The Keeper's Closet by Amanda McKinney

Author:Amanda McKinney [McKinney, Amanda]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9798986252773
Published: 2023-05-25T16:00:00+00:00

I stand in the doorway and watch Tristan’s Audi back out of the motel parking lot.

About thirty minutes outside of Rock Hill, the Arrowhead Inn caters to truckers and motorcyclists passing through, and rents rooms by the hour. It is our meeting place. The twelve-room brick building is falling apart, filthy, and smells like curry, but it’s ours. The manager—a half-blind seventy-year-old hippie—doesn’t even bat an eye when we show up. Honestly, I don’t even think he knows who Tristan is.

I cry the moment I drive my car out of the parking lot—as I do every time after leaving Tristan.

I should be going home to him. We should be together.

By the time I arrive at my modest three-bedroom, two-bathroom, cookie-cutter home in my cookie-cutter neighborhood, the tears have been replaced by anger.

I storm inside, grab a bottle of wine, and retrieve the burner phone I purchased three weeks ago. I settle in on the couch and dial her number.

“Hello? Hello?”

A smile tugs at my lips. I inhale, lean back on the couch, and kick my feet up onto the coffee table.

“Hello? Hello?” Nina repeats, her voice pitched with panic.

My smile widens.

“Please, is anyone there? Hello?” She begs like a child. “Please speak to me. Hello?”

After a minute, she hangs up.

I call back and she answers, same song and dance.

As usual, we go back and forth like this a few more times.

But this time, on the fifth call, Nina doesn’t hang up.

“Please talk to me. Jesus Christ, please talk to me.” Her voice is shaking violently. “James? Is this you? Please, baby, say something. I won’t be mad. Please, baby, I just want you to come home. Please, please, please talk to me.” She dissolves into heaving sobs. “I miss you,” she croaks out. “I miss you, my baby boy. Please come home so I can keep you safe. Please come back to me. Please. Oh my God, baby, please come back . . .”

Her words become inaudible.

I listen to Tristan’s wife sob for a solid ten minutes, then I hear a mattress creak as she crawls onto her son’s bed and cradles the phone.

The sobs eventually turn into whimpers.

I imagine her hugging the phone against her chest.

Smiling, I grab the bottle of wine, tip it up, and chug the remaining few sips.

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