Sheโs here. Right here, standing in my studio, staring at my art. I never thought Iโd see her again. I was so convinced that the likelihood of our paths ever crossing was minimal, I canโt even remember the last time I thought about her.
But here she is, standing right in front of me. I want to ask her if she remembers me, but I know she doesnโt. How could she when we never even exchanged words?
I remember her, though. I remember the sound of her laughter, her voice, her hair, even though her hair used to be a lot shorter. And even though I felt like I knew her back then, I never really got a good look at her face. Now that Iโm seeing her up close, I have to force myself not to stare too hard. Not because of her unassuming beauty, but because itโs exactly how I imagined she would look up close. I tried to paint her once, but I couldnโt remember enough about her toย nish it. I have a feeling I may attempt it again after tonight. And I already know Iโll call the paintingย Moreย an One.
She moves her attention to another painting and I look away before she catches me staring at her. I donโt want it to appear too obvious that Iโm trying toย gure out which colors to blend together to create her unique shade of skin tone, or whether I would paint her with her hair up or down.
ere are so many things I should be doing right now other than staring at her.ย What should I be doing?ย Showering. Changing. Preparing for all the people who are about to show up for the next two hours.
โI need to take a quick shower,โ I say. She turns around, fast, as if I startled her.
โFeel free to look around. Iโll go over everything else when Iโmย nished. I wonโt take long.โ
She nods and smiles and for theย rst time I think, Hannah who?
Hannah, the last girl I hired to help me. Hannah, the girl who couldnโt handle being second in my life. Hannah, the girl who broke up with me last week.
I hope Auburn isnโt like Hannah.
ere were so many things I didnโt like about her, and that isnโt how it should be. Hannah disappointed me when she spoke, which is why we spent a lot of our time together not speaking. And she always, always made it a point to tell me that her name, when spelled backward, was still Hannah.
โA palindrome,โ I said theย rst time she told me. She looked at me, perplexed, and thatโs when I knew I could never love her. What a waste of a palindrome she was, that Hannah.
But I can already tell that Auburn isnโt like Hannah. I can see the layers of depth in her eyes. I can see the way my art moves her by the way she focuses on it, ignoring everything else around her. I hope she isnโt like Hannah at all. She already looks better in Hannahโs clothes than Hannah did.
Did. Another palindrome.
I walk into the bathroom and look at her clothes, and I want to walk them back downstairs to her. I want to tell her never mind, that I want her to wear herย ownย clothes tonight, not Hannahโs clothes. I want her to be herself, to be comfortable, but my customers are wealthy and elite and they expect black skirts and white shirts. Not blue jeans and this pink (is it pink or red?) top that makes me think of Mrs. Dennis, my high school art teacher.
Mrs. Dennis loved art. Mrs. Dennis also loved artists. And one day, after seeing how incredibly talented with a brush she thought I was, Mrs. Dennis lovedย me.ย Her shirt was pink or red, or maybe both, that day, and thatโs what I remember as I look down at Auburnโs shirt, because Mrs. Dennis who?
She was not a palindrome, but her name spelled backwards was still very
tting, because Dennis = Sinned, and thatโs precisely what we did.
We sinned for an entire hour. She more so than me.
And donโt think that hasnโt been a confession turned into a painting. It was one of theย rst I ever sold. I named itย She Sinned with Me. Hallelujah.
But alas, I donโt want to think about high school or Mrs. Dennis or Palindrome Hannah because they are the past and this is the present, and Auburn is . . . somehow both. She would be shocked if she knew how much of her past has a๏ฌected my present, which is why I wonโt be sharing the truth with her. Some secrets should never turn into confessions. I know that better than anyone.
Iโm not sure what to do with the fact that she just showed up at my doorstep, wide-eyed and quiet, because I donโt know what to believe anymore. Half an hour ago I believed in coincidences and happenstance. Now?ย e idea that her being here is simply a coincidence is laughable.
