my hamper and put through the wash. My mom’s vintage silk scarf—tucked away in the drawer next to threadbare dish towels, one corner having been used to sop up a mess in the kitchen, permanently stained.
Things so small, so insignificant, I half thought I was going crazy. Maybe I was just forgetful, flighty, as Davis was always implying.
Except things had never been misplaced when I was on my own—only after I moved in with him.
Now, afternoon bleeding quickly into evening, rain tapping lightly on the roof of my new cottage, I moved from room to room, noting what was what and where, writing it down in my composition notebook.
Living room: trail map and History of the Catskills (on coffee table), encyclopedia set missing the letter H (in bookshelf), and on and on. Kitchen: tea tin (four packets of Earl Grey, two of mint), scratch pad (opened to a shopping list: bananas, black beans, coffee), utensil drawer (surprisingly, a complete set), knife drawer (six knives, red Lucite handles).
Perhaps these behaviors had always been there, brewing, but it wasn’t until Davis that they rose to the forefront—an attempt to control the uncontrollable. I’d started writing things down to preserve my sanity, to help me understand.
And when I had, it had slowly become clear, a Polaroid sharpening into focus. I wasn’t flighty. My brain was not a sieve.
These were punishments. Tiny ones, sure. Suited to my own tiny crimes. For not laughing at one of Davis’s jokes when we were at a party together. For asking him to do the dishes more. For writing that note to him—yes, in bright blue Sharpie—about the faucet that was always dripping.
The rain had stopped, and it was after seven by the time I got to the bedroom, which I’d saved for last. It was clear of any paraphernalia, nothing there besides furniture. I tossed the notebook onto the bed and dragged my bag into the closet. A small dresser hugged the wall inside. I filled the drawers with black tees and denim shirts, light sweaters and layers. The smaller underwear drawer sat on top. When I tried to pull it open, it stuck, creaking, but I tugged harder and it gave. A dusty furniture brochure sat within the drawer, had probably been in there since the piece was made—the fifties, the sixties—who knew.
As I grabbed the brochure, a stack of photos fell from it, five of them, glossy, “Catskills Photo” printed on the back. Every picture showed the same man. All were extremely close-up, so close they almost seemed intimate, snatches of brown hair and a salt-and-pepper beard catching the light. He was rugged, with deep-set eyes and a strong chin, the kind of guy who made you think, They don’t make men like this anymore.
I shoved them back into the brochure and tossed it back in the drawer. I added my bras and underwear and the scarf of my mother’s, then slammed the drawer shut. The photos were nothing, the odds and ends of a life left behind. Probably the boyfriend of the last tenant. Grabbing my notebook, I marked them down anyway. Bedroom closet: five photos in top drawer of dresser (all of one man). Then, with my phone, I took a photo of the list I’d made for each room, just in case.
Situating myself on the bed, I took a deep breath, trying to reassure myself that there was no way Davis could find me. I had a fresh SIM card, which meant a new number, my social media accounts were deleted, and my old email would only be accessed when I was logged in to the VPN, a necessary risk for work. Even my new home was like a fresh start—filled with perfectly impersonal items, things that weren’t even mine, as if here, I could become someone else altogether.
If I were Ellie, I would have been freaking out. My best friend couldn’t go even a day without posting something to Instagram. But Ellie would probably have found a way to handle all of this differently. She was always good at difficult things, a friend who’d understood so clearly how to be there for me, never bringing up my parents unless I wanted to talk, inviting me over on Mother’s Day and Father’s Day to ply me with plotless buddy comedies and wine, take my mind away from it all.
Still, I can’t say how she would have handled this. This was different from my parents; no one knew what was happening except Davis and me. Basic logic, therefore, made him my only ally. Even now, I half wanted to call him, all, Babe, isn’t this crazy? Can you actually believe this is happening to us? I wondered if he would answer or if the phone would just . . . ring.
I opened Instagram instead.
I typed Davis’s handle into the search bar, and he instantly popped up. His account was public, but he hadn’t added anything in three days. The thought of him, plotting ways to fuck with me, made my skin crawl. The thought of him, wasting away in our apartment, alone, did, too.
I scanned through his posts: Us at the dog park. Hiking in the Poconos with Ellie, sweat on our foreheads. Sunbathing in South Beach. Laughing at some sort of inside joke. In the beginning, I was always laughing when I was with him. Always. I hovered over the Message button—there was so much I wanted to say.
I won, fucker!
You didn’t think I could, but I did.
I miss you, and I hate myself for it.
I’m scared, terrified.
You’ll never see me or Dusty again.
Are you okay?
On cue, Dusty nuzzled me, staring at me with his big puppy eyes. It’s not worth it, he seemed to say. It’s not worth the risk.
Quickly, I closed the window. It was only seven forty-five now, and the hours before me seemed suddenly endless. I grabbed my notebook and began another list, one of to-dos.
—Figure out money/bank
—Fix phone
—Buy real food
—Get food and treats for Dusty
—Pitch new articles
—Write ones already assigned
I let the pen drop and checked the time on my phone again. Only a couple of minutes had passed. There was a shush of wind outside, and my skin pricked, my downy hairs standing straight up. My eyes flitted to the window—I had that sensation again of being watched—and I peered around the drapes, but there was no one there. I breathed deeply. I was simply being paranoid; after all, being alone wasn’t a skill I’d had to cultivate in Brooklyn. There was always a press party or a dive bar trivia night with Ellie. Before Davis, there’d been the endless barrage of dates. Good and bad, funny and excruciating. OkCupid in the old days and Tinder and Bumble just before Davis had come along. So many ways to fill your time with other humans. Brunch the next day to trade bad-date stories.
And then Davis, a relief from all that. Davis, who stopped the endless loop of profiles and photos, like a stack of résumés for the job of Boyfriend.
I looked at the clock. Not even another minute had passed.
Have a drink wasn’t on the to-do list, but it should be.
Go to dinner with potentially cool new neighbors wasn’t, either.
I headed to the kitchen, poured a finger or so of whiskey, and eyed Dusty, daring him to judge. Then I retrieved the pizza from the fridge and stared at it. Whatever Vera was cooking seemed infinitely more appetizing. Dusty eyed me—not judging, just begging.
Screw it, I thought. I grabbed a piece of crust and tossed it to him. He didn’t usually get people food, but it was okay. Tonight we were both breaking the rules.