Chapter 8: Keys Not In Bag
I decided to leave again.
It wasn't a new decision. It was the same one I'd been holding since I'd said don't touch me, just louder in my chest. My bag was still on my right shoulder, the chain strap warm against my skin. I shifted its weight and reached inside without looking, the way you do when your body knows exactly where something should be.
My fingers found the lining. Then the small zip pocket. Then the bottom seam.
No keys.
I kept my hand in the bag and felt again, slower this time. My nail caught on the fabric. I moved my lip gloss. I moved a folded receipt. I pressed into the corners where the keys always settled, that hard jangle I was so used to I didn't have to think about it. The bag made a soft leather sound when I squeezed it. It was empty except for the things that weren't keys.
A panic I didn't want him to see flickered across my face before I could stop it. A quick pull at the corner of my mouth. My eyes cut to the door and then down again. I breathed in and my breath caught.
He watched my hand.
"Looking for these?" he said.
I didn't answer. I pulled my hand out of the bag and let it hang at my side. My palm was damp.
He tipped his head toward the kitchen. "On the counter. I moved them for safekeeping."
The rug was soft under my bare feet as I didn't move. The flag on the wall behind him hadn't moved either. The lamp was still on. Everything in the apartment looked exactly right except the one thing I needed wasn't where it belonged.
"You moved my keys," I said.
"It was on the floor by the couch," he said. His voice was even, lower now, like he was trying to sound reasonable. "You would have lost them."
They were never on the floor. They'd been in my bag when I came in that morning. I remembered dropping them in after I locked the door, the clink against the chain. I remembered because I'd checked.
"When?" I asked.
"Earlier," he said. "When you were in the bathroom. I didn't want you to leave without them."
He said it like he'd done me a favor. His hands were at his sides, palms out a little. The way he'd been pleading before had flattened into something else, something that was trying to look calm. His blue shirt was still rolled at the sleeves. I could see the crease where he'd pushed them up.
I didn't ask for them back. I walked past him toward the kitchen.
The wooden floor was cool after the rug. The kitchen counter was three steps from the living room, white tile and a dish rack and a stack of mail we hadn't opened. And there they were. My keys. Set neatly beside the toaster, lined up parallel to the edge like he'd placed them with care. House key, mailbox key, the little silver bottle opener my brother had given me. They caught the daylight from the window.
I stared at them for a second too long because my hand was shaking and I didn't want him to see that either.
He stayed in the living room doorway. He didn't follow me all the way in. I felt him there anyway, two feet back like he'd been since I'd freed the pendant. He'd kept that distance on purpose.
"I was going to give them to you," he said.
I reached for the keys myself. My fingers closed around the cold metal. No permission. No please hand them to me. I just picked them up. The weight was familiar and solid in my palm. I curled my hand around them until the teeth pressed into my skin.
The kitchen smelled like coffee from that morning. The floor had a faint sticky spot near the fridge I'd meant to wipe up. I slipped the keys into my bag and zipped the little pocket shut. The sound was loud in the quiet apartment.
He exhaled. "Okay?"
I didn't look at him. I adjusted the chain strap on my shoulder again and felt the bag settle, now with the keys back where they belonged. It changed how the bag hung, just slightly heavier on the right side. It changed how I stood too.
I turned and walked back toward the living room. Toward the door.
He stepped aside to let me pass but not far enough that I didn't have to angle my shoulder to get by. I felt his eyes on my dress, on the bag, on my hand that was still gripping the strap.
May you like
I stopped near the rug. The front door was in front of me now. The exit was physically possible again. My hand was closed around nothing but I could feel the keys through the leather, pressing against my hip.
I didn't open the door yet.