When I make it back downstairs, sheโs standing statue-still, staring up at the painting I callย You Donโt Exist, God. And If You Do, You Should Be Ashamed.
I wasnโt the one who named it, of course. Iโm never the one who names the paintings.ย ey are all titled by the anonymous confessions that inspire them. I donโt know why, but this confession inspired me to paint my mother. Not as I remember her, but how I imagined she looked when she was my age. And the confession didnโt remind me of her because of her religious views.ย e words just reminded me of how I felt in the months following her death.
Iโm not sure if Auburn believes in God, but something about this painting got to her. A tear rolls down her cheek and slides slowly toward her jaw.
She hears me, or maybe she sees me stand beside her, because she brushes her cheek with the back of her hand and takes a breath. She seems embarrassed to have connected with this piece. Or maybe sheโs just embarrassed that I saw her connect with it.
Instead of asking her what she thinks of the painting, or why sheโs crying, I just stare at the painting with her. Iโve had this one for over a year and just yesterday decided to put it in todayโs showing. I donโt usually keep them for this long, but for reasons I donโt understand, this one was harder to give up than the rest.ย eyโre all hard to give up, but some more so than others.
Maybe Iโm afraid that once they leave my hands, the paintings will be misunderstood. Unappreciated.
โย at was a fast shower,โ she says.
Sheโs trying to change the subject, even though we werenโt speaking out loud. We both know that even though weโve been quiet, the subject for the last few minutes has been her tears and what prompted them andย why do you love this piece so much, Auburn?
โI take fast showers,โ I say, and realize my response is unimpressive and
why am I even trying to be impressive?ย I turn and face her and she does the same, but not before looking down at her feetย rst, because sheโs still embarrassed that I saw her connect with my art. I love that she looked at her feetย rst, because I love that sheโs embarrassed. In order to be embarrassed, a person has to care about the opinions of othersย rst.
at means she cares about my opinion, even if only a fraction. And I like that, because I obviously care about her opinion of me, or I wouldnโt be secretly hoping she doesnโt do or say anything that reminds me of Palindrome Hannah.
She spins around, slowly, and I try to think of something more impressive to say to her. Itโs not enough time, though, because her eyes are back on mine and it looks like sheโs hoping Iโm the conย dent one and will be theย rst to speak.
Iโll speakย rst, although I donโt think conย dence has anything to do with
it.
I look down at my wrist to check the timeโIโm not even wearing a watch
โand I quickly scratch at a nonexistent itch so that I donโt look like Iโm not conย dent. โWe open inย fteen minutes, so I should explain how things work.โ
She exhales, seeming more relieved and relaxed than she did before that sentence left my mouth. โSounds good,โ she says.
I walk toย You Donโt Exist, Godย and I point to the confession taped to the wall. โย e confessions are also the titles of the pieces.ย e prices are written on the back. All you do is ring up the purchase, have themย ll out an information card for delivery of the painting, and attach the confession to the delivery card so Iโll know where to send it.โ
She nods and stares at the confession. She wants to see it, so I take it o๏ฌย the wall and hand it to her. I watch as she reads the confession again before
ipping the card over.
โDo you think people ever buy their own confessions?โ
I know they do. Iโve had people admit to me that theyโre the ones who wrote the confession. โYes, but I prefer not to know.โ
She looks at me like Iโm insane, but also with fascination, so I accept it. โWhy wouldnโt you want to know?โ she asks.
I shrug and her eyes drop to my shoulder and maybe linger on my neck.
It makes me wonder what sheโs thinking when she looks at me like this. โYou know when you hear a band on the radio and you have this vision
of them in your head?โ I ask her. โBut then you see a picture or a video of them and itโs nothing like you assumed? Not necessarily better or worse than you imagined, just di๏ฌerent?โ
She nods in understanding.
