Page 3

Astrid

The soft ding-ding-ding of the car door lets me know it’s open while I try to gather my things, balancing my coffee cup and water bottle with one arm while grabbing my purse with the other. That snarky interviewer’s voice rings through my head.

She wasn’t that much older than me, hadn’t even let me finish my presentation before cutting in.

I’m just not convinced we have a spot for you in the research department here.

I walk through the parking garage under my apartment, already imagining the sweet release of unclipping my bra and flinging it across the room. I can see the interviewer’s face in my mind, the way she tilted her head at me pityingly.

Perhaps you should try a more…conventional research proposal ?

Growling with frustration, I step into my elevator and punch the buttons.

Some might tell me I’m lucky that my building even has an elevator. I’m lucky to have the money I have. I’m lucky to live in L.A. and not worry about the cost of that while searching for a spot at a research lab.

Bouncing on my heels, I look up at the mirrored ceiling, where my own disheveled face stares right back at me. Cheeks flushed, eyes tired, hair a complete frizz ball.

I carefully straightened my hair this morning. Now it’s a wreck from the rolled down windows on the highway. At least I was blessed with a mostly traffic-free highway. An oddity in Los Angeles.

By the time I hit my floor, all I want is to strip down, fall face first into my bed, then eventually gather up the energy to order some half-decent food that will arrive cold and forty minutes later than I expect.

At first, when I open the door, I’m surprised to hear noise.

That’s when I remember I live in this apartment, not with a roommate, but a partner. When I imagined coming home, I hadn’t even thought about whether I’d be alone. Hearing the noise, a feeling of dread rolls through me. I’m dating someone, and that means I’m going to have to talk through what happened today. Explain all the reasons I feel like shit.

I might be a psychologist, but that doesn’t mean I enjoy baring my soul.

Once I have the door open, though, I realize that definitely won’t be happening.

“Oh, shit,” Roman says, mouth forming a perfect ‘O’ as he pulls away from Brianna, leaving her folded against the kitchen island, and turning to look up at me like I might strangle her.

“Fuck, Astrid,” Roman says, and I grind the heels of my palms into my eyes, so I don’t get another glimpse of his dick, deflated and glistening as he turns to me. “I’m so—”

“Just go home,” I say, still not moving my hands, listening as he gathers up his clothes and moves toward the door, still muttering apologies. Our front door closes, then I hear the one across the hall open a second later.

Roman is home, in his own apartment, and I’m pulling my hands away from my eyes, looking at my girlfriend.

Ex-girlfriend, now. Another in the long string of loose attachments to men and women I’ve had living in L.A. She’s not even the first woman to cheat on me, though she is the first to do it in my own apartment.

“Alright,” I sigh, reaching around under my shirt to unclasp my bra. “Obviously, you can’t stay here. You can tonight—on the couch—but tomorrow you need to find another place—”

“For fuck’s sake , Astrid!” Her accent—Scottish, I think—puts hard points on the end of each word, growing stronger with every word.

I stop, pausing while threading my bra out from under my shirt, and stare at her. She’s still standing against the kitchen counter, now holding her shirt to her chest, her face more flushed than it was when I walked in on her a moment ago.

She’s breathing hard, looking at me with wild eyes like I’m the one who cheated on her.

A moment passes in which we stare at one another. Finally, I clear my throat. “…What?”

“ What ?” she breathes, laughing, bringing her hand to her forehead. “Are you fucking serious? You just—you walked in on me with the neighbor!”

“I’m very aware of that,” I say, eyes drifting to the counter, realizing I’m going to have to disinfect the entire apartment. “Is that…the only place?”

“Are you seriously thinking about cleaning right now?” She hurls the words at me like an insult. I am exclusively thinking about where Roman’s naked ass has been, but I try not to let that show.

“You are !” The words come out of her as a half-laugh, half-sob. Brianna is not my first girlfriend in L.A., but she is the first actress. Right now, I get the distinct impression that she’s not acting.

“I’m…sorry?” I try, even though that feels like a pretty fucked up thing to say, considering the fact that she just had my neighbor in here, and I’m going to have to look him in the eye until the end of my lease, having seen his less-than-impressive dick in all its glory.

My mind shifts gears, and I wonder if I should leave a note on his door, specifying that I want absolutely nothing to do with him or his penis. He is so not my type, and I don’t want him thinking Brianna and I have—had—an open relationship, or that we might be interested in threesomes.

