Page 79 of When the Smoke Clears

A laugh spills out of me; some tightness uncoils. “Classic him. He’s happy.”

“I’d commit minor crimes for that kind of devotion,” she deadpans. Then softer, “Tell me everything.”

So, I do. For thirty minutes, I pour the week into her ear—threats and squealing tires, the way Luke’s kitchen looks in late light, how it felt to cook there, how it feels to breathe there. How my mother left me love, even now, in a letter I’m not yet brave enough to re-read.

Erin gasps in the right places, swears in others, threatens to drive up immediately, then lets me convince her to wait.

“Okay,” she concedes at last. “But what about Luke?”

“What about him?” I say, weakly pretending I don’t know what she means.

She snorts. “I know that tone. Be careful. But also…maybe don’t be careful.”

“I’m trying,” I say. A pause. “I love you.”

“Love you more,” she says, and hangs up.

The house feels emptier without her voice. I stand, stretch until my spine pops, and wander down the hall, trailing fingertips along the walls.

The claw-foot tub gleams under the vanity light, porcelain smooth and inviting. I shed my clothes in a crumpled heap, slipping between the hot, lavender-scented water.

The tub hugs every curve like it’s trying to convince my body it’s safe to soften for a minute, just one. I sink lower into the water, closing my eyes. The heat seeps into my shoulders, my neck, like fingers pressing gently against my skin. Luke’s fingers.

I can almost smell his cedar cologne, feel the scratch of his stubble against my temple. My chest tightens, lungs forgetting how to expand.

The phone buzzes against the tile, and bathwater sloshes over the edge as I jolt upright. I lift a towel to dry my fingers and reach for the device.

Before I can press unlock, the screen lights up with a new message. The words flash once, then I drop the phone as my stomach drops and the world spins in slow motion.

The phone buzzes again against the tile, and I snatch it up before I can overthink. My pulse stutters when I see it’s from an unknown number.

I swipe the screen open with damp fingers, half-expecting something horrible to be smearing at me on the other end.

Instead, this message stares back at me.

UNKNOWN NUMBER: How’s my tub?

The words are simple. Harmless. But heat crawls up my neck like wildfire. My eyes dart to the window, to the crack in the bathroom door, to every darkened corner as if he might be lurking, watching me soak like some tragic mermaid.

UNKNOWN NUMBER: Hello? The silence is making me think you’ve drifted off.

UNKNOWN NUMBER: Please don’t die in there. I don’t need a waterlogged ghost haunting my cabin.

Does he know? Did Gabe say something? Did Luke somehow guess that after all the chaos I’d retreated here, stripped bare and desperate for quiet?

I sink lower into the water until it laps at my chin, as though that could hide me from a man who isn’t even in the house. I take the opportunity to save the number under ‘Luke’—my phone wobbles in my slippery grip.

A dozen replies flash through my mind—flirty, defensive, angry, casual—but none feel safe. Every one of them admits too much.

Finally, I type the only thing I can manage:

Me: How do you know I’m in the tub?

I stare at the screen, mortified at how needy the words look in gray bubbles. My heart pounds like it’s trying to punch its way out of my chest.

The dots appear. Then disappear. Then appear again.

I squeeze my eyes shut, praying the floor will open up and swallow me whole before his answer lands.