Page 28

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I end up taking a long walk around the neighborhood.

Usually, I’m one of those New Yorkers who always have a destination in mind, my eyes carefully avoiding eye contact with passersby as I walk briskly to wherever I need to be. But today, I have no destination. I walk aimlessly as the sun drops in the sky and the drizzle turns into a rain shower.

And even then, I keep walking. I don’t have a jacket, although it’s decidedly chilly. My legs are aching from my run earlier, but I don’t give a shit.

The whole time, all I can think about is Krista, about how I screwed everything up, and I don’t know how I did it. I didn’t leave my phone in Whitney’s bedroom. That bleach in the closet wasn’t mine. I would never do that to Goldy and especially to Krista.

Whitney wanted Krista and me to break up. That was her goal from the beginning.

Except I’m worried that isn’t her only goal.

This is just the beginning.

I walk for about two hours. I get back home after eight o’clock, my shirt damp, my legs on fire, my hair plastered to my scalp. It’s good though. I want to feel something besides the sharp pain in my gut whenever I think of Krista.

There’s a light on upstairs, and for a moment, I feel a flash of hope. Did Krista come back? Did she have a change of heart?

But no. It’s Whitney’s sneakers by the front door. Whitney is the one upstairs.

As I stare up at the second floor of my house, my stomach lets out a low growl. I hadn’t realized until now how hungry I was. I had intended to take Krista out to dinner tonight, but that’s not going to happen. I may as well scavenge the refrigerator for food. At least all the fruit flies are gone.

I throw open the fridge, spotting the Chinese takeout container from last night. Krista and I had finished off the beef with broccoli, but we still have one container of lo mein left. I may as well eat it before it goes bad.

And there’s beer. Plenty of it.

I don’t bother to heat up the noodles—I prefer them cold, right out of the takeout container. I twist off the cap of the beer, drink about half of it in one swig, then bring the takeout container and the beer back to the living room.

If I’m not going out with Krista tonight, I may as well get drunk.

I flip on the television to a random reality show and settle back on the sofa with my lo mein noodles. I pry the container open, inhaling the scent of day-old Chinese food. I dig my fork into the noodles, spinning it twice. I shove a forkful into my mouth, hoping it will ease the ache in my belly. I start chewing and then…

Suddenly, I’m gagging. I’m practically choking .

You know that feeling when you eat something that you realize has a strand of hair in it? The way it winds itself into knots at the back of your throat? You know how gross that is?

Well, at this moment, it feels like I have a mouth full of hair. It feels like I’m eating hair …wound around a noodle or two. And the hairs seem to be growing longer in my mouth.

I drop the container onto the sofa beside me as I gag again, spitting the food into my hand. My stomach turns as I peer down at what I spit out. And sure enough, I see it. Except it’s not just one.

I snatch the container off the sofa where I dropped it and squint inside. I hadn’t looked closely in the takeout container before I started eating—why would I?—but now I can see that it is threaded with long, brown hairs. There are almost as many hairs as lo mein. Maybe more.

There is hair in my food. Plural .

Oh Christ. I think I’m going to throw up.

I run to the kitchen sink, coughing. In between desperate gasps of air, I end up pulling five intact strands out of my throat, and it still feels like there’s more in there, threatening to strangle me. I gag and feel around until my fingers locate one strand that had already made its way partially down my throat, and it scratches against my voice box as I extract a hair about as long as a ruler. Nothing ends up coming up though. Thankfully, I hadn’t swallowed anything, or else I really would be sick. But there is hair in my food. And by the appearance of it, I’m pretty sure who it belongs to.

A surge of rage like nothing I have ever experienced builds in my chest. I run the water in the sink, gulping down a handful of water. My head is buzzing. If Whitney were standing here, I would grab one of the knives from the knife block and I’d…

No. Stop it. Get ahold of yourself, Blake.

I take deep breaths, but I can’t calm myself down. Whitney has infested my home with fruit flies, given me a horrible rash, killed my fish, and wrecked my relationship with the only woman I’ve ever loved. And for what ? I can’t take one more second of this.

This is it. It’s over. She’s done .

I storm up the two flights of stairs, my anger mounting with each step. When I get to the third floor, I spot the light on under Whitney’s door. I am very, very glad she is home.

I slam the palm of my hand against her door. Repeatedly. And each time, the sound gets louder.

It takes a good minute of me pounding on Whitney’s door before she leisurely pulls it open. She looks like she’s in for the night, dressed in one of her tank tops with the pajama shorts, her brown hair pulled into pigtails on either side of her head. Her shirt is almost see-through, and for a quick moment, that stops me in my tracks. But then I remember how I want to wrap my fingers around her neck until she’s dead.

It takes all my self-restraint to keep from doing it.

“I want you out,” I hiss at her.

“Good evening to you too, Blake.” Her lips twitch. “Where’s Krista tonight?

My hands ball into fists. “I want you out now .”

She blinks at me. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me. You need to get the hell out of my house right now.”

“It’s the middle of the night,” she points out. “You can’t possibly expect me to pack up my things and go right this minute.”

“I don’t care what time it is,” I spit in her face. “This is my home, and I want you gone . I’ve had enough. Enough . You hear me?”

Her eyes harden. “Well, that’s too damn bad, Blake. You can’t just throw me out in the middle of the night without any notice because you feel like it. I live here. I have rights.”

“Yeah, well…” I glare at her with such venom that it’s hard not to imagine her skin sizzling off her bones. I speak slowly. Deliberately. “You might want to leave for the sake of your own safety.”

She arches an eyebrow. “Yeah? What are you going to do?”

Is she kidding? I’ve got at least half a foot of height on her and a hell of a lot more muscle. I could do a lot . I could wreck her.

I imagine my fist making contact with Whitney’s smug face. I imagine my fingers wrapping around her skinny little neck and squeezing until her lips turn blue. It would feel so good.

I take a threatening step toward her, my hands still clenched into tight fists. But Whitney doesn’t flinch.

She’s called my bluff. As angry as I am, I won’t hurt her. I’ve never laid a finger on a woman in my life, and I’m not going to break that rule for Whitney. Even if I wanted to, I don’t have it in me.

I grit my teeth. “Consider this your thirty-day notice.”

If she doesn’t leave, I am going to take all her crap and dump it on the sidewalk in front of the building. I don’t care if she sues me. I’m flat broke anyway.

“Oh, don’t worry,” Whitney says with a laugh, “I’ll be gone long before then.”

And then she slams the door in my face. I hear a click as she locks it.

Her words should be reassuring. After all, I want her gone. Yet something about the way she says it makes me very uneasy.

It feels like a threat.