I’M ON THE sofa with a bowl of ice cream smothered in microwavable hot fudge when my phone ding-dongs. The alert sends a chill through me. Now that my address has been published online, it could be anyone at my front door: a prankster, a duped delivery person, or someone here to hurt me. I don’t respond and wait, chest tight, hoping they’ll go away. But the doorbell rings again. And then again. I pick up my phone to call for help, but who would come? Not Theo. Not Adrian, or the police. Thankfully, whoever is out there gives up.
The silence settles, but my nerves won’t. The ice cream melts in my lap, my appetite extinguished by anxiety. I get up to take the bowl to the sink when my phone rings. I see Martha’s name on the display.
“I’m out front,” she says. “Let me in.”
Relief washes over me, almost annexing the annoyance over an uninvited guest. I’ve told my friend, repeatedly, that I wasn’t up for company, that I needed some time alone to process everything that’s gone wrong and grieve all that I have lost. The need for solitude was validated after my disastrous walk with Jody. But at least it’s not a murderer. And Martha has traveled across town to see me, so I can’t turn her away. “Come in,” I acquiesce, pressing the button to release the door.
Moments later Martha bustles into my apartment with two canvas grocery bags, glass bottles audibly clinking. “I know you said you wanted to be alone, but Felix and I don’t think that’s healthy.” She drops the canvas sacks on the kitchen counter with a thunk. “So we’re going to make cocktails.”
“Much healthier than being alone.”
“Vesper martinis,” she announces, removing bottles of gin, vodka, and Lillet from her bag. “Have you had one before?”
“No.”
“They’re my new favorite. Do you have a cocktail shaker?”
I dig a shaker out of the cupboard over my fridge, and fish some ice out of the freezer as Martha plays bartender. She’s also brought an array of cheese and crackers, and a bag of chips, which I appreciate since my dinner of ice cream has now melted. When our drinks are poured, and the food is set out on plates, we move back to the living room.
“Cheers,” Martha says, holding up her glass. “To new chapters and new beginnings.”
I understand she’s trying to bolster my spirits, but my losses are too recent and too many. How can I look forward to a new beginning without Liza? Or Theo? Or my writing? Halfheartedly, I lift my glass and take a sip of the concoction. It’s strong but floral and delicious.
“I know you’ve been through a lot,” Martha continues, softening her tone. “But you’re so resilient, Camryn. You got through a divorce, and that’s harder than this is.”
“In some ways, yes,” I explain. “It was definitely more disruptive. But Adrian and I were unhappy for so long. My writing career had just started.”
“You don’t have to quit writing,” Martha says. “Maybe you could write for magazines? Or for TV?”
Like that’s so easy.
“Or you could teach classes. You’re a published author. It’s a huge accomplishment.”
One day, these options might be appealing, but right now they’re little consolation. “I wanted to write another book,” I say glumly.
Martha leans forward, fixes herself a cracker with blue cheese and fig jam. “I was a little worried about your next book, actually.”
“Worried?”
“The plot sounded a bit familiar.” She sits back, pops the cracker into her mouth, and chews. “You were going to write about a couple whose marriage is shaken up by a platonic girlfriend from the husband’s past.”
“Yeah…?” Did I share this idea with Martha? I don’t recall.
“It sounded a lot like Felix and his friend Ellen.”
Ellen. I grapple to place the name in my memory, and then I remember. When Martha and Felix first started dating, Ellen was his best friend. He assured Martha they were nothing more than pals, that Ellen was happy with her partner, Omar, and Felix loved only Martha. But Martha never believed him. She always worried that if Ellen and Omar split, Felix would want to be with her. Eventually, the friendship gave out under the strain.
“I’d forgotten all about her,” I say.
“You must have remembered her on some level, or you wouldn’t have written about that scenario.”
“Did Ellen’s partner die?” My brow furrows. “That was really the crux of my plot.”
“No, Omar’s fine and they’re still together. I just meant that the friendship between Ellen and Felix was the jumping-off point for you. And that would have been hard for me.”
I set my glass down. “I don’t think you’re the only person who’s felt jealous of a partner’s platonic friendship.”
“I’m not.” There’s an edge to her tone. “But I might be the only one whose best friend was going to write a novel about it.”
This conversation is making me uncomfortable. I feel muddled and defensive. I need more clarity. “When did I tell you the plot of my next novel?”
Martha reaches for a handful of chips, but her casual façade is slipping. “Rhea and I were talking about some of the work you guys did in writing class. She mentioned a short story you wrote and said you were going to pitch it as your next novel.”
“How did she know I was turning that story into a novel?”
“I have no idea.”
But I do. Navid must have told her. Was he my ally in all this mess or was he dishing behind my back with Rhea?
“Rhea sent me a note,” I mumble, almost to myself. “She said she understood what I’m going through.”
“She does. She feels awful for you.”
“I thought you two were barely acquaintances?”
“We’ve gotten closer lately. Because we’re both concerned about you.”
“Does Rhea think I did this to myself?” I ask, eyes narrowing. “Is she part of the online group making those ridiculous accusations?”
“Rhea doesn’t know what to think,” Martha says, which means yes. “It’s all so confusing.”
I reach for my drink and swallow the rest of it. It burns in my chest, but I want to numb myself. Martha’s visit has made me feel more alone than ever. When I speak, my tone is pointed. “I guess you’re pretty relieved that I won’t be publishing another book.”
“I am.” Martha picks up her glass, too. “But only because publishing was decimating you, Cam. I hated watching you suffer. At what point is it not worth it anymore?”
I look at my friend and try to gauge her sincerity. Is she really here to support me? Or is there something exultant in her manner? The people I’d trusted the most—Theo, Jody, and now Martha—all have reasons to revel in the demise of my career. Until I get definitive news from the cyber detective, I don’t know who I can trust.
“I’m tired,” I say, which isn’t a lie. “I’d like to be alone.”
“Don’t be like that.”
“Like what?” I ask, and my eyes are moist with emotion. “I’m exhausted. And drinking myself into oblivion probably isn’t the healthiest way to cope with all the stress.”
“Okay.” She holds her hands up like I’ve got a gun on her. “I’m sorry. I’ll leave you alone.”
In tense silence, we pack up the snacks and bottles, and I stand by as she calls Felix to pick her up on the way to his gig.
“I’ll meet him out front,” she says, forcing a conciliatory smile. But I don’t return it. I just close and lock the door behind her.
I’ve just settled into bed when my phone buzzes with a text. Picking it up, I see that it’s from Theo.
I think I left a set of office keys there. Can I get them?
I haven’t seen a set of keys lying around, but it’s possible they’re here. It’s also possible this is just an excuse to talk to me. My heart melts a little. Because I want to talk to Theo, too. I miss his comforting presence, the way he supported me. Even if it’s too late for us romantically, I hate the way we ended things.
I haven’t seen them, I write back, but I can look for them.
Thnx. It sounds abrupt. If you find them, let me know. I can swing by on Monday.
Or we could meet for coffee?
The ellipsis shimmers as he composes a response. I wait, wondering if he’s going to tell me he just wants his fucking keys, that he doesn’t want to talk to me, and he can’t forgive my accusations. Whatever he was going to say, he must have reconsidered, because a single letter comes through.
K