Sloth (Sinful Secrets 1)

That’s when I notice his bedroom door open. I’m not sure what drives me to go in at this moment: curiosity that’s been gnawing for too long and needs to be appeased, or some kind of masochistic urge to tempt his anger and up the ante of this shitty night. Either way, I step inside.

The room is just the same as last time I was in it. He’s got a big, mahogany bed; a dresser; a recliner; and a trunk. The walls are pale green, bare except two charcoal sailboat sketches, both framed in dark wood. And then there’s the wall to my right, covered mostly by his giant woven rug. I’ve never really looked at it before, except to note its dark colors, but now I spend a moment staring at it—this barrier between Kellan’s bedroom and his secret door. Woven in gray, navy, and deep green, is a bear. It’s on its hind legs. Behind it, at the top right corner of the rug, is a half-moon.

I walk slowly over to it and run my hands over the fabric. It’s soft, more like a blanket than a rug. I take the fabric in between my fingers and realize it is a blanket.

/> I lift the left side of it almost reverently, and stare at the door. It’s clearly meant to be hidden, because the bottom of it isn’t flush with the floor. It can’t be seen unless you know to move the blanket. What’s it here for? To hide Kellan’s stash: whatever amount of marijuana he keeps here at his house? That used to be my default guess, but suddenly I need to know for sure.

I try the doorknob, but it doesn’t turn. I notice there’s a keyhole to the right of it. A little, old-fashioned keyhole.

Of course.

I know I’ll never find the key. I let the side of the blanket fall back down and step over to his bed. I lower my face to the duvet and inhale deeply.

I let out a long sigh. Tears brim in my eyes: for R. or Kellan? Why, I want to roar. Why do things always go so wrong? I can hear the R. voice in my head—a voice that sounds like Kellan, saying, “Get back to your life. Be glad you’ve got your thong, or your heart, or whatever.”

I want to scream because it doesn’t happen that way. I can get back to my life, but who’s to say whether I’ve got anything at all? There are no guarantees. There is no fate. No kind or sensible undercurrent dragging us to where we’re meant to be. Through the wall of windows, I hear voices, and I know—I can feel it in my bones—that something bad is going down.

Tears seep from my eyes. I blink, and there it is: a small gold key. It’s lying on the duvet right in front of me.

My blood begins to hum. My heart quickens. I think I must be meant to see inside his hidden room. Why else would it be so easy? I dash my tears away and look up at the ceiling.

Thank you, R.

I scoop up the key and walk back to the blanket. My hand shakes as I pull it aside. I step fully behind it this time. It melds to my bare shoulders and a shiver skitters through me.

The key fits flawlessly into the lock, just like I knew it would. I turn the knob and push gently against the cool wood. The door swings open like a portal in a fairy tale. I inhale, step inside, and—what?

I look around the room: all five square feet of it. I look up and down, and left and right, almost expecting to see a lone toilet. It reminds me of a half-bath... except it’s not. The wall to my right—no more than three feet wide—is a built-in bookshelf. Empty. The wall to my left—equally tiny—is dominated by cabinets and a sink, with a short swatch of black granite countertop.

I turn toward the cabinets and look them over, ceiling to floor. Clearly, they are the purpose of this small space.

My fingers flex. Which door do I open first? Should I open them at all?

I lean over the counter and close my hand around the knob on the right-side cabinet. I pull it open slowly, telling myself I’ll find nothing but a bunch of marijuana.

I squeeze my eyes shut, and when I open them, my stomach hollows out.

Instead of seeds or marijuana baggies, I see bottles. Dozens and dozens of prescription bottles: orange, blue, green; tall, short. And scattered amongst them, glass vials; tinctures; gauze; gloves; tourniquets; syringes; filters. I grab a bottle. Oxycodone. Another one: Hydromorphone. I open the cabinet on my left and I feel sick as I behold more of the same.

This place is a miniature pharmacy, stocked with everything Kellan needs to numb himself to everything—including me.

I slip quietly out the back door while they talk on the front lawn. Kellan’s back is to his big, brick house, his hands up in the air. Everyone looks sad-faced.

It’s not hard to evade them. To stay behind the trees, inside the pool of shifting shadows on the lawn. I open my car’s door and dump my things into the backseat. No one knows I’m here until I slam it shut.

As I sink into the driver’s seat, I hear footfall. Voices lift in unison, tossed up toward the moon—and Leo. I don’t give a fuck. I can’t right now. I peel away so fast, I hit my head on the ceiling.

When I look in my rear view, I see Kellan’s shadow—shoulders slumped, head down.

Guilty.

I don’t let the first sob loose until I turn onto the highway.

WHEN LY AND I WERE little kids and Barrett was in junior high, our family lived in this cottage overlooking the cliffs near Malibu. My Mom would set her easel up on the porch, and Ly and I would ride our tricycles on the rough grass beside the house. We would dare each other to walk closer to the cliffs’ edge, and Ly would always make up some excuse not to. I was always sticking one foot off. It drove Mom crazy. I guess it probably scared her.

There was so much wind there—all the time. I loved that wind. I loved the salty smell of it. I thought if I ever fell, I might just spread my arms and fly. I used to dream of it, at night when we would leave our windows open for the warm, wet air: flying over the water like an albatross.

I don’t know why I remember that right now. Tonight. I guess because I’m standing at the front of Daniel Harmon’s father’s yacht, looking out over the choppy waters off the coast of Santa Monica.