โย atโs what itโs like when Iโveย nished a painting and someone tells me their confession inspired it. When Iโm painting, I create a story in my head of what inspired the confession and who it came from. But when Iย nd out that the image I had while painting doesnโtย t the actual image standing in front of me, it somehow invalidates the art for me.โ
She smiles and looks at her feet again. โย ereโs a song called โHold Onโ by the band Alabama Shakes,โ she says, explaining the reason behind her
ushed cheeks. โI listened to that song for more than a month before I saw the video and realized the singer was a woman. Talk about a mind-fuck.โ
I laugh. She understands exactly what Iโm saying, and I canโt stop smiling because I know that band, and Iย nd it hard to believe anyone would think the singer was a man. โShe says her own name in the song, doesnโt she?โ
She shrugs and now Iโm staring at her shoulder. โI thought he was referring to someone else,โ she says, still calling the singer a he even though she knows itโs a she now.
Her eyesย utter away, and she walks around me toward the counter. Sheโs still holding the confession in her hand, and I let her hold it. โHave you ever thought of allowing people to purchase anonymously?โ
I walk to the opposite side of the counter and I lean forward, closer to her. โCanโt say that I have.โ
She runs herย ngers over the counter, the calculator, the information cards, my business cards. She picks one up. Sheย ips it over. โYou should put confessions on the backs of these.โ
As soon as those words leave her mouth, her lips press into a tight line.
She thinks Iโm insulted by her suggestions, but Iโm not.
โHow would it beneย t me if the purchases were anonymous?โ
โWell,โ she says, treading carefully, โif I were one of the people who wrote one of theseโโshe holds up the confession in her handโโI would be too embarrassed to buy it. Iโd be afraid you would know it was me who wrote it.โ
โI think itโs rare that people who write the confession actually come to a showing.โ
She hands me the confession,ย nally, and then crosses her arms over the counter. โEven if I didnโt write the confession, Iโd be too embarrassed to buy the painting for fear that you would assume I wrote it.โ
She makes a good point.
โI think the confessions add an element of realness to your paintings that canโt be found in other art. If a person walks into a gallery and sees a painting they connect with, they might buy it. But if a person walks into your gallery and sees a painting or a confession they connect with, they might not want to connect with it. But they do. And theyโre embarrassed that they connect with a painting about a mother admitting she might not love her own child. And if they hand the confession card to whoever is going to ring up their purchase, theyโre essentially saying to that person, โI connected with this horrible admission of guilt.โ โ
I might be in awe of her, and I try not to look at her with so much obvious fascination. I straighten up but canโt shake the sudden urge to hibernate inside her head. Ferment in her thoughts. โYou make a good argument.โ
She smiles at me. โWhoโs arguing?โ Not us. Deย nitely not us.
โSo letโs do it, then,โ I say to her. โWeโll place a number below every painting and people can bring you the number rather than the confession card. Itโll give them a sense of anonymity.โ
I notice every tiny detail of her reaction as I walk around the counter toward her. She grows an inch taller and sucks in a small breath. I reach around her and pick up a piece of paper, and then reach across her for the scissors. I donโt make eye contact with her when I do these things so close to her, but sheโs staring at me, almost as if sheโs willing me to.
I look around the room and begin counting the paintings when she interrupts and says, โย ere are twenty-two.โ She almost seems embarrassed that she knew how many paintings there were, because she glances away and clears her throat. โI counted them earlier . . . while you were in the shower.โ She takes the scissors from my hands and begins cutting the paper. โDo you have a black marker?โ
I retrieve one and set it down on the counter. โWhy do you think I need confessions on my business cards?โ
She continues to meticulously cut the squares while she answers me. โย e confessions are fascinating. It sets your studio apart from all the rest. If you have confessions on your business cards, itโll pique interest.โ
Sheโs right again. I canโt believe I havenโt thought of that yet. She must be a business major. โWhat do you do for a living, Auburn?โ
โI cut hair at a salon a few blocks away.โ Her answer lacks pride and it makes me sad for her.
