There is a moment of shocked silence before she responds. Her voice is overly happy. “Caleb, it’s the right thing. Thank God it came around again. You turned it down the last time for that girl — what a mistake that wa-”
I cut her off, tell her I’ll call tomorrow after I’ve spoken to the London office. I take one more look at the ocean before I head home. Tomorrow I’m going to London.
But, I don’t.
I wake up to pounding. At first I think it’s the construction going on in my building. 760 is remodeling their kitchen. I crush my head beneath my pillow. It does nothing to mute the sound. Swearing, I toss it aside. The pounding sounds closer to home. I roll onto my back and listen. The room rocks on its axis. Too much scotch — again. The pounding is coming from my front door. I swing my legs over the side of the bed and pull on a pair of grey pajama pants I find lying on the floor. I cross my living room, kicking aside shoes and piles of clothes that have been gathering for weeks. I fling open the door, and everything freezes. Breath … beats of heart … thought.
Neither of us says a word as we size each other up. Then she pushes past me and starts pacing my living room, like showing up here is the most natural thing in the world. I’m still standing at the open door, watching her in confusion, when she turns the full battery of her eyes on me. It takes me a minute to speak, to realize this is really happening. I can hear someone using a drill in the condo upstairs. I can see a bird making its way across the sky, just outside my window, but I tell myself that my senses are lying in regards to her. She’s not really here after all these years.
“What are you doing here, Duchess?”
I take her in; absorb her. She looks manic, her hair is braided down her back, but there are pieces of it that have come loose all around her face. Her eyes are lined in kohl, drenched in emotion. I’ve never seen her wear her makeup like that before. She throws her arms wide; it’s an angry gesture. I brace myself for the string of expletives that usually come with her anger.
“What? You don’t clean anymore?”
Not what I was expecting. I kick the door shut with my foot and run a hand along the back of my neck. I haven’t shaved in three days, and all I’m wearing is a pair of pajama pants. My house looks like a college dorm.
I edge my way to the sofa as if this isn’t my living room and I sit down, uncomfortably. I watch her pace.
Suddenly, she stops. “I let him loose. I put him back on the street. He’s a f**king psycho!” She slaps a fist into her open palm on the last word. Her foot touches an empty bottle of scotch, and it rolls across the hardwood. We both follow it with our eyes until it disappears under the table.
“What the f**k is wrong with you?” she asks, looking around.
I lean back and link my hands behind my neck. I trace her gaze to the disaster that is my condo.
“You should have thought of that before you took the case.”
She looks ready to punch me. Her eyes start at my hair, work down to my beard, linger on my chest, and scoop back up to my face. All of a sudden, she’s sober. I see it fill her eyes, the realization that she came here and she shouldn’t have. We both make our move at the same time. She bolts for the door; I jump up and block her.
She keeps her distance, tucking her bottom lip under her teeth, kohl eyes looking less sure.
“Your move,” I say.
I see her throat spasm as she swallows her thoughts, swallows ten years of us.
“All right … all right!” she says finally. She walks back around the couch and sits down on the recliner. We’ve begun our usual game of cat and mouse. I’m comfortable with this.
I sit on the love seat and stare at her expectantly. She uses her thumb to spin her wedding band. When she sees me watching — she stops. I almost laugh when she pulls up the foot of the recliner and slouches backwards like she belongs here.
“Do you have a Coke?”
I stand up and get her a bottle from my fridge. I don’t drink Coke, but I always have it in my fridge. Maybe it’s for her. I don’t know. She pops the cap, pressing the bottle against her lips and chugging. She loves the burn.
When she’s done, she wipes the back of her hand across her mouth and stares at me like I’m the snake. She’s the snake.
“Should we try being friends?”
I open my hands and tilt my head like I don’t know what she’s talking about. I do. We can’t stay away, so what’s the alternative? She hiccups from the Coke.
“You know, I’ve never met anyone that can say as much as you, without a single word coming out of his mouth,” she snaps.
I grin. Usually, if I let her talk without interrupting her, she’ll tell me more than she intended.
“I hate myself. I might as well have been the one to put Casey f**king Anthony back on the street.”
“Where’s Noah?”
“Germany.”
I raise my eyebrows. “He was out of the country for the verdict?”
“Shut up. We didn’t know how long they’d take to deliberate.”
“You should be celebrating.” I lean back and sling both arms across the back of the couch.
She starts to cry, stoic-faced, tears pouring like an open tap.
I stay where I am. I want to comfort her, but when I touch her, it’s hard to stop.
“You remember that time in college when you started crying because you thought you were going to fail that test, and the professor thought you were having a seizure?”