Page 19 of Woman on the Verge

Prisha responded before Kyle did, suggested I bring my dad in through the ER at UCSF.

The teaching hospitals leave no stone unturned. They’ll likely admit him, given the symptoms.

I sighed. That would be my day tomorrow—the ER.

Ten minutes later, Kyle still hadn’t responded. He was probably already asleep, exhausted after enduring the battle that is the Bedtime Routine. Grace had started doing something I called the Wet Noodle at bedtime, where she let her entire body go limp and refused to assist me with putting on her pajamas. It was like trying to dress a corpse. I thought of Liv throwing her usual tantrum when presented with a toothbrush. I thought of them requesting “one more book” ad infinitum. Kyle was normally in the other room, “wrapping up some work,” during these shenanigans. He must have heard the pandemonium, but didn’t step in to help. Was it all white noise to him? Was he that confident I had it handled? It was awful of me, but I hoped the girls were giving him an especially hard time. I hoped they would call for him thirty-seven times during the night, asking him to fix the blankets. You might think that realizing what a terrible person I am would have kept me up all night. But no. Somehow, I fell asleep and didn’t wake up until nine the next morning.

Chapter 4

Katrina

As Elijah puts the key into the door of his apartment, Katrina expects one of two things: a trendy bachelor pad designed to impress women, or a messy bachelor pad designed to impress no one. Instead, he welcomes her into a space that could only be described as warm. It’s lived in, but tastefully. Her eyes go right to an unlit candle on the coffee table. It’s not just for decoration—the wax is sunken in. She tries to picture this gorgeous man at home by himself, lighting a candle, and she has to suppress a giggle.

“My humble abode,” he says, stretching his arms out to the side.

His arms are incredibly long, like his legs. He is all limbs.

“It’s ... nice,” she says, meaning it.

He laughs. “I can’t tell if you’re being sarcastic.”

“Most people can’t,” she says. “But this time I’m not. Promise.”

The furniture looks like it’s from Pottery Barn. Does this thirty-year-old man shop at Pottery Barn? There is a bookcase. She’s too far from it to scan the titles. There is a framed photo on one of the shelves, but she can’t see that either. The kitchen is directly off the living area. There are dirty dishes in the sink, so he is, in fact, human. A half-full bottle of red wine is corked on the counter. Did he shareit with someone else? Is she one of many women he brings back to his place?

“I don’t ever do this,” he says, as if reading her mind, a terrifying prospect.

“This?” she asks, coy.

“I don’t ever invite women back to my apartment,” he says. “Actually, I hardly ever meet women at bars, at least not ones worth talking to.”

She squints her eyes at him. “I find that hard to believe.”

He shrugs. “I’m picky, I guess.”

“Well, I never do this either.”

Now he squints at her. “I findthathard to believe.”

She barks a laugh. Does he think she’s someone who prowls for men? A bona fide cougar?

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he says, again clairvoyant. “I just meant you’re beautiful, so I’m sure all kinds of men want to talk to you.”

Is she blushing? Jesus, when was the last time sheblushed? And when was the last time someone called herbeautiful? Everything in her wants to talk him out of his opinion:Oh, stop;beautifulis a bit of an overstatement.But she refrains. Confidence is sexy, according to all the internet articles.

“You want to sit?” he asks.

They sit on the couch, their thighs touching the way they were at the bar. She doesn’t want another drink, but when he asks if she wants a glass of wine, she says yes just so she can hold the glass and have something to do.

For a while, they stick to their plan of just talking. They act as if they are just two people who met for conversational purposes. This charade is thrilling in a way, a sort of foreplay.

“How long have you lived here?” she asks, taking in more of the space. There’s a door cracked open across from the kitchen. The bathroom, she presumes. There’s another door, also cracked open, beyond that one. The bedroom.

“About a year. I was living with my mom before that.”

“I’m not sure you should be admitting that to me.”

He laughs. “I don’t have any shame. It’s the best way to save money. And my mom is pretty cool.”

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