โYou should be a business major.โ
She doesnโt respond, and Iโm afraid I may have just insulted her profession. โNot that cutting hair is something you shouldnโt be proud of,โ I say. โI just think you have a brain for business.โ I pick up the black marker and begin writing numbers on the squares, one to twenty-two, because thatโs how many paintings she said are hanging and I believe her enough not to recount them.
โHow often are you open?โ She completely ignores my insult/compliment regarding her profession.
โFirstย ursday of every month.โ
She looks at me, perplexed. โOnly once a month?โ
I nod. โI told you itโs not really an art gallery. I donโt show other artists, and Iโm rarely open. Itโs just something I started doing a few years back and it took o๏ฌ, especially after I got a front-page feature last year in theย Dallas Morning News. I do well enough the one night Iโm open to make a living.โ
โGood for you,โ she says, genuinely impressed. Iโve never really tried to be impressive before, but she makes me a little bit proud of myself.
โDo you always have a set number of paintings available?โ I love that sheโs so interested.
โNo. One time, about three months ago, I opened with only one painting.โ
She turns and faces me. โWhy only one?โ
I shrug, playing it o๏ฌ. โI wasnโt very inspired to paint that month.โ
is isnโt entirely the truth. It was when Iย rst began seeing Palindrome Hannah, and most of my time was spent inside of her that month, attempting to focus on her body and ignore the fact that I didnโt connect as much with her mind. Auburn doesnโt need to know any of that though.
โWhat was the confession?โ
I look at her questioningly, because Iโm not sure what sheโs talking about. โย e one painting you did that month,โ she clariย es. โWhat was the
confession that inspired it?โ
I think back to that month and back to the only confession I seemed to want to paint. Even though it wasnโt my confession, it somehow feels like it was now that sheโs asking me to tell her what my only inspiration was for that entire month.
โย e painting was calledย When Iโm with You, Iย ink of All the Great
ings I Could Be If I Were Without You.โ
She keeps her focus on me and her eyebrows are furrowed as if sheโs trying to get to know my story through this confession.
Her expression relaxes and keeps falling until she looks disturbed. โย atโs really sad,โ she says.
She glances away, either to hide that this confession bothered her or to hide that sheโs still trying to decipher me through the confession. She
glances at some of the paintings closest to us so that sheโs not looking directly at me anymore. Weโre playing a game of hide-and-seek and the paintings are home base, apparently.
โYou must have been extremely inspired this month, because twenty-two is a big number.ย atโs almost a painting a day.โ
I want to say, โJust wait until next month,โ but I donโt.
โSome of these are old paintings.ย ey werenโt all made this month.โ I reach around her again, for the tape this time, but itโs di๏ฌerent. Itโs di๏ฌerent because I accidentally touch her arm with my hand, and I havenโt actually touched her until now. But we deย nitely just made contact, and sheโs absolutely real, and I hold on extra tight to the tape because I want more of whatever that was she just unintentionally delivered.
I want to say, โDid you feel that, too?โ but I donโt have to because I can see the chills run up her arm. I want to put down the tape and touch one of those tiny bumps I just created on her skin.
She clears her throat and takes a quick step back into the expansiveness of the room and away from the closeness of us.
I breathe, relieved by the space she just put between us. She seems uncomfortable, and honestly, I was becoming uncomfortable, because Iโm still trying to wrap my mind around the fact that sheโs actually here.
If I had to guess, I would say that sheโs an introvert. Someone who isnโt used to being around other people, much less people who are complete strangers to her. She seems a lot like me. A loner, a thinker, an artist with her life.
And it appears as though sheโs afraid Iโll alter her canvas if she allows me too close.
She doesnโt need to worry.ย e feeling is mutual.
 |
We spend the nextย fteen minutes hanging the numbers below each painting. I watch as she writes down the name of each confession on a piece of paper and correlates it with its number. She acts like sheโs done this a million times. I think she might be one of those people who are good at everything they do. She has a talent for life.
