“I don’t know. Why would you? Isn’t it a little early to be doing that?”

  He lets out a soft puff of laughter. “You’re the one who shared your security code with me the first day we met.”

  “I was drunk.”

  He shakes his head as he looks at the floor again. “I just wanted you to feel secure.”

  His answer stops me cold. Did he think I was feeling insecure about something?

  “But the security guard,” I say, as my mind seizes on the one thing that happened last night that made me more insecure than anything.

  “What about him?”

  “He said it’s not common for people in your building to give out transmitters.”

  “It’s not,” he replies with obvious frustration. “It’s a first for me.”

  “A first?”

  “I’ve only lived there a couple months.”

  I stare at him in confusion. “So, you don’t give them out like candy…”

  He looks as confused as I feel. “Like what? What are you talking about?”

  “Then, who do the tampons belong to?” I ask, unable to stifle the burning question any longer.

  His confusion disappears as he lets out a deep sigh. “Before we get into that, we need to clear up this transmitter thing. Do you really think I’d give you a remote to get into my building, and the code to open my front door, if I was seeing other women? Is that the type of guy you think I am?”

  I grit my teeth as my simmering anger threatens to boil over. “I think you’re a guy with a lot of secrets. I think I don’t know what type of guy you are.”

  He closes his eyes and takes a few deep breaths before he opens them again.

  “I’m sorry,” he says as his gaze meets mine again. “I know this must be really fucking frustrating for you, but I need you to know I’m not seeing anyone else, Colette. You’re the only woman I want to be with. There’s no one else. You’re the only one.”

  I pull my legs up onto the bed and straighten my back as I sit cross-legged. Taking a deep breath, I try to ignore the fierce longing in the pit of my stomach; the intense desire to invite him into my bed so we can comfort each other.

  “I want to believe you. But right now, I want to know who those tampons belong to even more. Wait—” I say, holding up a hand to stop him from interrupting me. “If you care about me as much as you say you do, you’ll answer my question now.”

  For a moment, he stares into the distance, then he looks me in the eye and says, “They’re my sister’s.”

  “Your sister?” I say, my words seeping with incredulity.

  He looks annoyed that I don’t immediately believe him. “She was living with me for a while. She just moved out. I dropped her off at Stanford this past weekend. That’s why I was busy with school. It was her school, not mine.”

  I cock an eyebrow. “So, you just never thought to mention you have a sister?”

  He shakes his head as he focuses his attention on the floor again. “I can’t really talk about it.”

  “More secrets?”

  “Look, I don’t expect you to understand the situation, but my sister’s been through a lot.” That spark of anger I saw earlier flickers into a fierce flame. “Something bad—something really fucking bad happened to my sister a few months ago, and she’s not doing well… at all.”

  I swallow hard as I feel a sudden sense of déjà vu.

  Something bad also happened to me a few months ago. My sister died with terror in her heart, right in front of my eyes. I’m also not doing well.

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” I say, my voice thick as I’m hit with a sudden surge of despair. “But why is that a reason to not tell me about her?”

  He stares at me for a while, as if he’s analyzing me. Maybe he’s trying to figure out why my demeanor changed so suddenly from anger to sadness. Or perhaps he’s giving himself some time to think of a lie. But when he speaks again, his tone is softer.

  “I didn’t tell you about her because I knew she was leaving for California. So, I knew you wouldn’t meet her before she left.” He pushes off the counter and takes a seat next to me. “I didn’t think it was a good idea to bring her up because… it’s hard to talk about her without talking about what happened, and… I really can’t talk about it.”

  I adjust my position on the bed, turning my body to face him as my mind races with the possibilities of what he’s referring to. I can’t deny I’m desperate to know what happened to his sister. What could be so awful he can’t even talk about it?

  But it occurs to me it may be his sister who asked him not to share what happened to her with anyone else. I know I wouldn’t want my parents finding out what Elle said to me before she died. It would kill them.

  “I’m sorry about your sister. Obviously, I don’t know what happened, but—”

  “I may never be able to tell you what happened,” he says, interrupting me. “I need you to understand that.”

  I look at him and feel as if I’m seeing him for the first time. “Never?”

  He stares at me for a moment before he shakes his head.

  “I don’t know. Maybe.” His face is contorted with regret as he watches me in silence. “I know I’m asking a lot of you. I know we’ve only known each other since April, and you’re dealing with your own shit right now. You don’t need this. I understand that.” His gaze flits downward, landing on my lips for a split-second. “But I think this,” he says, motioning back and forth between us, “whatever it is, it’s pretty fucking great. I don’t want to lose you, Colette, but I have to share my past with you at my own pace.”

  His gaze falls to my lips again, and my pulse quickens. I hug my arms against my belly and shake my head to break the spell he’s casting over me.

  “I can’t do this.”

  His eyes widen in an expression of utter shock. “So, that’s it? It’s over?”

  I focus on the logo on the front of his hoodie, so I don’t have to look him in the eye as I nod. He lets out a soft oh that makes me look up in surprise.

  “Colette, you know how I feel about you.”

  His gaze burns into me as he awaits my response, but I’m too stunned to speak.

