Page 5 of Closer Than You Think
I turn my key in the lock, and I step into the sanctuary of my apartment. The hustle of Alcott City falls away as I cross the threshold. My bag lands with a soft thud on the chair by the door, its weight released like the day's accumulated burdens.
I pause, absorbing the quiet calm that wraps around me like a comforting shawl. Light from the street lamps spills through the windows, touching everything with a golden warmth. I put on my classical playlist and let the instrumental music wash over me.
Moving to the kitchen, I fill a glass pitcher with water, the familiar ritual grounding me. I weave through the living room, my fingers brush against the leaves of a fern, its vibrant green a stark contrast to the muted tones of the cushions and walls. The plants are thirsty, their soil dry to the touch, and I oblige them with a careful pour, watching as the water seeps into the earth.
“Drink up,” I whisper to the fiddle-leaf fig, its broad leaves reaching for the light. I snip away a brown edge from an otherwise perfect leaf, the small act of pruning both necessary and therapeutic. In this moment, tending to the needs of these silent, living things, I am at peace.
The tendrils of a pothos have wandered too far, aspiring beyond the limits of their pot. I guide them back, weaving them into a more supportive shape. “Not too far now,” I murmur, my hands gentle but firm.
In the nurturing of these plants, I see my own reflection—a caregiver, a nurturer, someone who helps others find their way. Whether it's coaxing a reluctant vine or encouraging a hesitant student, the essence is the same: patience, care, and a belief in potential.
I lean into this side of myself because otherwise, I’d wallow. And I’m sick of wallowing.
The last stream of water trickles from the watering can, and my fingers linger on the rim. The soft buzz of my phone breaks the silence. I glance at the clock—it's late for a parent to call, but not unheard of.
“Hello?”
“Ms. St. James, this is Alex Mercer from the Daily Tribune,” says a voice, assertive yet smooth like polished stone. “I'm hoping to discuss Teddy Harrington with you.”
Teddy. A shiver runs through me, a breeze unsettling the calm waters of the past. My grip tightens on the phone. “Why?” I manage to choke out, my heart thudding against my ribcage.
In just a few seconds, one single sentence, it all comes rushing back.
“It's a sensitive matter,” Alex continues, his tone professional but probing. “We've uncovered some new information about your boyfriend's death.”
My mind reels, unbidden, to that morning six months ago. The sun had just started to peek through the blinds when the call came in—a call much like this one. A detective's somber voice had told me Teddy was gone, found lifeless in his apartment, an overdose.
Confusion had swamped me then, as it does now. Teddy, with his quick smile and quicker wit—how could he have been using? We'd shared dinners, movies, walks through Alcott City's restless streets, but never once did I see the shadow of addiction behind his eyes. No signs of even casual drug use. His death was a shock, but the manner of it had thrown me for a loop.
Guilt gnaws at me, sharp-toothed and insistent. I hadn’t been in love with him; ours was a connection of convenience, two people keeping loneliness at bay. Maybe in time I could have been. But he was kind and charming and made me smile.
We spent months together. Shouldn't I have known? Shouldn't I have seen the signs?
“Ms. St. James? Are you still there?” Alex asks, his voice bringing me back to the present.
“Yes, I'm here.” I struggle to keep my voice even. “I don't understand what you mean by new information.”
“Perhaps we could meet? Discuss it in person?” There's a push in his tone, a reporter's eagerness for the story lurking beneath the surface.
“I don’t understand why a reporter is interested in an overdose that happened six months ago.”
Alex doesn’t speak for a moment, but I hear him shuffling around. “I think there’s more to the story.”
My heart drops out, the adrenaline of anxiety flooding my veins.
“What do you mean?”
“I can’t talk about it over the phone. Agree to meet with me, and I’ll tell you more.”
This is strange. I’m a teacher. I don’t get calls from reporters requesting clandestine meetings. Even if Teddy’s death was a shock, it wasn’t steeped in intrigue. He shot up with too much heroine and died. End of story. What could possibly change that, and interest a reporter, no less?
My curiosity gets the best of me, but I don’t want to commit.
“I'll . . . think about it,” I say, hedging. My hand shakes slightly as I end the call, leaving the room filled with a hushed stillness once more.
My pulse races like a trapped bird against my ribs. The reporter's request hangs in the air, heavy and buzzing with implications I'm not ready to unpack. I should dismiss it, let it fade into the background noise of city life that hums outside my window. But curiosity is a persistent whisper, urging me forward.
A minute ago my apartment was a sanctuary; now it feels too small, charged with the electricity of the unknown. I pace, each step a silent conversation with myself. There's the pull of an old wound reopening, the sting of betrayal by a man I thought I knew.