โDo people always show up to these things?โ she asks as we walk back to the counter. I love the fact that she has no idea about my studio or my art.
โCome here.โ I walk toward the front door, smiling at her innocence and curiosity. It gives me a nostalgic feeling reminiscent of theย rst night I opened over three years ago. She brings back a little of that excitement, and I wish it could always be like this.
When we reach the front door, I pull away one of the confessions so she can take a peek outside. I watch her eyes grow wide as she takes in the line of people that I know are standing at the door. It didnโt always used to be like this. Since the front-page feature last year, word of mouth has increased the amount of tra๏ฌc I get, and Iโve been very lucky.
โExclusivity,โ she whispers, taking a step back.
I attach the confession back to the window. โWhat do you mean?โ
โย atโs why you do so well. Because you restrict the amount of days youโre open and you can only make so many paintings in a month. It makes your art worth more to people.โ
โAre you saying I donโt do well because of my talent?โ I smile when I say this so she knows Iโm only teasing.
She shoves my shoulder playfully. โYou know what I mean.โ
I want her to shove my shoulder again, because I loved the way she smiled when she did it, but instead she turns and faces the openย oor of the studio. She draws in a slow breath. It makes me wonder if seeing all the people outside has made her nervous.
โYou ready?โ
She nods and forces a smile. โReady.โ
I open the doors and the people begin pouring in.ย ereโs a big crowd tonight and for theย rst several minutes, I worry that this will intimidate her. But regardless of how quiet and a little bit shy she seemed when she
rst showed up here, sheโs the exact opposite now. Sheโsย ourishing, as if sheโs somehow in her element, when this probably isnโt a situation sheโs ever been in before.
I wouldnโt know that from watching her, though.
For theย rst half hour, she mingles with the guests and discusses the art and some of the confessions. I recognize a few faces, but most of them are people I donโt know. She acts like she knows all of them. She eventually walks back to the counter when she sees someone pull the numberย ve
down. Numberย ve correlates to the painting titledย I went to China for two weeks without telling anyone. When I returned, no one noticed Iโd been gone.
She smiles at me from across the room as sheโs ringing up herย rst transaction. I continue to work the crowd, mingling, all the while watching her out of the corner of my eye. Tonight, everyoneโs focus is on my art, but my focus is on her. Sheโs the most interesting piece in this entire room.
โWill your father be here tonight, Owen?โ
I look away from her long enough to answer Judge Corleyโs question with a shake of my head. โHe couldnโt make it tonight,โ I lie.
If I were a priority in his life, he would have made it.
โย atโs a shame,โ Judge Corley says. โIโm having my o๏ฌce redecorated, and he suggested I stop by to check out your work.โ
Judge Corley is a man with a height ofย ve feet six but an ego twice as tall. My father is a lawyer and spends a lot of time in the courthouse downtown, where Judge Corleyโs o๏ฌce is. I know this because my father isnโt a fan of Judge Corleyโs, and despite Judge Corleyโs show of interest, Iโm pretty sure heโs not a fan of my fatherโs.
โSurface friendsโ is what I call it. When your friendship is merely a faรงade and youโre enemies on the inside. My father has a lot of surface friends. I think itโs a side e๏ฌect of being a lawyer.
I donโt have any. I donโt want any.
โYou have exceptional talent, although Iโm not sure itโs quite my taste,โ Judge Corley says, moving around me to view another painting.
An hour quickly passes. Sheโs been busy most of the time, and even when she isnโt, sheย nds something to do. She doesnโt just sit behind the counter and look bored like Palindrome Hannah did. Hannah perfected the art of boredom,ย ling her nails so much during the two showings she worked for me, Iโm surprised she even had nails left by the end of it.
Auburn doesnโt look bored. She looks like sheโs having fun. Whenever there isnโt someone at the counter, sheโs up and mingling and smiling and laughing at the jokes that I know she thinks are lame.