  “Tell me you know how I feel about you. I want to hear you say it.”

  I shake my head as my eyes well up with tears. “I can’t. I can’t do this, Jake. You have too many secrets. I just… I need you to leave.”

  The muscle in his jaw twitches, and he stands abruptly. But he hesitates for a moment, his eyes fixed on the door as he seems to consider his next move. Then, without another word, he walks out of my apartment and my life, back to the safety of his money and his secrets.

  Part 2

  * * *

  “i don't pay attention to the world ending. it has ended for me many times and began again in the morning.”

  Nayyirah Waheed, Salt

  ***

  Police Investigating Possible Murder-Suicide in Washington Park

  SEATTLE, WA - Detectives are investigating an incident that occurred Wednesday at a residence in Washington Park where officers responded to a domestic dispute resulting in what police suspect may be a murder-suicide.

  According to police dispatch reports and 911 call records, in the early morning hours of April 14th, officers and emergency personnel responded to a residence in the Washington Park neighborhood at approximately 1:22 a.m. after receiving a 911 call at approximately 12:41 a.m.

  Upon their arrival, EMTs were unable to enter the residence due to a possible ongoing hostage situation. Officers arrived at the location moments later and, after repeated unsuccessful attempts to contact the residents, entered the home and discovered two deceased individuals: a deceased female victim and a deceased male suspect, both dead from apparent gunshot wounds.

  It is believed the female victim’s seventeen-year-old daughter placed the 911 call. Officers say the young woman was physically unharmed but unable to communicate further details about what happened.

  “Homicide detectives were called to the scene to investigate the incident and have reason to suspect this is a murder-suicide,” Detective Rhonda Withers of the Seattle Police Department said. “It is believed the suspect shot his estranged wife and himself, possibly in the presence of his stepdaughter. The motive is unknown at this time.”

  The victim has been identified as fifty-two-year-old Cassandra Everhart. The suspect is believed to be her estranged husband, fifty-nine-year-old Robert Hadley.

  According to a neighbor, who did not wish to be identified, the couple had recently separated. Everhart’s previous husband, Maxwell Everhart, Jr., was killed in 2005 in a helicopter crash during a search and rescue operation off the coast of Bainbridge Island.

  Neighbors said police have been called to Everhart’s residence on multiple occasions. A few months earlier, Everhart was taken from the home in an ambulance.

  “I didn’t know them well. Cassie mostly kept to herself,” Everhart’s neighbor told the Times. “I heard the shots not too long before I heard the sirens. It’s so sad. I feel so bad for her daughter. That poor girl.”

  Court records show Everhart obtained a restraining order against Hadley less than two months prior to her death.

  Everhart is survived by a twenty-four-year-old son, Maxwell Everhart III, and a seventeen-year-old daughter whose name has yet to be released.

  12

  Unwanted Attention

  Five weeks later

  “Which girl?” I ask Nate as I pour a Smoke Signal cocktail into an old-fashioned glass.

  “The one with the green dress. She asked for a bourbon smash, but she wants you to make it,” he says, nodding sideways.

  Glancing over his left shoulder, I notice a young blonde in a blue dress staring at me from the other end of the bar.

  “She’ll have to wait.”

  I toss a one-inch piece of orange peel into the old-fashioned glass. Grabbing the portable smoker, I add a few puffs into the half-inch of room above the liquid. I cover the rim with my hand, creating a seal so the smoke infuses the drink. After counting to ten, I release it and pass the cocktail to Nikki.

  She takes the drink and places it on the serving tray. Her heart-shaped face splits into a grateful smile as she walks away, her auburn hair bouncing on her shoulders.

  Nate wiggles his eyebrows at me and glances at the woman in the dress as I pour some ice into a shaker. “A couple of those and you guys will be doing the bourbon smash.”

  I ignore his remark as I add Maker’s Mark, maple syrup, orange and lemon juices to the ice and give it a few shakes.

  “You know I don’t fuck customers. And I especially don’t fuck drunk customers.”

  Nate looks confused as he leans against the back bar. “I thought you were quitting soon. Seems like now is the only time you could get away with it.”

  My eyes flit around the bar to make sure no one heard him. “I told you to keep that to yourself. I don’t know if I’m leaving yet.”

  It’s a pretty slow Wednesday evening at the Living Room. My shift ended a few minutes ago. If the girl in the dress hadn’t asked for me while I was in the middle of making that Smoke Signal, I’d be gone.

  I pour her bourbon smash into a tall tumbler of ice and shove a straw in the cocktail. She watches me intensely as I make my way to the other end of the bar. I fix my face into an impassive expression, trying not to look too exasperated by her special request.

  “My shift just ended,” I say, placing the cocktail on a napkin in front of her. “Nate down there will ring you up or get you another one, if you want.”

  “Wait!” she calls out as I turn to leave. “I was kind of hoping I could get your name.”

  I put on my fake customer service smile as I turn around. “It’s Max.”

  “Hi, Max,” she says with a flirty smile. “I’m Ashley.”

  “Nice to meet you,” I say, and I walk away before she can say anything else.

