Regards,

Trey

I read the letter half a dozen times, unable to understand how Trey could rationalize such an unreasonable demand. His insensitivity astounded me. Numbed by a state of shock I thought had worn off months ago, I flipped through the legal papers. While the jargon made little sense, the intent was clear. Trey wanted possession of the house meant for Connor and me. It had been a gift from Connor’s parents. Had our flight made it to Hawaii, we would have been married.

Trey’s ill-timed letter served as a reminder that I was still here, putting the pieces of my fractured life back together while the world continued to turn.

I paced the perimeter of my living room, debating whether or not to call Trey and confront him. In my current state I would likely say something regrettable, and he would throw it back at me. How two men raised by the same loving parents could be so different was beyond comprehension. Connor had been gentle and patient, whereas Trey was coarse and unforgiving. Even at the funeral he showed only apathy, his eulogy bereft of emotion. At first I attributed it to the magnitude of the loss, but in the weeks that followed he never gave any signs of grieving. And now he wanted to claim the one thing that signified what should have been my present rather than a fragment of my past.

I felt a familiar stab of guilt as I pictured the house. If only I had made a different decision so many months ago, I wouldn’t be alone now.

The confines of my apartment were suffocating; I needed out. I changed my clothes and checked my reflection in the vanity mirror. Lack of sleep took its toll. No amount of makeup could mask the dark circles under my eyes. I rummaged around in the medicine cabinet for the concealer and tried to ignore the mostly full pill bottles. A vial of antianxiety meds fell out and dropped into the sink. I picked it up and rolled the plastic cylinder between my palms. It had been a long while since I’d indulged in the artificial calm they provided.

The first few months after the crash had been a downward spiral. Prescriptions to manage pain and control the endless anxiety had made the world hazy. As the physical and emotional pain had become more manageable, the medication had become less necessary. Things had improved further with the move to Chicago.

But tonight, I was on edge. And if I fell apart, there was no one around to help me pick up the pieces.

With trembling fingers I lined up the arrows and popped the cap, shaking out a tiny white pill. Regardless of whether or not I deserved the peace it would bring, I placed the tablet under my tongue. The bitter tang of chemicals provided almost instantaneous relief, the promise of serenity no longer out of reach as it dissolved.

Despite my initial attempts to keep to myself, the solitude was proving more of a challenge to maintain than I anticipated. I hadn’t been able to keep Lisa at arm’s length, as I’d intended. She came into Serendipity almost every time I worked, and she always stopped to chat. At first it was just pleasantries and introductions, but eventually it turned into discussions about books, piercing, and sometimes even Hayden. She was easy to talk to.

Beyond that, I went across the hall to my neighbor Sarah’s apartment when she invited me in for drinks a few days ago. I told myself it was because I didn’t want to be rude, but in truth I was lonely.

I rummaged through my purse; along with money and identification, I found a black card in my wallet. Ian, one of the few people I spoke to in my program at Northwestern, gave it to me earlier in the week. If not for group work in my seminar class, peer interaction would be nonexistent. Ian’s email address was scrawled on the back of the card advertising The Elbo Room, a bar a few blocks away. The name seemed familiar, and I recognized it as the same bar Lisa had invited me to in passing last week. I’d declined, concerned about getting too comfortable around her. Although that seemed to have happened already, considering the piercings I’d indulged in this evening.

Tonight The Elbo Room seemed as good a destination as any to down a few shots and wait for oblivion to take hold. I closed the door behind me and glanced across the hall at apartment B. Considering the hours Sarah kept, I assumed she bartended somewhere close by, but I hadn’t thought to ask. I knocked anyway on the off chance she might be home. When there was no answer, I headed out.

Though it was after eleven, the lights were still on at Inked Armor, the Closed sign flickering neon. Through the windows I could see Lisa leaning over the counter. Hayden sat at his station, shoulders hunched as he labored over what I guessed was a design. He tossed his pencil down and stretched, running a hand through his hair. A part of me longed for him to glance out the window, notice me standing there . . . but I knew making a real connection with anyone—especially tonight, and especially with someone like Hayden—was the last thing I should do. I turned away and started downtown.

The bouncer carded me at the door and gave me the once-over. My hoodie-tank-jeans ensemble didn’t quite fit in with the four-inch heels or miniskirts of the girls who went in ahead of me. The dress-code violation must not have been too serious, since he mumbled a halfhearted “Happy birthday” and waved me in.

I squeezed my way through the throng of bodies to reach the bar. The heat of so many people in such a confined space felt oppressive. I shed the hoodie and stuffed it in my messenger bag. Ian was busy showing off behind the counter, flipping bottles before he splashed liquor into a line of shot glasses. His face retained its youthfulness, soft instead of angular. To some he might have been passably cute, but as far as I could see, he was just another boy playing at being a man. There were lots of those on campus.

Hayden, on the other hand, wasn’t playing at anything. Maybe that explained my fascination with him. He just was; no apologies, no pretense. Whatever life had dealt him hadn’t been easy, from the little Cassie revealed about him. Those crumbs of information only exacerbated my growing interest.

“Tenley!” Ian pulled me out of my head and back to the overcrowded bar. “I’m glad you’re here! Are you with friends?”

I shook my head. Outside of class and work, I didn’t socialize much. Cassie was one of the few people with whom I indulged in regular conversation. As my employer and landlord, she didn’t count.

I pasted on a smile, feeling out of place among the sweaty, drunken masses. “Three shots of vodka, unless you want to do one with me, then make it four.”

“All right, that’s my kind of girl.”

Ian’s apparent affinity for girls who drank liquor straight up was mildly disconcerting. He set four shot glasses on the bar and filled them. We toasted on the first shot, and I downed the rest of them, barely pausing to breathe. I welcomed the burn as the alcohol slid down my throat.

“You want to leave your stuff with me?” His calculating smile made the offer sound more propositional than friendly.

“Thanks, but I’m not staying long.”

The bar was packed, and I was taking up prime real estate for would-be drinkers. They were pushing, bodies closing in, elbows and arms, nudging and shoving. Despite the medication and vodka, the close contact still made me uncomfortable. Ian moved on to the next patron, so I gave him a wave and left.

A familiar song blasted through the speakers, the bass vibrating in my bones. Connor had hated this kind of music. He thought it was too aggressive. But our conflicting taste in music—and nearly everything else—was no longer an issue. I could listen to whatever I wanted now. The crushing guilt that always followed this train of thought made it hard to breathe, the effect of the pill already wearing off before the alcohol had even hit my bloodstream and dulled my senses. I moved through the bar, feeling less and less at ease with the sheer volume of physical contact.