Home, I think, and the word curdles.
Saul grabs my bag from the backseat, singular, because everything I own now fits in one bag, and leads me up the stairs to unit 2B.
The key sticks in the lock. He jiggles it, a practiced motion that says he’s done this before. His forearms flex and I’m getting horny over locksmith skills.
The door opens.
Beige.
That’s my first thought. My only thought for a solid ten seconds.
Beige walls. Beige carpet. Beige furniture that came with the place and will stay long after I’m gone. A couch the color of nothing. A coffee table the color of giving up. Curtains that might have been white once but have aged into something closer to surrender.
The kitchenette has a coffee maker and a microwave and cabinets I already know are empty.
No stand mixer. No cooling racks. No smell of peanut butter or chocolate or anything that means someone actually lives here.
“I know it’s not much,” Saul says, setting my bag down. “But it’s safe. And it’s yours.”
Yours.
Beth Taylor’s.
I walk through the space because that’s what you do when someone shows you the apartment where your identity goes to die.
The bedroom is small. Bed with a mattress that’s seen better years. Dresser with nothing in it. Closet with three wire hangers.
Saul stands in the doorway filling the frame.
The bed is right there. He’s right there. My brain immediately runs the calculations on whether this mattress would hold up under investigative purposes. Stress testing. For science.
I turn away before I do something stupid like ask.
Bathroom: white tiles, a shower curtain still in its plastic, a mirror I don’t want to look in.
The shower’s small. Cramped. Saul wouldn’t fit.
Or he would if I was pressed against the wall with my legs around his waist and his hands gripping my thighs, water pooling between us.
Stop it.
I look in the mirror because I love emotional violence.
Blonde stranger. Still there. Still wrong.
“The fridge has some basics,” Saul says from the other room. “I’ll bring more groceries tomorrow. Help you get set up.”
I come back to the living room. He’s standing by the door, hands in his pockets, watching me with that expression I can’t quite read.
Concern. Kindness. Maybe guilt for leaving me here.
Or maybe he’s just wondering why I’m still not wearing a bra.
“Emergency numbers are on the fridge,” he says. “I’m first on the list. If you need anything tonight, anything at all, you call me. I’m ten minutes away.”
Ten minutes.
That’s close. That’s really close.
