hey, they’re better than nothing. Her photos of Buford are always popular.
In the end, though, none of it means anything. Even the Postmates delivery guy who brings up her California rolls and fried rice seems to feel bad for her when she opens the door in her sweats, holding her cat.
“Party for one, huh?” he says with a rueful smile.
Perhaps it’s time to reconsider her life choices. If she doesn’t, she may very well die like this, drinking alone in her shitty apartment, with only her cat to bear witness to the last moments of her life. And Buford will probably eat her face after she’s dead, since there’ll be nobody home to feed him.
By the time Kenzie finishes the last cider in the fridge, she’s drunk and stalking Marin Machado’s Instagram page, something she’d always promised herself she wouldn’t do. Her heart sinks when she sees the most recent photo.
Marin is in Whistler, British Columbia. With Derek.
Whistler is a five-hour drive from Seattle, and at some point earlier today, Marin and Derek were standing at the top of a mountain. The photo, posted a few hours earlier, shows them dressed head to toe in ski gear with their arms wrapped around each other. The caption reads, We needed this.
The picture has fifty likes and four comments.
furmom99: Good for you!
hawksfan1974: Pow day! Tear it up!
sadieroxxx: You guyyyys! So happy to see this! <3 <3 <3
steph_rodgers89: You finally got Derek to take a vacation … you’re a superhero, MM! lol
Oh god. Oh my god.
Kenzie scrolls through more of Marin’s posts. They’ve been in Whistler for the past three days, which explains why Derek’s been AWOL. He’s in Canada. On vacation. With his wife. Based on the hashtags, they’re staying at the Four Seasons. They’ve gotten couples massages. They’ve been eating steak and lobster. They’ve been drinking Champagne by the fire wearing bathrobes. And not sparkling wine, either, but actual fucking Champagne. From Champagne, France.
Because it’s their twentieth wedding anniversary.
This is why he ended it with Kenzie. Derek is rekindling things with his wife. Which means there’s no place for Kenzie in his life anymore.
Kenzie stares at her phone, her gaze fixed on one comment in particular. It was posted under the first Whistler picture, three days ago.
furmom99: When you back? We should do coffee!
marinmachadohair: @furmom99 Sunday! And yes we should! I’ll text you after the weekend! xx
Sunday. Four whole days at the Four Seasons surrounded by snow-covered mountains and roaring fireplaces and Champagne. Kenzie continues to stare at the photo, and three things become crystal clear.
It’s really over with Derek.
Their house is empty until tomorrow.
She knows the code to their front door.
Chapter 19
There’s a tipping point in any evening of drinking where you become intoxicated enough to feel like a bad idea is a good one. Kenzie has tipped over.
She doesn’t take an Uber to Derek’s house, because Ubers don’t take cash, which is all she has at the moment. She catches a taxi on University Avenue instead. Without traffic, it only takes fifteen minutes to get from her place to Derek’s street. The address she gives the driver is for a house somewhere near his, and the driver is starting to slow down, his head swiveling back and forth between his GPS and the numbers he’s trying to read through the rain-streaked window.
“Sorry, which house is it?” he asks.
“Um, right here is good.” They’re a couple of doors down, but she doesn’t want the driver to know exactly where she’s going. Her head is fuzzy from the alcohol.
He pulls over to the curb. “I can wait till you get inside.” The driver smiles at her in his rearview mirror as she fumbles with her seat belt. He’s retirement age, grandfatherly, kind. Normally Kenzie would have taken him up on his offer. Not this time.
“That’s okay.” The last thing she needs is a witness watching her sneak into her married lover’s house. “I always use the back entrance, so you won’t be able to see me from the street. Thanks, though.”
She hands him cash, tells him to keep the change, and opens the door.
“Don’t forget your receipt.” He hands her a small piece of paper.
“Oh, right.” It’s been a long time since she’s taken a cab. She stuffs it into her pocket.
She hops out before the kindly driver can say anything else, and pretends to be texting until his taillights disappear around the bend. Derek’s house is across the street, a rebuilt Craftsman with a large porch that he once described