A long debate had raged in her head about whether or not to reclaim this room after returning from Eugene. In the end, the idea of someone else sleeping in the one place where her precious few memories remained was too much.
But the minute she saw the old clawfoot tub in her adjoining bathroom, her skin went erect with goosebumps and she wondered if her decision had been so wise after all. Unable to turn away, she entered the bathroom, its outdated tile floor clashing with the newly purchased shower curtain that smelled of plastic. Cassidy closed her eyes and the sharp emptiness of Pete’s absence pecked at her like a flock of angry crows.
Pete had been gone for almost two years, and though she hadn’t experienced any more breakdowns—like the one that had practically shut down the U. of O. Geology Department—she was far from okay and she knew it.
Cassidy slid to the floor, the cool tile chilling her skin, both wanting to remember and not wanting to. Her breaths came in shuddery hops. She tried to quell the emotions bottling up inside her but her mind returned to the first time they took a bath together here, how Pete washed her long hair and held her and how they kissed slowly, taking their time.
The hurt, broken part of her, dormant in the back of her stomach all day, bled into the rest of her with a deep, hard ache. She rested her head against the wall and let the tears tickle her hot cheeks.
There were no geology students to stay tough for, no colleagues to make sure not to cry in front of, it was just her, alone in the house where Pete wasn’t and would never be again. The ache spread in the usual way, up through her chest to her shoulders. It steamrolled over her heart and made its way to her throat, which flattened against her spine, making breathing painful.
Cassidy clenched her fists and fought it, fought it with her weak reserves after a night of poor sleep and the early run and the sound of the lovers but it came, the pain came like a wave and it crushed her, dragged her into its cave of darkness and fear and she sobbed as the realization blasted her: Pete said forever but he’s gone and you’re alone.
A howling from deep in her throat broke through and she pressed her back against the wall, hoping for support.
After a time, the ache ebbed, and, feeling spent, Cassidy rose and splashed water on her hot face from the sink. She wondered how long she had been sitting there crying and resolved to make something of the rest of the evening. Feeling woozy, she passed back through her sparse bedroom and around a tower of boxes to the kitchen, thinking she would put away the groceries, make a sandwich, and get to work.
When she came back from her car, grocery bags hanging from both arms, her phone was vibrating towards the edge of the counter. She set the bags down and grabbed it only to see that it was another foreign number.
Her fingers trembled as she set the phone down. Looking through the dusty cotton curtains hanging above the sink to her neighbor’s empty driveway, she braced herself against the counter’s hard edge.
Was this what she would be facing now? She wondered if the department knew about her involvement in the human trafficking operation. It couldn’t be true—what Uri Whoever had accused her of—was it? She hadn’t nearly blown the case for the feds. She and Jay had worked on her acceptance of “being in the wrong place at the wrong time,” and had found ways to forgive herself for letting Mel into her life. She needed to keep believing that.
She thought briefly of calling Mark, Pete’s best friend. He worked at a local television station as a video producer. He’ll know what to do. But calling Mark would mean she would have to tell him how she was doing, a topic she avoided at all costs, especially with him. At Pete’s memorial—the last time they’d spent any amount of time together—she had wanted things from him she shouldn’t. They’d kept in touch but every time they talked, Pete was there too, which made her feel like she should crawl into a hole and stay there.
Her phone bleeped and the screen lit up with another unknown number.
Maybe if she just tried to explain herself, they would go away. Carefully, she picked up the phone and answered it.
“Hey, Cassie, it’s Bill Carter, USA Today, how are you doing tonight?”
Cassidy rubbed her temple. Nobody called her “Cassie.”
“How do you feel about Mel Tomlinson going to prison, Cassie?”
Cassidy spun so that her back rested against the counter. Facing her were two large moving boxes stacked against the far wall, the top one labeled “Cooking.”
“What he did to you is a tragedy.”
“I think . . . ” Cassidy didn’t want to let this person down, but finding the words to express what she wanted to say made her feel sick. “I’d better hang up now. I’m sorry.”
The reporter tried to protest but, undeterred, Cassidy ended the call. She tossed her phone onto her bed and returned to the kitchen, a nervous energy pulsing through her.
Four
Two beers and two unpacked kitchen boxes later, Cassidy tackled sorting her grungy field camp laundry then took her tattered papers and laptop to her desk.
Even though it would mean one less tenant to help pay the mortgage (when she got around to advertising the other rooms for rent), she had claimed one of the other three bedrooms for an office.
A stack of boxes and an empty filing cabinet greeted her. After moving from Eugene in early June, she had spent only two days in the house before leaving for field work on the slopes of Sicily’s Mount Etna, which had erupted several months before. The lava flows had destroyed two of her seismic stations there, so repairs
