Sarah had already come and gone by the time Nick arrived home from his after-work gym session; she had left a note on the coffee table saying she wouldn't be back until later in the evening. It was a brief note. Too brief, Nick thought as he held it in his hand while pouring himself a glass of Scotch in the kitchen. She normally wrote more. This merely said she'd be out until later. He tilted the glass toward his mouth and tasted the smoky burn of the whiskey as it lapped over his tongue.
He sat on the couch in the living room, lit a cigarette and pondered the translucent brown liquor in his glass. There couldn't possibly be enough Scotch to blot out the dreams, the lump on his side, the pains in his gut, his infidelity and the bizarre theory that an alien being lived somewhere inside him. Could it merely be that he was turning thirty soon, unmarried, living with a woman to whom he was not wed? Worse, what was on that piece of paper that artist gave Sarah? Nick took another sip from the glass.
He looked down at the note Sarah had left behind. What if she were out with Josh Sammers? What if Josh Sammers was somehow part of the art conspiracy and, when it was finally exposed and written about in the competing paper, it turned out that both he and Sarah and been unfaithful to each other with people involved in the conspiracy? There would be no awards, no hiring by a major national paper. No joining an investigative team and jetting around the globe. He would most certainly be fired, possibly prosecuted, and lose Sarah as well. It was just too Byzantine to consider, the branches of his sudden entanglement twisting and turning into each other until the trunk of truth was lost.
There was no way to suddenly confront Sarah with all this, to tell her about his investigation and his infidelity and then ask her if the paper given to her had led her astray, too. What if the paper had been nothing but a doodle? What if she were only out with a friend in need of sudden consolation? His sudden outpouring would certainly ruin everything and he would end up alone, without Sarah. He had to wait, see where the threads led, find out if he could be implicated in the conspiracy. Maybe, he thought, no one was keeping track of Sophia leftover’s every movement. When indicted, maybe she wouldn't mention anything.
But it would come out in trial if he wrote about it. Somehow, she would tell someone she had slept with him. If no one else but her knew about it, though, he could deny it. It would be easy to lie about it, say he had merely interviewed her in a bar and gone home. Maybe mention he had gone into the gallery and seen the two Sammers paintings. He could deny everything else. Nobody else had been there. He went back to the kitchen and refilled his glass. Through the kitchen window he could see the coffee shop patio. It was crowded with caffeine-, cigarette- and chocolate-crazed patrons. He took a sip from his drink and stared at the distant scene and the people looking for a late afternoon boost to get them through until bedtime.
"Oh, god, this can't be happening to me," he said as he looked through the window.
He went into the bedroom, stripped off his gym clothes and sat on the edge of the bed in his underwear. The room, with the exception of a few small framed photos, had been decorated by Sarah. It was her inner sanctum, not his: the place she retreated to after they argued; the place she felt comfortable within. To him it was just a bedroom, except now it seemed to represent, in a floral motif, everything he held dear about her. Her softness, her scent, the way she always seemed in bloom. His room was down the hall in the spare bedroom turned study, a room crowded with bookshelves and his personal computer. A room with bare walls and a dilapidated chair he refused to replace because he had had it so long he couldn't bear to throw it out. The new desk chair she had gotten him last Christmas was sitting before her computer in the living room, left there the very day he assembled it. He shook his head at the thought. The joke that day was that she had bought him a gift for hesrelf, even though he knew that was untrue. He hated his chair, had often complained about how uncomfortable it was, and then had turned down a chair in which he would have sat more comfortably. He never complained anymore.
He filled his glass again and went back to the living room, picked up the phone and dialed.
"Hey, Cap, it's Nick," Nick said as he stood in the living room, receiver in one hand, glass in the other, looking out the windows at the final moments of the sun's descent.
"What're you, drunk?" Cap asked. "You're slurring your words."
Nick looked at his glass. "Well, maybe. I'm drinking on an empty stomach."
"You just got home from the gym an hour ago, what's the matter? Is everything okay?"
Nick stared at the last shard of crimson on the horizon.
"Yeah, I guess. I just feel weird."
"About what?"
Nick looked around the living room. The television was a blank screen, the stereo silent, and the bookshelves made no effort to help. What could he say?
"Can you meet me tomorrow after work? I think I need to bounce some things off somebody."
"Well, sure. Are you sure you don't want to talk now? You sound like you've been drinking a lot."
Nick looked at his glass. "No, not tonight. I just need to sit around and think."
"You sure? I can come over, now."
Nick looked out the living room windows at the now inky sky. "Yeah, I'm sure. Tonight, I just need to pass out and forget about this nonsense."
"What? Are you worrying about turning thirty?" Cap asked, his voice light.
"Yeah, sort of."
"Well, then, get drunk and I'll talk to you tomorrow. I'll call you, okay?"
"Yeah, call me."
Nick hung up and tilted the last third of the glass into his mouth -- the Scotch filled is cheeks but no longer burned -- and swallowed. He walked toward the bedroom, dropping the empty glass on the carpet in the living room. It was nine o'clock and Sarah still had not returned.
SEVENTEEN