boxer on a leash ignores her, studies his handheld. Sheâs anonymous here.
Iâm flattered that Iâm still in your contacts , she writes.
Top of the list and itâs alphabetical
Howâs that?
AwesomePhoebe
What about Amanda?
Who?
Ana? April? Araceli??
Funny
Let me guess: Marthaâs Vineyard. Maine. Lisbon?
My exâs basement apartment. I have nowhere else to stay.
Thereâs nowhere you canât afford to stay
Itâs a divorce thing. Complicated
Donât you have layoffs to recommend? Some lives to wreck?
;)
How were the Galapagos?
You still read my emails. Thought you tuned me out.
White noise.
The yoga instructor: breathtaking. Older woman, too. Like fifties and just stunning. And her grad school daughter . . . and two other women. Have you been to Sardinia?
She doesnât respond.
You sent me that SOS in June. And two months later I respond, youâre thinking, Typical, right?
And another: Are you ok? Do you still need me? You had me worried when you wrote that.
And another : And yet . . . do you realize how hard it gets me to think about you needing me?
And one more: Totally inappropriate but honest, right? Can never be too honest.
And a last message from him in the string: Of course I donât expect a response. I never do. Your self-restraint is commendable. Can I take some credit?
Will try you again when Iâm out there, which will be soon.
Days, not weeks.
She taps out a response: Nearly three months, not two. And youâre not hiding out in a basement apartment. Who are you really with?
But she doesnât send it. Instead, she deletes it. Sheâs sure heâs somewhere else, with someone else, and not his wife or one of his ex-wives. She doesnât care who heâs with. It doesnât matter. Thatâs what she tells herself as she turns off her iPhone. Her neck is stiff. She rubs it until the skin burns.
7
T he semiautomatic pistol Nick found in the uncovered toilet tank of a house they trashed out in Loma Linda had no rounds in it. Heâll never load it, but heâs glad heâs got it. Despite the gun and Metzger and the floodlights and ADT, Nick and Phoebe stay awake late, leave most of the lights on inside until morning. It has nothing to do with the strange noises they hear, something metallic, scraping, from somewhere inside the house, as if itâs alive, or the relentless moaning winds and anguished cries coming from the bone-dry hills that surround and seem to close in on them. He lies awake because he knows the fracture never healed between them. Itâs a matter of time before the nerve is struck.
He hung wind chimes their first week here, took them down because they kept clanging and getting tangled in the wind. Even with the heat and lack of rain, Nick takes pride in keeping the lawn thick and green. He applies all sorts of synthetics to beef up the turf, keep it lush. The three white chaises by the pool are arranged just so. He swims laps daily. He brings Jackson in with him. When he does, Phoebe warns him to please avoid the deep end. Rings from Phoebeâs tumblers of her special-recipe mojitos dot the glass table. Jacksonâstoys gather neatly around his playhouse, which is finally free from wasps after Nick sprayed it and hosed it down, yet again. Nick habitually circles the perimeter of the house with a flashlight and the unloaded pistol. The water in the pool glows; sharp ends of palm fronds scrape the windows. The dead ones are easily torn loose by the wind, end up floating on the clear water until Nick fishes them out. Cicadas clutch the screens on all the windows, land on the chaises, pelt the living room and kitchen windows. When Jackson was floating on his back in the pool yesterday, a cicada landed on his face. Before his son could react, Nick carefully plucked it from his forehead and crushed it on the poolside concrete.
He checks entry points and blind spots. He finds
Iâm flattered that Iâm still in your contacts , she writes.
Top of the list and itâs alphabetical
Howâs that?
AwesomePhoebe
What about Amanda?
Who?
Ana? April? Araceli??
Funny
Let me guess: Marthaâs Vineyard. Maine. Lisbon?
My exâs basement apartment. I have nowhere else to stay.
Thereâs nowhere you canât afford to stay
Itâs a divorce thing. Complicated
Donât you have layoffs to recommend? Some lives to wreck?
;)
How were the Galapagos?
You still read my emails. Thought you tuned me out.
White noise.
The yoga instructor: breathtaking. Older woman, too. Like fifties and just stunning. And her grad school daughter . . . and two other women. Have you been to Sardinia?
She doesnât respond.
You sent me that SOS in June. And two months later I respond, youâre thinking, Typical, right?
And another: Are you ok? Do you still need me? You had me worried when you wrote that.
And another : And yet . . . do you realize how hard it gets me to think about you needing me?
And one more: Totally inappropriate but honest, right? Can never be too honest.
And a last message from him in the string: Of course I donât expect a response. I never do. Your self-restraint is commendable. Can I take some credit?
Will try you again when Iâm out there, which will be soon.
Days, not weeks.
She taps out a response: Nearly three months, not two. And youâre not hiding out in a basement apartment. Who are you really with?
But she doesnât send it. Instead, she deletes it. Sheâs sure heâs somewhere else, with someone else, and not his wife or one of his ex-wives. She doesnât care who heâs with. It doesnât matter. Thatâs what she tells herself as she turns off her iPhone. Her neck is stiff. She rubs it until the skin burns.
7
T he semiautomatic pistol Nick found in the uncovered toilet tank of a house they trashed out in Loma Linda had no rounds in it. Heâll never load it, but heâs glad heâs got it. Despite the gun and Metzger and the floodlights and ADT, Nick and Phoebe stay awake late, leave most of the lights on inside until morning. It has nothing to do with the strange noises they hear, something metallic, scraping, from somewhere inside the house, as if itâs alive, or the relentless moaning winds and anguished cries coming from the bone-dry hills that surround and seem to close in on them. He lies awake because he knows the fracture never healed between them. Itâs a matter of time before the nerve is struck.
He hung wind chimes their first week here, took them down because they kept clanging and getting tangled in the wind. Even with the heat and lack of rain, Nick takes pride in keeping the lawn thick and green. He applies all sorts of synthetics to beef up the turf, keep it lush. The three white chaises by the pool are arranged just so. He swims laps daily. He brings Jackson in with him. When he does, Phoebe warns him to please avoid the deep end. Rings from Phoebeâs tumblers of her special-recipe mojitos dot the glass table. Jacksonâstoys gather neatly around his playhouse, which is finally free from wasps after Nick sprayed it and hosed it down, yet again. Nick habitually circles the perimeter of the house with a flashlight and the unloaded pistol. The water in the pool glows; sharp ends of palm fronds scrape the windows. The dead ones are easily torn loose by the wind, end up floating on the clear water until Nick fishes them out. Cicadas clutch the screens on all the windows, land on the chaises, pelt the living room and kitchen windows. When Jackson was floating on his back in the pool yesterday, a cicada landed on his face. Before his son could react, Nick carefully plucked it from his forehead and crushed it on the poolside concrete.
He checks entry points and blind spots. He finds
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