On the other side of the stairs was my bathroom and my closet, and that was it. Everything else was on the first floor. What was nice was that I could lie on the end of my bed and look down into my living room. At 750 square feet, the Greystone was tiny, but I didn’t need a lot of space. It was mine—I owned it—from the reclaimed barn-wood flooring in the living room to the Philco fridge and polished concrete in the kitchen to the Kohler waterfall showerhead in my bathroom. I had made it my sanctuary. All the accents were mine, black and white photographs of friends and places I’d been, colorful framed artwork hanging on every available wall, and the distressed wood ladder in one corner that I put plants and more picture frames on. I had open shelving in the kitchen to display Fiestaware and Pyrex my friends collected in college that I originally got stuck with but now loved. It was compact, like living in a bungalow, and I liked the feel. I had opted for a picnic table instead of a traditional one, so I never had to worry about chairs and was always surprised how many people loved the idea of sitting on a bench to share a meal. It was a warm place and completely low maintenance at the same time. Compared to the spartan dark-floored gray-walled white-trimmed converted warehouse space Ian lived in, mine was cozy. He always said so.
Stretching out on my bed, I pulled up the pictures of Emma and Phil on Ian’s phone and started deleting them one by one. When his phone rang and I saw her number, I answered.
“Hi,” I greeted solemnly.
“Miro?”
“Yeah.”
“Are you okay? I’ve been calling all night and Ian hasn’t picked up.”
“I’m fine.”
“I… okay, well, is Ian with you, because—”
“He’s passed out. He had a rough night.”
“Don’t you have that backwards? You’re the one who went off my balcony.”
“He knows you’re sleeping with Phil, Emma.”
“I’m sorry, what?”
“I’m deleting the evidence off his phone right now. It’s not healthy for him.”
A long pause. “I never noticed him,” she finally said.
“Well, he’s trained to go undetected, so that makes sense.”
“I guess.”
I coughed softly. “Was there something else you wanted to say to him?”
“Yes. No.” She sighed. “I don’t know. I shouldn’t have left the voice mail.”
“He played it for me.”
“Of course he did. I would have known you were lying if you said he didn’t.”
“Sorry?”
“Please, Miro, he tells you everything. You’re the other half of him.”
“I wouldn’t go that—”
“And really, since we’re being honest, I could barely stand him when you weren’t around.”
“What are you talking about?”
“What am I—are you serious?” She laughed harshly. “He speaks when you’re there, Miro. He laughs, he interacts.”
“I—”
“And when you’re not, he’s closed up. Winnie and Val had no idea he could laugh or smile until that time you met us out at the bowling alley.”
“And so what, you decided to keep him but have Phil on the side?” I asked, trying not to sound accusatory.
“It was never exclusive between Ian and me.”
If I was ever lucky enough to have Ian Doyle in my bed, I would make damn sure he knew he was the only one welcome and wanted there. He would never get away once I had him.
“And he’s a shitty lover, Miro. You should warn any girl who goes near him,” she said angrily, her voice dripping with disdain. “He’s completely selfish.”
I ignored her. “Is there anything of his at your place or vice versa?”
“You should have advised me that his job is his number one priority, that he would leave in the middle of the night without so much as a phone call to go off on some mission, and be gone for a month.”
“I asked you a question.”
“And then show back up and expect to get laid.”
It sounded liked Ian. “Emma?”
“No! I have nothing of his at my house, and he always scoured his apartment when I left to make sure I didn’t forget anything.” She was furious, and I could hear the wounded tremble in her voice. “There’s nothing that’s not his in his place. He would never allow that.”
But that wasn’t true.
I’d lost count of the number of my T-shirts he’d taken. My University of Chicago hoodie had been appropriated, as had my red cashmere scarf and, apparently, the boots I’d forgotten about. But I’d never given it a second thought. We swapped things; it’s what partners did. I had a sweatshirt of his from West Point and his Burberry wool cashmere peacoat I had borrowed eight months ago and never returned.
I also had a military field jacket that he’d left at my house the last time he got home in the early morning hours. I remembered the knock on the door at 1:00 a.m., excusing myself from the guy all over me on the couch—Wayne something—and opening my door to find my bruised and beaten partner standing unsteadily before me.