Page 68 of The Thinnest Air
Jake rests his hands at his hips, glancing at the ceiling, exhaling. “He didn’t say where he was going. I just assumed, but yeah, he left and didn’t say when he’d be back. Figured he’d at least call and check in or something, but nothing.”
“It doesn’t make any sense,” I say, though Jake doesn’t seem to comprehend the gravity of this situation. I don’t blame him. He’s just a barista barely making enough to afford the bottom bunk of the bed he rents in a shitty studio apartment in the Lower East Side. He doesn’t understand the delicate complexities of my relationship with Harris. He doesn’t know that Harris told me he loved me for the first time in years last week, all the while leading me to believe he was still in New York running the stores. “He’d have told me if he wasn’t going to be here.”
I think back to that morning standing outside his apartment door. The sympathy in his tired eyes. His apology. His hug. The promise that he’d be there for me.
The entire time I’ve been in Utah, he’s answered each time I’ve called, never rushed to get me off the phone. Let me vent. Let me whine. Let me wallow in the tragedy of this situation, offering his poignant words of support.
I don’t want to believe it was all a ruse, but ...
Leaving the store, I try his phone.
It doesn’t ring.
His voice greeting plays, but I hang up.
Hailing a cab to his apartment, I scale the stairs to the third floor as soon as I arrive, not having the time or patience to wait for the slow-as-molasses elevator, and when I get to apartment 3F, I pound on the door with both palms.
“Harris! Harris, are you home?” I ask a question to which my intuition already knows the answer, but I have to try.
I think back to the last time we spoke on the phone, if anything seemed different, if I missed any red flags, but I’ve been so focused on Meredith this entire time that I wasn’t paying attention to anything that didn’t directly pertain to her.
An older man exits the door down the hall, eyeing me with intense scrutiny, like I’m up to no good. I don’t recognize him, which means he probably moved in after I moved out.
“Have you seen Harris Collier?” I ask. “It’s an emergency. I’m a friend.”
There’s a slight limp in the way he walks, and his lips are twisted into a permanent scowl.
“Nope,” he says as he passes. “Never heard of him.”
Typical New York ass.
Before I can press him for any additional information, he disappears around the corner, headed toward the elevator bay.
I need access to his place.
Dashing toward the stairwell, I make my descent two steps at a time until I get to the landlord’s apartment at the end of the hall. I may have moved out, but my name is still on the lease because Harris insisted on signing a thirty-six-month agreement to lock in the ridiculous discount they were offering at the time.
Pounding on the door, I hear the sound of her TV, the squawk of her prized cockatiels, and the sound of her husband yelling at her that he thought he heard someone knocking on the door.
It takes a minute, but she finally answers.
“Mrs.Conway,” I say, breathless. “Greer Ambrose. Apartment 3F.”
She looks me up and down, the scent of stale cigarettes and bird shit encircling me like an invisible fog. “You still live here? Thought you and that boy broke up.”
“We did,” I say. “And I don’t live here, but my name is still on the lease. I need in the apartment.”
Her head leans to the side, like she can’t decide if I’m lying.
“I can’t get hold of Harris,” I say. “His phone is off, and no one’s seen him at the shop for over a week.”
“Have the police been notified?”
“That’s my next step,” I lie. Kind of. I don’t know what my next step is; I just know I need to get inside his apartment as soon as possible, and only then will I be able to figure out my next move. “Do you have a master key or anything? I just need to take a peek inside, see if anything looks amiss. I don’t want to bother the police if it’s for nothing. Maybe he left a note?”
Her eyes squint, and she exhales.
“Legally, I’m allowed into that apartment, Mrs.Conway.” I try to be as polite as possible, though I know I’m speaking too fast and my eyes are twitching. I don’t blame her for being skeptical. After everything I’ve been through in the past week and now this, I’m not in a good place, and there’s nothing I can do to mask that.
