She doesn’t look up as I round the desk to take my spot, or when I pick up the paper Fika-stamped cup already by my mouse.
On its side, someone has written Ashleigh’s name, though somehow spelled much more incorrectly than if the barista had simply gone with Ashley.
Out of the corner of her eye, she catches me sniffing it, and her pink-painted lips curl. “It’s not poisoned, if that’s what you’re wondering.”
“I was more worried about urine,” I joke.
“Well, after you taste it, let me know if you think there’s too much cardamom in my diet.”
I take another sniff and a sip. Spicy-sweet perfection. “Thank you.” I chance a look her way, but her eyes are glued to her monitor, nails clacking against her keyboard.
“A few of us went in on it,” she deadpans.
“Give them my regards,” I say.
She’s not ready for more chitchat than that, it seems, so we fall into quietly working at our separate stations. Still, it’s a start. From back in the office, Harvey gives me a knowing wink and a thumbs-up, confirming tomorrow night’s plan is in motion.
On Saturday, I wait two hours after our shift ends before punching Ashleigh’s address into my GPS.
It leads me north up the peninsula, then toward the shore, the final right turn rapidly approaching.
I duck my head to peer out the passenger window and slam on my brakes as a break in the foliage reveals a low, squat house tucked back from the road.
The car behind me honks, and I put on my blinker as I ease onto the flagstone driveway. It curves back and down to a sleek midcentury pseudo-mansion.
Behind it, the bay glitters, the view uninterrupted apart from a few pine trees.
I’d assumed Ashleigh never wanted to hang out at her place because she preferred to keep her social life separate from her life as a mom. Now I wonder if she was just playing coy about being absolutely loaded.
I park in front of the bright orange double doors, each slotted with a stack of narrow rectangular windows, and motion-sensor lights flick on. Despite the little sign picketed into the planter, Harvey has assured me that Ashleigh doesn’t actually have a security system.
In fact, he’s pretty sure she found the sign in someone’s trash after Duke moved out.
The spare key is exactly where he said it would be, under an empty pot around the side of the house.
Two nights ago, when we hatched this plan, Harvey and I were both so sure this would only delight Ashleigh. Now I’m less certain. I am, essentially, breaking and entering.
I step over the threshold, prepared to bolt if the alarm sounds. It doesn’t.
I take off my shoes and wander deeper, the terrazzo entryway giving way to a hallway on the right, followed by a massive chef’s kitchen with flush walnut cabinets and a Sputnik chandelier spanning the island. On the left, there’s a sunken, seventies-style living room with a semicircular couch wound around a fireplace.
I follow the hallway to the first bedroom: a guest room, I’d guess, based on the bland pseudo-coastal decor. The next room is covered with RPG franchise posters and drawings of anime characters.
At the end of the hall, I reach a bedroom nearly the size of our apartment, complete with a walk-in closet that feeds into the en suite bathroom of my dreams.
If that weren’t a clear enough indicator that this is Ashleigh’s room, there’s also the tarp, paint buckets, and paint rollers sitting in one corner, unused.
There isn’t much else in the room. A bed, a dresser, a side table. I wonder whether Duke took most of the furniture with him. There’s a sadness to this space that I didn’t expect.
It feels like a place that used to be home.
I hope it can be again. Ashleigh deserves that.
I set my stuff down, grab the unopened roll of painter’s tape, and get to work.
It’s therapeutic, painting along the baseboards and ceiling. And the Miles-inspired sad-girl playlist blaring from my phone gives the experience a cathartic edge too.
It takes an hour just to tape everything off. Then I do the first coat of the upper cut-in and step down from the step stool I found in the garage to admire my handiwork before starting the lower cut-in.
I’m nearly finished with the first coat when a throat clears behind me.
I whirl around, brandishing my paintbrush like it’s a sword.
Ashleigh stands with her arms crossed, one jet-black brow sharply raised.
“You’re back,” I say.
“And you’re listening to Adele’s greatest and saddest,” she replies.
I grab my phone from the step stool’s cupholder and hit pause. Onscreen, I see the beginning of a text from Harvey: Sorry, I did my best but . . .
“Is poker night over already?” I ask.
“The randomly scheduled poker night that suddenly had to be this Saturday, because every other night this month was booked, for everyone?” Ashleigh says. “That poker night?”
