Page 69 of Gone Tonight
My anger fuels my resolve for what I need to do next. I slide out from beneath Ethan’s heavy arm and put my bare feet on his not-too-clean bedroom floor.
“Where are you going?” His voice is raspy with sleep.
“I need to make a call. It’s important. My phone is dead. Can I use yours?”
He sits up, rubbing his eyes and blinking. He reaches for the phone on the floor next to his side of the bed, and his fingers move across the screen for a few moments. My impatience grows as I wait. Ethan is probably covering up something he doesn’t want me to see—maybe texts from girls he has been flirting with. He finally tosses it to me.
“Thanks.” I walk across the room and reach for my purse, too intent on my task to be self-conscious about my nakedness. I pull out the folded piece of paper and dial the number for the reference my mother put down, a woman named Diane Brown. I’ve never heard of her, and I have no idea how she knows my mother well enough to be a reference, so I’m going to have to finesse my way through this. I’d rather Ethan not listen to the strange conversation I’m about to have, but his roommates are in the living room playing Xbox and razzing each other.
Ethan’s arms are folded behind him on the pillow. He’s watchingme from beneath heavy-lidded eyes. I lift a finger to my lips, then dial the number.
It rings a few times, then goes to voicemail. The generic automated message tells me to leave my name and phone number, but I hang up before the beep.
Disappointment crashes through me. I can’t use my own phone to call back. Caller ID will identify me, and there’s no good explanation for why Ruth Sterling’s daughter is calling a reference to inquire about Ruth Sterling.
I knew Ethan’s phone would be far harder to link to me. The first time he called me on it, the name John Quinlan showed up, which was a little confusing until Ethan explained it was his father’s name, and he was still on his parents’ family phone plan.
It’s like my mother is suddenly in the room with us, whispering questions about why a twenty-eight-year-old man is still on his parents’ phone plan, and what else they pay for and take care of in his life.
“Everything okay?”
Ethan asks the exact same question my mother did in her text. I wonder why people always ask that, especially when their tone makes it clear they know the answer is no.
I give the answer everyone wants to hear. “Yeah, fine.”
I wonder fleetingly how different the world would be if people asked instead, “Whatisn’tokay?” and we responded with the truth.
Ethan’s phone buzzes and I toss it back to him without looking at the screen. Ethan and I aren’t a couple. It’s none of my business who’s texting him. I fold up my mother’s work application again and put it back in my purse.
I spent a lot of time googling her this morning, but her name is common enough that there’s both too little and too much on the internet to be of any help. I found plenty of Ruth Sterlings out there, but nothing that seems to fit her. Even when I added my mother’s birthday—August second—to the search, none of the hits were a match.
I’m about to reach for my clothes and get dressed when Ethan lifts the covers. It’s an invitation.
One drunken tryst I could write off as a mistake. But now I’m fully sober.
I hesitate, remembering Ethan’s strong hands holding mine above my head as he slid apart my legs with one of his, murmuring,I’ve missed this body.
Then I think about my mother, worrying and waiting at home.
I make my choice easily. I climb back into bed.
The next time I wake up, sunlight is streaming through the window. I didn’t come here intending to spend the night, but I’m glad I did. My mother is at work by now, so I can return to our apartment and avoid seeing her.
Ethan is still asleep, and so are his roommates, which means the bathroom is free. I pull on yesterday’s clothes, then tiptoe down the hall. I use my finger and a dab of toothpaste to clean my teeth as best I can, then splash water on my face. I’m about to try to straighten a chunk of my hair that is sticking up when someone knocks on the door. I open it to see one of Ethan’s roommates standing there in nothing but boxers, his eyes half-shut.
“Sorry, Kaitlin,” he mutters. “Really need to take a leak.”
“Be my guest, but I’m not Kaitlin.”
His eyes widen. He looks at me, then back toward Ethan’s bedroom. “My bad.”
I wait while the roommate noisily pees for what seems like an inordinately long time. When he finally comes out, he brushes past me with a mumbled, “Thanks.”
I step into the bathroom again, this time leaving the door open, and try to finger-comb my hair. It only makes things worse, so I look around for a brush. I don’t see one on the vanity, so I pull open the drawer beneath the sink.
A fat pink cosmetics bag is in the drawer. I stare at it for a moment, wondering if I really want to know what it contains. Then I realize I already do know.
I unzip the bag and see a toothbrush, Secret deodorant, a pink disposable razor, a round brush, a tube of KUSH mascara, a travel-sized vial of perfume.…
