I place my hand in his and feel his arm around my waist. It feels good, and right. Because it never needs to be more again.
We dance.
fourteen
SAM
I realize I should leave a wastepaper basket by Jason’s head, so I duck back into the room and put it in place. He’s already snoring in a post-drunk oblivion.
I head back to the hall and am surprised by how quiet it is. I’m even more surprised to find the living room and the kitchen empty.
The party, it appears, has left me.
And what I feel is—
Actually—
Relief.
Ilsa has probably led them to the roof. Most of our parties end up on the roof at some point.
I could follow them.
I could.
But I guess I don’t want to.
Instead, I clean up. First I tend to the stain—it looks like Parker tried to mop it all up, but even if he stopped the bourbonic plague from spreading, it didn’t whisk all the Maker’s away. I find some rug cleaner and do the best I can. Then I gather the bottles, gather the plates, gather the glasses still waiting for the next sip. I turn my mind off this way—if I focus on the dishes, I don’t have to think about anything else. I am in control of this. I can make things better by straightening up. That’s all I have to do.
The walls aren’t that thick. I can hear life going on, but at a remove.
I’m tired.
All the caps are back on the bottles. All the bottles are back in the cabinet. I check the ice bucket—the ice is only half there. I empty it into the sink. I turn on the hot water, to make the remains of the cubes melt faster.
I don’t know what I’m doing.
I guess I’m staying inside the fortress.
Jason’s words are annoying me, and not because they’re off base.
I wish Johan had stayed behind to keep me company, but I’m not surprised that he didn’t. I wish Parker would pop down to check up on me, but I’m not surprised that he hasn’t. I wish Ilsa had left a note, or some indication of where she was taking the party. Maybe she figured I’d guess. Or maybe the lack of a note is a message in itself.
I’m sure I could find them, but I don’t try.
I hear music from across the hall. I think Mr. Bergman must be having a party. Then I remember—there’s no way Mr. Bergman is having a party. And I don’t think rowdy wakes are a Jewish thing. Which means either his relatives aren’t very observant or Ilsa has commandeered the apartment. A place of her own.
Fine, I think. Let her have it. Let her have all our guests. Let the party officially be hers.
Because maybe I’m done.
I’ve been rinsing off plates without thinking. I’ve been loading the dishwasher without thinking. I’ve been leaving the platters out to dry, knowing that I’ll be the one to dry them. It’s Ilsa’s job to dry, but I’ll do it.
My hands are busy, but really the thing I’m holding the most is that phrase: I’m done. It’s breakable. I don’t know exactly how to grasp it. I don’t know what to do with it. But it’s mine.
I brew a new pot of coffee. I put some petit fours on a tray.
There was always supposed to be one more course for this, our recess from the humdrum. One last course. One last hurrah. Because you always want the guests to leave on a sweet note. Because you always want to make them a little more awake, so they can get home.
I could go home, too. This apartment is not, technically, my home. But if I’m being honest with myself (and why not be honest with myself?), that other room has only technically been my home. This apartment is where my life has happened. The retreat that became the destination.
I look around the kitchen. I have been so happy here. I have been so sad here.
I guess that’s what home is.
And I—
I—
I feel like I’m leaving it.
Which is different from knowing we’re moving out. That feels like the apartment leaving me. This life, leaving me.
But now—
Now it’s me who’s thinking about doing the leaving.
I have never looked for a way out. All these years, all the sad times—I always felt that it had to be something inside of me that was off, something inside of me that couldn’t appreciate the life I had. Ilsa would taunt me for playing it safe, for being the good kid, for doing the right thing. But, honestly? None of the other options felt present. None of the escape routes. I could see the doors, sure. But I was sure they were locked. And because I was sure they were locked, I never tried the knobs.
I see the error in this logic now.
I’ve always had a good life. But maybe it’s not entirely a good life if I constantly feel like one wrong move, one wrong choice can destroy it. A good life should be able to withstand more than that.
But—
But—
But what am I saying?
What am I telling myself?
I go back out into the living room. I straighten the pillows on the couch. I refold a blanket KK knocked over to sit down on the chair. Things are almost back to the way they were.
The easy thing would be to smash bottles, to break lamps. To yell FUCK IT to the world and create some damage. But I’ve tried that. I’ve tried breaking things to feel better—and found that it only feels better while things are breaking, not the next moment, when they’re broken. It’s a release that leads to nowhere. It’s not the answer.
Neither is taking it out on my own body. I learned that, too.
But maybe a clean room isn’t the answer, either.
The music across the hall gets louder. There’s talking, but I can’t hear the words. I could just collapse on the couch. I could head back to my non-room at my parents’ house.
