Page 33 of Heidi Lucy Loses Her Mind
“Here,” I say, holding it up. “The initials, see? And then the sticky note was right here” —I place the sticky note back where it was— “and then the cash is inside.”
“Hmm,” Soren says.
It’s a low, gravelly sound, and for a brief second I imagine pressing my finger to his Adam’s apple when he hums like that; would I feel the vibrations?
“Heidi?” he says, and I startle.
Crap. I’m being weird.
“Yeah?” I say in my best non-weird voice.
“You still with me?”
I’m a littletoowith him. But “Yes” is all I say.
“Well, we can’t do anything about this tonight, and you need to sleep. So let’s talk tomorrow, okay?” he says.
Part of me wants to argue, because I find some sort of perverse joy in pushing back with Soren. But I know he’s right.
“Okay,” I say, and my voice sounds heavy. “Talk to you tomorrow, then.”
He murmurs a goodbye, and I force myself to end the call first, so I’m not tempted to linger.
Before I put the chair back and head to my flat, I snap a few quick photos of the envelope. Then I put the broom away and trudge back upstairs.
My pillowcase is damp by the time I finally fall asleep.
8
IN WHICH SOREN MAKES A DECISION
Video chatting with a pajama-clad Heidi in the middle of the night doesn’t do great things for my dreams after I fall back asleep. Or, rather, it does too many great things—when I wake up the next day, my bed feels larger and colder and emptier than normal. I sigh, sitting up and looking around the bedroom.
I thought putting more furniture in here would make it feel less lonely, but it didn’t. It just makes the loneliness feel claustrophobic instead of vast and echoing.
I need to move. I need todownsize.I don’t love this neighborhood anyway. It has an old money feeling to it that makes me feel like all the neighbors are judging me. Part of that sensation might be in my head, but part of it is real. I’ll be the first to admit that when I’m buried in a manuscript, I turn into a bit of a slob. I’m sure a hulking man with long hair and ketchup-stained sweatpants taking his trash out to the curb is not what my neighbors want to see all the time. I don’t need to live someplace where everything is so stately, anyway. I’m not a stately guy. I’m pretty simple.
I would like my publishers not to drop me, and I would like to date my favorite bookshop owner, and I would like to not run through all my savings.
I get out of bed and hop in the shower, ignoring the truth trying to worm its way between the folds of my brain: that a different apartment or house or neighborhood is never going to help me accomplish any of those things, and it definitely won’t alleviate the loneliness.
But like Heidi did last night, cleaning in the middle of the night in order to exert some control over her life, I’ll probably do the same by trying to move.
At first while I’m in the shower, I rush through washing my hair and my body, so that I can get to the bookstore earlier—until it dawns on me that Carmina Hildegarde is no longer around to steal my spot. When I feel the tiniest spark of relief at that, I’m so revolted with myself that I almost vomit.
By the time I get to Paper Patisserie an hour later, I’m feeling distinctly wrong-footed.
“Hi,” I mouth to Heidi when I spot her, a cardboard box in her arms as she emerges from the bookshelves and heads in the direction of the kitchen.
“Oh, hi,” she says. She changes course, heading to my chair instead.
My chair that I’m not ever going to have to fight Carmina for again. I rub my stomach, that faint swell of nausea rising once more.
I take a moment to look Heidi over as she approaches. She’s wearing her hair in a ponytail today, fresh-faced and natural with a yellow t-shirt and slouchy jeans. I peer more intently at her as she stops in front of me.
You’d never know she was struggling so much yesterday. She looks fine—a serious expression, maybe, and the bandage on her forehead makes her look tough, but there are no red eyes or red nose or tear tracks. I don’t even see her fidgeting with that nervous energy she gets sometimes.
I’ll have to see how she does when she’s not holding a box with both hands.