She sees Judge Corley approach the table with a number. She smiles at him and says something, but he just grunts. When she looks down at the number, I see a frown form on her lips, but she quickly shoves it away with a fake smile. Her eyes brieย y meet the painting titledย You Donโt Exist, Godย . . ., and I immediately understand the look on her face. Judge Corley is
buying the painting and she knows as well as I do that he doesnโt deserve it. I quickly make my way to the counter.
โย ereโs been a misunderstanding.โ
Judge Corley looks at me, annoyed, and Auburn glances up at me in surprise. I take the number out of her hand. โย is painting isnโt for sale.โ
Judge Corley hu๏ฌs and points to the number in my hand. โWell, the number was still on the wall. I thought that meant it was for sale.โ
I put the number in my pocket. โIt sold before we opened,โ I say. โI guess I forgot to take down the number.โ I wave toward the painting behind him. One of the few left. โWould something like this work for you?โ
Judge Corley rolls his eyes and puts his wallet back in his pocket. โNo, it wonโt,โ he says. โI liked the orange in the other painting. It matches the leather in my o๏ฌce sofa.โ
He likes it for the orange.ย ank God I saved it from him.
He motions for a woman standing several feet away and he begins walking toward her. โRuth,โ he says, โletโs just stop by the Pottery Barn tomorrow.ย ereโs nothing here I like.โ
I watch as they leave, then turn and face Auburn again. Sheโs grinning. โCouldnโt let him take your baby, could you?โ
I let out a breath of relief. โI would have never forgiven myself.โ
She glances behind me at someone approaching so I step aside and let her work her magic. Another half hour passes and most of the paintings have been purchased when the last person leaves for the night. I lock the door behind them.
I turn around and sheโs still standing behind the counter, organizing the sales. Her smile is huge and she isnโt trying to hide it at all. Whatever stress she walked into this studio with, itโs not plaguing her right now. Right now, sheโs happy and itโs intoxicating.
โYou sold nineteen!โ she says, almost in a squeal. โOMG, Owen. Do you realize how much money you just made? And do you realize I just used your initials in my sentence?โ
I laugh because yes, I realize how much money I just made, and yes, I realize she just used my initials in a sentence. But itโs okay, because she was adorable doing it. She also must have a natural ability to conduct business, because I can honestly say Iโve never sold nineteen paintings in one night.
โSo?โ I ask, hopeful that this wonโt be the last time she helps me. โYou busy next month?โ
Sheโs already smiling, but my job o๏ฌer makes her smile even bigger. She shakes her head and looks up at me. โIโm never busy when it comes to a hundred dollars an hour.โ
Sheโs counting the money, separating the bills into piles. She takes two of the one-hundred-dollar bills and holds them up, smiling. โย ese are mine.โ She folds them and tucks them into the front pocket of her (or Palindrome Hannahโs) shirt.
My high from the night begins to fade the moment I realize sheโs
nished, and I donโt know how to prolong the time between us. Iโm not ready for her to leave yet, but sheโs tucking the cash away in a drawer and stacking the orders into a pile on the counter.
โItโs after nine,โ I say. โYouโre probably starving.โ
I use this as an opening to see if she wants something to eat, but her eyes immediately grow wide and her smile disappears. โItโs already after nine?โ Her voice is full of panic and she quickly turns and sprints for the stairs. She takes them two at a time; I had no idea she was capable of displaying so much urgency.
I expect her to come rushing back down the stairs with the same haste, but she doesnโt, so I make my way toward the stairs. When I reach the top step, I can hear her voice.
โIโm so sorry,โ she says. โI know, I know.โ
Sheโs quiet for several seconds, and then she sighs. โOkay.ย atโs okay, Iโll talk to you tomorrow.โ
When the call comes to an end, I walk up the stairs, curious what kind of phone call could cause someone to feel so much panic. I see her, sitting quietly at the bar, staring at the phone in her hands. I watch her wipe away the second tear tonight, and I immediately dislike whoever was on the other end of that call. I donโt like the person who made her feel this way, when just a few minutes ago she couldnโt stop smiling.
