Then I went into his kitchen to snoop around. His stainless-steel fridge was stocked with the usual, though his choices amused me. He had a penchant for brands I’d never heard of—probably from some local store that imported only the finest from the hills of New Zealand or from local organic sustainable farms. His milk came in a glass bottle. He had both jalapeno and raspberry-chipotle-flavored bacon, like he subscribed to some kind of bacon-of-the-month club. I giggled at his imagined bacon fetish.
Glass bottles labeled Antipodes appeared to be water, and I hoped it didn’t cost $200 an ounce because I took one and cracked it open. I also plucked a brownish pear from a bowl and went to dig my phone out of my purse. I passed another bookcase on my way to the inviting overstuffed sofa in the living area. I perused one shelf, charmed by his assorted collection. No leather-bound editions here. Brave New World, Lord of the Flies, 1984, Slaughterhouse Five. They were so dog-eared, he’d either bought them at a used bookstore and left them here for show, or he’d read the shit out of them.
I had to question for a moment if his entire apartment was staged. The pretentious food in his kitchen, the implication he read widely, the character in every piece of furniture, the perfectly chosen paint colors—all wrapped in a deceptively shady exterior. I took a bite of the perfectly ripe brown pear, pondering the mystery, and realized that the apartment was a little metaphor for Shane himself. The best of him was happening on the inside. My little secret.
The battery on my phone was running on fumes, but Shane had left a cord on the small side table. Thankfully it was the right kind, so I plugged it into the port and sat down to find out who’d been trying to reach me.
The most recent text came from Jo: I assume you’re with Shane. Could you text me and let me know so I don’t worry? —Mom
Aw. Crap. I should have let her know where I’d gone. It was sweet of her to put the onus on herself for worrying rather than on me for being a rude guest. I quickly texted: I’m so sorry. Shane and I got to talking. I guess I fell asleep here.
I paused before hitting send. Should I tell her when I’d be back? I didn’t know myself. Would I be able to get into her place in the morning to change for work? I hadn’t thought this out at all. I figured if she responded to my text, I could make a plan.
The next text was from my actual mom, approving of Jo’s Hamilton T-shirt from Monday night and checking in to see how things were going. I didn’t respond right away because I didn’t want her to wonder what I was doing up at—I checked the time—six in the morning.
It surprised me it wasn’t earlier. I glanced out the window and noticed the sky had brightened considerably. The sun would be up soon, and I’d need to decide what to do about my morning commute. A change of clothes would have been nice, but the clothes I’d worn out would suffice. They weren’t the same as I’d worn to the office the day before. I could take the subway directly from Shane’s. I pulled up the MTA map on my phone, and, using GPS, found the nearest stop.
Once I had a plan in place, I curled up onto the sofa to check my website and see if anything interesting was going on. My first stop was to check if Jaclyn had replied to my private message, although given that I was sitting on Shane’s sofa in my underwear, it had become an academic question. Unless I learned he had contracted an infectious disease, there wasn’t much she could tell me that would unravel my own current opinion.
But in fact, her assessment matched my own.
Pumpkin,
You piqued my curiosity. We’ve all been so fixated on the Noah train wreck, I haven’t paid much attention to our dear Shane, lately. He doesn’t typically pick girls up on tour, though, and I can’t find any indication that’s changed. I know I said I wouldn’t pry, but I can’t control what my curiosity does, and I’m deducing the following.
Your friend didn’t likely meet him on the tour, and your timing suggests she met him since he got home, which