to look forward to, something to hang in my future and move toward. When was the last time someone actually wanted to see me, even if it is a mentally unstable childhood ex?
I lead Vanessa around the back of one of the buildings, to where the condos face onto a narrow strip of gravel and a high wooden fence. Above the fence line, I can see the Hollywood Hills, and the eight-figure homes that perch up there among the palm trees, aloof in their isolation. Alexi’s house is up there somewhere, the Richard Prince nurse still on the wall, bloodied and watchful. Already, it feels like another lifetime.
Each condo in this complex has a tiny little deck, most of which sport a bike or a plastic chair or a cluster of browning plants. Vanessa follows me to a deck at the far end of the building, fronting a unit with windows that are empty and dark. I leap lightly over the railing as Vanessa gapes at me.
“Come on,” I say.
“Aren’t we going to get in trouble?”
I look out at the wall of windows with their blinds closed tight for privacy. People are always so worried about strangers looking in that they forget to look out. “No one is watching.”
Vanessa clambers over the rail and stands next to me, panting from the effort. “Do you have a key?” she whispers.
“I don’t need one,” I say. I lift the handle of the sliding door and press my shoulder against the glass, jiggling the door in its frame until the catch releases. The door slides silently open.
Vanessa has a hand pressed over her mouth. “How did you know how to do that?”
I shrug. “It’s the one thing my father bothered to teach me before my mother kicked him out. He was always too drunk to keep track of his keys.”
She frowns. “Who was your dad? Not a dentist, I take it?”
“No. He was drunk, a gambler, and a wife-beater. I haven’t seen him since I was seven. He’s probably dead or in jail. At least, I hope he is.”
She can’t seem to stop staring at me, as if she’s never seen me before. “You know, you’re a very different person when you’re honest. I think I like you more this way.”
“Funny. I think I prefer Ashley myself. She’s not nearly as cynical. And a lot nicer.”
“Ashley was a fake. Really, I should have known it from the start.” Vanessa sniffs. “No one is that self-possessed in real life. On social media, sure, but not in person. Ashley was always too good to be true.”
We step into the cool darkness of Lachlan’s living room, and draw the curtains closed behind us.
* * *
—
The condo is a bachelor pad, stark and severe. Leather sofa and chairs, giant TV, a bar cart stocked with expensive alcohol, vintage movie posters on the walls. The condo could belong to anyone: There are no framed photos, no trinkets on the sideboards, no bookshelf reflecting quirks of taste or education. It is barren, as if Lachlan had made a conscious decision to sweep himself off the surfaces and render himself invisible.
We stand in the gloom, waiting for our eyes to adjust. In the distance I hear a horn honking, the tinny vibrations of distant hip-hop coming through an open window. I turn in a slow circle, taking in the familiar surroundings.
“What are you looking for?” Vanessa asks.
“Shhh,” I whisper. I close my eyes and listen to the room, waiting for it to speak to me. But the wall-to-wall carpeting sucks all the sound from the room and so what remains is a void. I imagine Lachlan moving through these rooms, his footsteps silent because of the rug underfoot. He must have left an imprint of his real self somewhere in between these walls, something underneath the careful mirage that he is so good at building.
There’s a sideboard pushed against the wall. I throw the doors open and begin rifling through its contents: old electronics, a stack of books on human psychology, and a Hugo Boss shoebox filled to the