Page 56 of So Thirsty

“Well, we all make mistakes,” I say.

“I’m human.”

“Right,” I say, failing to stifle a laugh, because he might be, but I don’t know if I am anymore. “Exactly.”

“We can work on it,” he says. “Work it out. We can go to therapy or something. We can figure something out, right? Together. We can fix this. I can fix it. It won’t happen again.”

That’s what he said the last time. This time, whether he means it or not, it’s true.

I walk over to the window. I can still see it on the glass. The handprint.

“Joel?”

“Yeah?”

“I hope you have a nice life,” I say, pressing my own hand to the windowpane. “Take care of the peach tree, okay?”

“The peach tree? Sloane, what—”

Just as I hang up, I hear a door slam.

“Naomi?” I call down the stairs.

No answer.

I repeat her name. I go check the bathroom. Check her room. She’s not there. She’s not anywhere.

She left. She’s gone.

—

Her suitcase is still in her room. Her purse is here. Her phone.

Where did she go? Why would she leave?

Then I remember what she said to me in the car, not half an hour ago.

I’m still thirsty.

I grab my key and step outside.

I want to believe she’s not lurking around the grounds of the Waterfront, trying to find someone who she can—I don’t know. Drink from? I’m not sure what we do or how we do it. There’s a vague tug in my throat, so I swallow my spit, wanting to wash it away, drown it out. Banish it.

The sensation isn’t unbearable, not acutely painful. It’s like the early hours of strep throat, when there’s still hope that if you ignore it, it’ll go away on its own.

My nerves pinch, stomach knots, because I don’t see Naomi anywhere. I should be running after her, but I don’t know which direction to go. I’m allowing too much time for things to happen. For our situation to get worse.

It’s inevitable, though. Things are going to get worse.

“Naomi?” There’s a rasp to my voice that’s strange and new. The tug in my throat isn’t relenting. I cough. My lungs are tight, tongue sits heavy in my mouth. It’s getting harder to breathe, like there’s a damp cloth over my face.

She’s reckless, Henry said. Where is she?

It’s still overcast. A doggedly gray, cloudy day. But it doesn’t matter. I squint at the light like I’m coming out of the eye doctor with my pupils dilated.

I spin around, back toward the cottage. There are icicles dripping, long and sharp, winter’s teeth. These are the kind that kill people. The kind that leave death in the snow.

I look down. I don’t see any dead bodies in the snow, but I do see footprints. I follow them down the slippery drive to the road, then toward the main building. The sun emerges from behind a cloud, and my eyes white out, skin prickles like I’ve broken out in hives. I hate the light, this horrible, hideous, belligerent daylight. I cover my eyes and wait and hope for them to adjust, or to be spared by the clouds.