The Dirty Ones

Silence on the other end of the call. “Ben?”

“I’m here. Can you explain that?”

I look at Kiera and say, “Walk down to the closest bookstore and buy the number three book on the New York Times bestseller list.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s called The Dirty Ones.”

Silence.

“Bennett?”

“What the fuck do you mean?”

“That’s all I know. I came to Kiera’s to… I was gonna blame her, but it wasn’t her. Can you just go buy the book and then call Sofia and—”

“Fuck that. You’re coming home. We need to—”

“I’m stuck in a blizzard. I can’t get home until Thursday at the earliest. Can you just… get everyone on the same page? And start asking questions, Ben. Because we need to figure out what’s coming next.”

Silence.

“Bennett?”

“Yeah. I’m here. I’ll do that and call you back.”

“I don’t have cell service at Kiera’s house.”

“You’re staying with her?” he says. “What the fuck, Connor? Go get a hotel.”

I glance over at Kiera, find her turned away from me, staring out the window. “No. I’m not leaving her alone through this. I’m staying here. I’ll call again tomorrow and check in. Thanks.”

I end the call before he can say anything else.

“You don’t have to stay with me,” Kiera says.

“Yes, I do,” I say. “Buddy system, remember?”

She huffs out a small laugh. “Yeah. Well, thanks. Any more calls to make?”

“Nah. Two is plenty. I’m fucking wet. I need to get out of these clothes.” Our eyes meet for a second. Just a quick meet. Then we both look away.

I wonder if she’s picturing me the way I’m picturing her. The way she always sat in the far left corner of that couch, scribbling away in the notebook. Eyes never quite able to meet mine back then either.

“OK,” she says, opening up her door. “Then let’s go.”

I turn the car off, get out, and we spend the better part of fifteen minutes dragging our asses back up her driveway.

We stomp the snow off, crashing our feet on the door mat inside the front door, but it’s hopeless. Ice balls cling to our pants like shimmering silver pearls.

She sits down on a small bench and begins taking off her boots, while I toe out of my shoes, then yank off my soaking wet socks.

The next thing I know she’s peeling off her pants. Exposing her legs in a way that is both familiar and altogether alien at the same time. Her thighs are bright pink from the cold and she rubs her hands up and down her legs, trying to make them warm.

My pants are soaking wet too, but I hesitate. I don’t know why. Kiera has seen my body more times than anyone else I know. More than Sofia. More than anyone.

She stands up, sensing my hesitation. “I’m gonna jump in the shower, but I’ll save you some hot water and you can take one after.”

“OK,” I say, watching her walk away from me. Watching the way her hips move back and forth and the long line of her legs. “Kiera,” I say.

“Hmm?” She stops at the door to the bathroom, leans on the doorjamb so her face is pressed up to it, body turned sideways. I wonder if she knows what she looks like when she poses like that?

“Leave the door open,” I say. “Just in case.”

She presses her lips together and nods. “OK.” Then disappears inside.

I’m still standing there, watching the open doorway, when the water comes on. Still standing there when the coils of steam begin wafting their way out into the hallway. Wishing I could see inside. Watch her in the shower.

I wait, still and quiet, as that feeling fades. And then I strip down to my boxer briefs, hold my wet clothes in a heap in my arms, and find an excuse to stand in the bathroom doorway.

“Looking for your laundry room,” I call, staring at the billowing shower curtain. There’s a soft fuzzy silhouette of her shape as she stands under the water. Teasing me, I think. But not on purpose.

“It’s at the end of the hall,” she says back, water sputtering out with her words. “Just hang everything up over the radiator and let it drip dry.”

“Thanks,” I say, forcing myself to move on.

Her laundry room is a proper room. Bigger than her bathroom. And it has a back door.

There’s a rod and hangers over the radiator. Like hanging up wet clothes is just part of her normal routine. I picture Kiera living out here alone. Lost in her ways. Just… being herself.

I have a moment of envy for that. It’s so opposite to my life back in New York where every moment has been managed since I graduated from Essex College just across Lake Champlain.

And it is, literally, just a forty-five-minute ferry ride across the lake.

I bet if I look out this window tomorrow morning I’ll see the fucking college. I guess I never realized how close she was all these years. I guess I never realized how she never really got away.