  Nate’s eyes are trained on the woman as I approach him. “That’s brutal, Jake. She looks like she just found out her dog has cancer.”

  On the computer, I start the woman’s tab and pass her order to Nate. Then I clock out.

  “Not my fault.”

  Nate tears his gaze away from the woman. “So, when will you know if you’re quitting?”

  “Dying to rake in my tips, huh?”

  “Bro, I’ve worked here longer than you.”

  “And I still make more tips than you.”

  He glances toward the end of the bar again. “She just bounced without paying for the drink.”

  I look back at the full bourbon smash sitting alone on the cocktail napkin. The woman is gone. I roll my eyes as I pull out my credit card to pay for the drink. Since I already passed the order to Nate, I don’t want him getting docked for it.

  “I have some stuff I need to work out before I can quit, so don’t tell anyone,” I say, nodding toward our coworkers at the other end of the bar. “I might transfer to Stanford in January. I’ve been talking to my thesis advisor, and he thinks it may be good for the project, considering that’s where the investor is headquartered.”

  “BlueTek, right?”

  “Yeah. Anyway, I gotta get going. I’ve got some shit to take care of. Later, bruh.”

  He nods as he heads to the other end of the bar to collect the discarded cocktail. “Keep me updated.”

  My sister was named after our grandmother Francesca, but she’s always gone by Frankie. I was named after my father, who was named after his father, Maxwell Jacob Everhart.

  But Max was my dad’s name. With everyone except bar patrons, I’ve always gone by Jake.

  Jake Everhart.

  Until that night.

  After my stepdad took my mother’s life and his own, the internet frenzy became a daily shit-storm of unwanted attention. My sister and I had no choice but to delete our social media profiles and change our names.

  Francesca Everhart became Frankie Maxwell. I became Jake Maxwell.

  My mom kept my father’s last name after his death. We kept his first name after hers. A small gesture I came up with to ground Frankie in reality when her world was falling apart.

  It’s easy to change who you are, even your name, for someone you love. But my love for my sister has pushed me to do things I’m not proud of. And now, it’s forcing me to consider how much I’ll give up to protect her, the way I couldn’t protect my mom.

  Ultimately, everything comes back to that night.

  It always comes back to Colette.

  How can you know if you’re in love with someone?

  This question has plagued my mind since Colette asked me to leave her apartment five weeks ago. If my dad were still alive, he’d be the one to ask. He would remember the exact moment he fell in love with my mom. He always remembered stuff like that.

  I don’t know what his answer would be. My memories of my father only stretch across the nine years I knew him. And even then, only his last five years were encoded into my long-term memory.

  Since his death, I’ve constructed a mythical figure in my mind; a hero with a mission; a man with a generous heart and fierce loyalty; a man who could wax poetic about the wonders of the universe for hours on end; a man who loved and respected the women in his life; a man I strive to emulate, yet I consistently fall short.

  I don’t know if the father I’ve conjured in my mind exists. All I know is he died serving others, and if he were still alive, my mother would be, too.

  Just as she would be if I hadn’t stayed with Colette that night.

  I never should have offered to drive her home. I should have left her house the moment she was safely inside. I should have said no when she asked me to stay.

  It always comes back to that night, and to her.

  Colette and I are inextricably linked now. We will forever share the cosmic burden of my mother’s death. A burden neither of us wanted. A burden only I know exists, so I must bear the full brunt of it.

  Ignorance is weightless. And Colette has her own load to carry. The grief of her sister’s death is too fresh. She shouldn’t have to carry the weight of my secret—our secret—too.

  How can you know if you’re in love with someone?

  I may not know what my mythical father would say if I asked him that question, but I think he’d say something like this: Jay, love is like the universe. It has no beginning. It always was, and it always will be.

  And as I stand in front of Colette’s door, I have to believe this is true. Because I don’t want to believe that love can be born from the carnage of the day we met. I have to believe it was always there, and it always will be.

  I knock on the beechwood door and the first thing I hear is Gary’s low-energy bark, followed by the rattling of his metal dog crate. The sound reminds me of the night Colette and I returned to her apartment after I took her to the bar.

  She’s not home.

  Gary’s soft bark fades in the distance as I head back toward the stairwell. I chuckle to myself as I realize it was presumptuous of me to assume she’d be home at eight p.m. on a Saturday night.

  As I pass through the lobby, I notice Colette’s neighbor near the mailboxes. Her blonde hair is pulled up into a messy bun on the top of her head, and she’s still wearing workout clothes. But today she’s wearing a light-green hoodie that hides her bulging muscles.

  I consider asking whether she’s seen Colette lately; if she’s noticed Colette’s mood. Has she been as miserable as I have these last few weeks? Or does she seem happy to be rid of me?

  It’s better not to start a rapport with a woman who intimidates Colette. Though, I don’t know why she would feel intimidated. This woman has nothing on her. And as I push the entrance door open and step out under the green awning, I’m reminded why.

  Through the rainy Seattle darkness, I watch as Colette climbs out from the passenger side of a black sports sedan. For a split second, I glimpse the silhouette of a man in the driver’s seat before Colette shoves the door closed. She spins around toward the apartment building with a look of sheer relief on her face.