Page 42 of The Quiet Tenant

Maybe this is how it’s meant to be. Maybe this is what I learn from this. That at the end of the day, the only person you can truly count on is yourself.

CHAPTER 28

Emily

He’s a part of my life. I’m not sure how it happened, but he is, and he feels at ease in it.

My message about red-tailed hawks has snowballed in the most beautiful way. We never stopped texting. Now, we talk all day long. At work, I keep my phone in the front pocket of my apron. I check it between customers, under the bar. I check it in the bathroom. I check it in the back of Eric’s car. I check it while I brush my teeth, before bed, first thing in the morning. His most recent text replays on a constant loop in the back of my brain.

At first, we graduated from red-tailed hawks to other birds of prey, and eventually the rest of the Hudson Valley fauna. We expanded our horizons to cover work, the town, food, the weather. He sends me pictures of interesting birds. We trade recipes. He asks me how I’m doing every morning, and every evening he says good night. He wants to know how the restaurant treats me. He wants to know how I’m holding up. He’s heard the work is brutal. He hopes I’m okay. I tell him about a dream I had, a series of doors down a dark hallway, all locked. He looks up its meaning on the internet. “Closed doors,” he says, “apparently mean someone or something is standing in your way. An open door, on the other hand, would signify a new stage in your life, a positive change. Are you sure all those doors were closed?”

He types words in full. No “2” for “two,” no “K” for “OK,” no “btw” for “by the way.” His sentences begin with capital letters and end with periods. His emoticon use is moderate, the rare “:)” loaded with special meaning.

There are things he doesn’t bring up, and I know not to ask. His wife. His daughter. I keep my questions vague: “How are you? How was your day?” The door is open. If he wants to talk, he will.

He comes to the bar on Tuesday and Thursday, as usual. I make him virgin old-fashioneds. Whenever I have a moment, we talk. We’reless loquacious in person, our bodies catching up with the intimacy we’ve developed over text.

He’s not always quick to text back. An hour, two, three can go by without an answer. In the interim, I reread our messages, search every word for the possibility of a misunderstanding. Right around the time I’ve convinced myself that I’ve ruined everything, he writes back. Friendly. Open.

At the restaurant, I run to the kitchen for olives, a clean spoon, a snack, and slow down on the way back. I observe him, the beautiful man on a barstool.

His presence lifts me up. I walk with my head high, my back straighter. My voice rises, self-assured, and dips neatly at the ends of my sentences. I carry it, the certainty of this secret current between us, like a good-luck charm. Nestled against my heart at all times.

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AND I NEED IT.This extra pep in my step, this small miracle. I need it so much.

The town is still reeling from the disappearance of the missing woman. She was from the area. Everyone knows someone who knew her. She hasn’t been found. No one is saying it, but we know. We just do. We know that when she’s found—if she’s ever found—she will not be alive.

People have been a bit kinder to one another. On the street, in shops, even at the restaurant. There’s a softness in our interactions, though of course it ends where the kitchen begins. But people are trying. Even Nick, in his own way. It helps that we’re not too busy. Thanksgiving is almost here, and the town has started to empty. Locals are taking long weekends, traveling to visit family, slipping into their holiday schedules. Soon, the most frantic time of the year will begin, but for now, things are unsettlingly calm. A stillness before the storm.

Tonight, dinner service ends early. I lock the door behind our last table of the evening, parents trying to get their kids in bed before ten. Eric clears the remaining dishes. Already, Cora is setting down clean tablecloths and shining silverware for tomorrow’s service. Nick busies himself in the kitchen, gathering dirty pans, tongs, spatulas.Sophie scrubs a couple of cake pans with all the energy she has left. I go around the dining room to collect used glasses.

A buzz in my apron. I put down a bulbous wineglass and check my phone.

“Did I miss last call? No worries if so. I just didn’t want to let a virgin old-fashioned pass me by.”

It’s Friday. Not Tuesday, not Thursday. He came by yesterday, stuck to his usual schedule. And now he wants more.

I glance toward the kitchen. Eric and Sophie are almost done with the dishes. Nick has picked up a towel and is helping them dry everything off. Cora’s counting her tips.

“You did,” I type back. “But I might be able to sneak you in. Just give me…20/30minutes? You can have an after-hour drink.”

He replies, “Honored,” with a “:)” at the end.

I step into the kitchen, a trident of wineglasses tucked between my fingers.

“Guys.” Nick and Eric look up. “I can close up. I still need to shine a bunch of glasses but I don’t mind. Save yourselves, everybody.”

Fifteen minutes later, I have the place to myself. His truck pulls up outside. My apron buzzes again.

“All clear?”

I take a deep breath before I type back, “All clear.” When I go to unlock the door, I find him waiting, hands stuffed in his coat pockets, hair spilling out of his trapper hat. His chin is tucked into a thick wool scarf, poking out just enough to reveal a smile.

“Come on in.”

The duffel bag is back, too, bouncing against his hip with each step. He shudders as he unzips his coat, rubs his hands together before he settles on his usual barstool. The duffel rests at his feet like an obedient dog. I start mixing his drink. There is a silence. It’s a comfortable one, the kind that blooms between people who don’t need to talk each other through every instant.

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