Close enough to come back if I called. Anything at all really has a lot of open space my hormones want to play in.
I nod because words are impossible.
He lingers.
Like he doesn’t want to leave.
Or maybe I’m projecting because I don’t want him to leave and my abandonment issues are showing.
He’s standing too close. Or not close enough. I can smell him. His eyes are doing that soft thing again. That thing that makes me want to ask if he does this for everyone.
The air between us is doing something. Thickening. Charging. My body is writing a formal proposal for him to stay. Just for safety. Just to make sure the deadbolt works properly. Just to test the structural integrity of every flat surface in this apartment.
I open my mouth.
Almost ask.
Stay. Please. Just tonight. Just so I’m not alone in this beige tomb with my fake name and my erased life. We can test the carpets plushness on my knees.
But I don’t.
Because that’s not what marshals do. That’s not professional. That’s just me being needy and inappropriate and unable to cope without collecting men like emotional support animals.
“Stevie.” My name in his voice. My real name. “You’re going to be okay.”
I want to believe him. Want to believe this is just the hard part and it gets better and someday I’ll wake up as Beth Taylor and she’ll feel like someone real.
But right now, standing in this tomb with my blonde hair and my empty kitchen and Saul Bennett six feet away looking at me like I’m something worth saving, all I feel is erased.
“Thank you,” I say. “For staying. During all of it.”
“Get some sleep,” he says. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
And then he’s gone.
The door clicks shut.
I stand there staring at it like maybe if I stare hard enough he’ll come back.
He doesn’t.
I remember to lock it. Deadbolt. Chain. The sounds of safety that don’t feel safe at all.
I’m alone.
For the first time since this started, I’m completely, utterly alone.
The silence has weight. Texture. Like the beige is actively swallowing me whole.
I walk to the fridge. Open it. There’s milk, butter, eggs. Bread on the counter. Basic things. Survival things.
Not baking things.
And taped to the fridge door, a piece of paper with phone numbers.
Saul’s is first. His name in neat slanted handwriting. A cell number and below it, a local number for the hotel where he’s staying.
Two ways to reach him. In case one doesn’t work.