She lays her phone facedown on the bar when she notices me standing at the top of the stairs. She isnโt sure if I saw that tear just nowโI didโso she forces a smile. โSorry about that,โ she says.
Sheโs really good at hiding her true emotions. So good, itโs scary. โItโs okay,โ I say.
She stands up and glances toward the bathroom. Sheโs about to suggest that itโs time to change her clothes and go home. Iโm scared if she does that, Iโll never see her again.
We have the same middle name.ย at could be fate, you know.
โI have a tradition,โ I tell her. Iโm lying, but she seems like the type of girl who wouldnโt want to break a guyโs tradition. โMy best friend is the bartender across the street. I always go have a drink with him after my showings are over. I want you to come with me.โ
She glances at the bathroom once more. Based on her hesitation, I can only conclude that either she doesnโt frequent bars or sheโs just not sure if she wants to go to one withย me.
โย ey also serve food,โ I say, attempting to downplay the fact that I just asked her to a bar for a drink. โAppetizers mostly, but theyโre pretty good and Iโm starving.โ
She must be hungry because her eyes light up when I mention appetizers. โDo they have cheese sticks?โ she asks.
Iโm not sure if they have cheese sticks, but Iโll say anything at this point just to spend a few more minutes with her. โย e best in town.โ
Again, her expression is hesitant. She glances down at the phone in her hands and then looks back up at me. โI . . .โ She bites her bottom lip, embarrassed. โI should probably call my roommateย rst. Just to let her know where I am. Iโm usually home by now.โ
โOf course.โ
She looks down at her phone and dials a number. She waits for the other person to pick up.
โHey,โ she says into the phone. โItโs me.โ She smiles at me reassuringly. โIโll be late tonight, Iโm having drinks with someone.โ She pauses for a second and then looks up at me with a twisted expression. โUm . . . yeah, I guess. Heโs right here.โ
She holds the phone out toward me. โShe wants to talk to you.โ I step toward her and take the phone.
โHello?โ
โWhatโs your name?โ a girl on the other end of the line says. โOwen Gentry.โ
โWhere are you taking my roommate?โ
Sheโs grilling me in a monotone, authoritative voice. โTo Harrisonโs Bar.โ
โWhat time will she be home?โ
โI donโt know. A couple of hours from now, maybe?โ I look to Auburn for conย rmation, but she just shrugs her shoulders.
โTake care of her,โ she says. โIโm giving her a secret phrase to use if she needs to call me for help. And if she doesnโt call me at midnight to let me know sheโs home safe, Iโm calling the police and reporting her murder.โ
โUm . . . okay,โ I say with a laugh.
โLet me talk to Auburn again,โ she says.
I hand the phone back to Auburn, a little more nervous than before. I can tell by the confused expression on her face that sheโs hearing about the secret-phrase rule for theย rst time. Iโm guessing either she and this roommate havenโt been living together for very long, or Auburn never goes out.
โWhat?!โ Auburn says into the phone. โWhat kind of secret phrase is โpencil dickโ?โ
She slaps her hand over her mouth and says, โSorry,โ after accidentally blurting it out. Sheโs quiet for a bit and then her face contorts into confusion. โSeriously? Why canโt you choose normal words, like raisin or rainbow?โ She shakes her head with a quiet laugh. โOkay. Iโll call you at midnight.โ
She ends the call and smiles. โEmory. Sheโs a little strange.โ
I nod, agreeing with the strange part. She points to the bathroom. โCan I changeย rst?โ
I tell her to go ahead, relieved that sheโll be back in the clothes I found her in. When she disappears into the bathroom, I pull out my phone to text Harrison.
Me:ย Iโm coming for a drink. Do you serve cheese sticks?ย Harrison:ย Nope.
Me:ย Do me a favor. When I order cheese sticks, donโt say you donโt serve them. Just say you ran out.
Harrison:ย Okay. Random request, but whatever.
