Page 121 of Cackle

I watch him eat. When he’s done, he gives a little burp and promptly falls asleep on the arm of the couch.

I get up and drink some water. I eat peanut butter on bread while standing in the kitchen, willing my hangover to subside.

I return to the couch, licking peanut butter from my fingers.

I check my phone.

I have a message from Sam. It reads Annie.

Yes, I reply.

I really do miss you.

Ralph stirs at the sound of the text, but then yawns and rolls over onto his back, snoozing through it. Which is lucky, because he’s usually very diligent about policing any communication I have with Sam.

I take my phone into the bedroom and close the door as quietly as possible. I get in bed under the covers. I read and reread the texts.

What would it be like if Sam and I had never broken up? If we decided to work on things. If we sought couples counseling. Why didn’t we do that? Why didn’t I ask? Why was I so afraid to fight for what I wanted?

In some other timeline, in some alternate reality, I’m back in our apartment and we’re waiting for takeout, watching old cartoons. We’re playing with each other’s hands like we used to when we first started dating.

Why did we ever stop doing that, and why did it become so impossible to start again?

Maybe these months apart have been good for us. Maybe he’s learned to appreciate me, and I’ve learned how to be more self-sufficient, and maybe now things will work.

Maybe my time in Rowan was just a weird, short chapter in my life that I can close and never open again. Never have to think about the people in town arguing about whether or not I’m a threat. Never have to worry about Sophie, about random ghost attacks, or curses, or tripping on mushroom tea. I could just forget it. Leave and not look back.

I’m here, I text Sam. You can call me anytime.

Like now?

Yes.

I get up and lock the door to the bedroom. I stuff a sweater in the gap between the bottom of the door and the floorboards so Ralph doesn’t come crawling in.

For an increased sense of privacy, I sit inside my closet in the narrow space between my suitcase and my dirty clothes. I close the closet door and sit in darkness, waiting for Sam to call.

What if he doesn’t call? What if I just locked myself in my own closet for nothing?

The fear doesn’t have time to marinate. My phone rings.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Annie,” he says. His voice reaches through the phone and takes my heart in its fist. It hurts. It really hurts.

“Hey, Sam.”

“How are you?”

“I’m good.” I search for something cute and clever to say but come up short. “I . . . I cut my hair.”

“You did?”

“Yep.”

“How short?”

“Pretty short. It’s at my shoulders now.”