Page 40 of The Husband I Left

“Oh, is this not 617-555-0142? The listing said to call this number any time.”

“This is my personal number,” I say, my brain foggy with confusion and the lingering effects of too much whiskey. “And I don’t have an apartment for rent.”

“But the ad said—“

“There’s no ad.” I hang up before she can respond, dropping the phone onto the rumpled sheets beside me.

I sit up. This is a mistake. The room tilts sideways and then reluctantly rights itself, and I sit on the edge of the bed with my elbows on my knees until I’m reasonably certain I’m not going to be sick. I put my feet on the floor and stand up.

“FUCK!”

Something sharp bites into the sole of my left foot, and I hop backward and sit down hard on the mattress, grabbing my ankle. The floor around the bed is scattered with jewelry, and I can see the emerald pendant I gave Genny our first Christmas winking up at me. The clasp has left a crescent-shaped mark on the bottom of my foot that’s already welling with a bead of blood.

I have vague memories of the previous night, of Leo hauling me into the bedroom and realizing the bed was covered in jewelry. Everything I ever gave her was there. Leo had said something under his breath. Then he’d swept his forearm across the bed and all of it had cascaded onto the floor, and I’d fallen face first onto the pillow and blacked out.

I’ll deal with it all later, I decide. I’ll have Mrs. Stewart gather it all up and put it somewhere safe, somewhere I don’t have to look at it, because right now I need a shower more than I’ve ever needed anything in my life.

My phone buzzes again. A text this time.

Still selling the Ducati? What’s the lowest you’ll take?

I don’t own a Ducati.

Another message comes in.

You got one controller or two for that PS5?

I don’t own a PlayStation.

With a curse, I toss my phone onto the bed and carefully limp my way to the bathroom. I turn on the shower, waiting for the steam to rise before stripping off my undershirt and boxers. I step under the hot spray, reaching blindly for my shampoo. As soon as I have the bottle in hand, I try to pour some into my palm, only to realize nothing‘s coming out. I open my eyes, wincing at the water hitting my face, and examine the bottle. It’s empty. Completely empty.

So is the body wash. And the face scrub. And the conditioner I use when my hair gets too dry in the winter.

Every single bottle stands where it should be, exactly as I left it, but empty.

“What the hell?” I mutter, turning the bottles upside down one after another, as if that might magically make their contents reappear.

She emptied them; I realize. She emptied every single thing and then put it all back exactly where it belonged so I wouldn’t know until I reached for it.

I have to content myself with simply rinsing off, and then I step out of the shower. I dry off. I feel marginally more human, which is to say I feel like a human who’s been hit by a car rather than one who’s been hit by a truck.

I pick up my toothbrush. I squeeze a strip of toothpaste onto it. I put it in my mouth and start brushing. The taste hits me instantly; not mint, but something salty and fishy. I gag, spitting violently into the sink. Whatever was in that tube, it wasn’t toothpaste. My stomach heaves. I brace both hands on the edge of the sink and gag and gag again. Nothing comes up. I haven’t eaten since lunch yesterday. When the heaving finally subsides, I rinse my mouth over and over and over, but the taste lingers.

I throw the toothbrush in the trash. I throw the tube after it.

There’s a linen cupboard in the hall where Mrs. Stewart keeps the spares. Extra toothpaste. Extra soap. I wrap the towel around my waist and pad out there, yank the door open, and find the shelves bare. Every backup bottle, every spare, gone. In the center of the empty shelf sits a folded piece of paper. I open it.

You suck.

I look at it for a long moment, and then I refold it and make a mental note to tell Mrs. Stewart to replace everything.

I go back to the bedroom for my phone. The screen is lit up with notifications — texts, calls, emails, all from numbers I don’t recognize. I scroll through them, growing more confused by the second.

Is the Camaro still for sale?

What’s the lowest you’ll go on the motorcycle?

I can pick up the PlayStation today, cash in hand.