“You don’t even care,” Brianna cries, drawing my attention back to her as tears well in her eyes. “Jesus, Astrid, we’ve been together for almost three months, and it’s like you don’t even care that it’s over now!”

“If you didn’t want us to be over, you shouldn’t have cheated on me,” I say, brow wrinkling and energy sapping out of me. I don’t understand this conversation.

Brianna rolls her eyes, looking a bit frantic as she pulls on her clothes and collects her things. “We were over long before this, Astrid. You have no… passion ! You don’t have to be so clinical all the damn time. Like a zombie!”

“So, you cheated on me because I’m not emotional enough for you?”

“Yes.” She pauses in the middle of stuffing something in her duffel bag, hair sticking to her neck as she fixes her green eyes on me. “You say emotional like it’s a bad word—which is particularly fucked up coming from a therapist.”

“I’m not a therapist.” I’d initially thought about getting my license, pursued it, and decided against it. Maybe if I’d gone through with it, I wouldn’t be facing so much rejection now. “I’m a psychologist, Bri. I told you—”

“I don’t want to talk about your career , Astrid!” Brianna stops, still heaving in breaths, and turns to me. She looks stuck somewhere between anger and grief, and I realize I might actually have done something wrong here. “I thought…I thought I could open you up. That you’d soften to me, let me in. But you’re like a brick wall. And it’s so emotionally exhausting to constantly be the one reaching out to you. Doing the work.”

“I’m sorry, Brianna.” I sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose. “But I really wish you’d chosen to do that in his apartment.”

Brianna lets out a strangled scream stuck somewhere low in her throat, grabs her bags, and pushes through the front door, getting caught for a second before she practically falls into the hallway.

“I can call you an Uber—”

“Good night , Astrid.”

***

"Eww!” Sloane squeals over the phone, her laughter making me feel better about the whole thing. “You saw his dick?”

“Yes.” I pull the phone back from my ear and check on the delivery time for my pad thai. Delayed. Again. Putting the phone back to my ear, I add, “Unfortunately.”

“I can’t believe Brianna did that to you.” Sloane is the perfect person to call after something like this—not happy, but not vindictive, either. “What did she even say?”

Uncomfortable, I shift from side to side, then let out a breath. “She said I’m like a brick wall—no, I think she actually said I’m like a zombie .”

Sloane sucks in a quick breath of air. “Harsh.”

“Only because it’s true, right?”

“Just because you didn’t feel it with her doesn’t mean you won’t feel it with anyone, Astrid.”

I tuck my knees under my chin and sigh. If I wasn’t a zombie, this is the part where I’d tell Sloane I think I might be broken. That maybe I’m just not capable of having a relationship. That the last time I felt anything real was at the start of the summer, at her wedding, with a man who pops into my brain with a startling frequency.

“If you’re looking for something to take your mind off of it…” Sloane starts, her voice a bit sing-song, and I know exactly where this is headed. Another plea for me to move to Milwaukee.

“Sloane, I’m in the second largest city in the U.S. right now. Is Milwaukee even in the top ten? If I’m struggling to find a research spot even here, what in the world makes you think I’ll have more luck there?”

“Look at the link I just sent you.”

On cue, my phone buzzes, and I pull back, frowning as I look at the digital flier she’s sent. It’s for a mental health career fair—all companies trying to get professionals into the area.

“Oh-kay,” I say, bringing the phone back to my ear, and I know Sloane can tell I’m caving.

“Listen, there’s this big push to get more therapists in the area. The population here is growing—if you ask me, it definitely has something to do with the addition of a professional sports team, but what do I know?—and all sorts of places are popping up, so now there’s a shortage. You could come—”

“I’m not a counselor, though, Sloane,” I remind her. “I’m looking for a research position.”

“I know.” I can practically imagine her chewing on her nail over the line. “But think of it as a change of pace. Maybe doing something a little different can help you change up your approach? It’s like moving places when you’re shooting at the goal, to get out of your head.”

“You know I don’t want you to talk hockey to me.”

She laughs. “So? Are you coming to Milwaukee?”

I pause, put her on speaker, stare at the flier. It’s not about Milwaukee—I hate the snow, anyway—it’s about the feeling that I’m stuck. And, if I’m being honest with myself, it’s the fact that a certain guy is living in Milwaukee, even if I promised myself I would not be seeing him again.

“Astrid?”

“We’ll see, Sloane.”

Twenty minutes later, when we’re off the phone, I’ve already booked the flight. And my pad thai still hasn’t arrived.