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The iPhone in the pink case on the coffee table trilled a spirited melody and the young woman leaned forward on the couch to answer it. "Heya, Caitlin speaking," she said. Her face, which had been pink-cheeked and smiling a second ago, turned ashy white. Something was wrong. She listened, then ended the call and dropped the phone back onto the table nearly knocking over her glass of red wine.
"What is it?" Trevor asked. Since arriving, he'd been on edge. Trevor was a shy person who hated conflict and living rooms seemed full of conflict. The last one he'd been in was his sister's. That was four years ago, right after Mom died. But he'd been too embarrassed to ask if they might sit in Caitlin's kitchen.
In the first place, it had been a bad idea to accept Caitlin's invitation, even if she had that kind of elfin beauty that gave him goose bumps. So what if she was actually for-real interested in him, there was her husband to worry about, separation or no separation. Now she was hugging herself, shivering. He wasn't at all sure what to do.
Should he reach out to her? He was bad at comforting. His sister had told him so, said he was a stone-hearted piece of shit.
Caitlin had confessed to him that she had stopped wearing perfume or putting on makeup. "Sometimes I skip deodorant too," she said. "I'm not a hippie or a new-aged kind of person. I feel like I have to get behind who I am, who my body is, and screw social expectations. I'm also a little bit poor at the moment and, you know...needs must."
He'd adored that about her. It had turned him on. He liked the idea that she was bold enough to expose herself that way to the world.
Now Trevor was aware of the sour smell of Caitlin's sweat. Something had terrified her. "That was Robert," she said. "He's outside in his van. He says that at five o'clock. He's going to come in here and shoot us. Fucking Robert. Why can't he get on with his life? Why can't he just leave me alone?" She grabbed one of the pillows on the couch and hugged it to her chest.
Trevor wanted to put his arms around Caitlin's thin shoulders, put his face in her feathered layers of taffy-colored hair. But they were a long ways from being close enough for that, still practically strangers. He wanted to tell her to forget about her asshole husband. "He's just trying to scare you. That's all it is," he said.
"No," she whispered. "He sent me a picture of himself. He has got a gun. He said he's going to stick it in me and make me pull the trigger. Force me to do it to myself." She rocked forward and back, trembling.
A sizzling black tide of anger crashed through Trevor's chest. He would hurt this man for scaring Caitlin. He would punch his goddamn head in.
Trevor stood and went to the door and turned the knob. He felt as if he was capable of murder. Blind with rage. He knew what that meant now. The door was locked. Locked from the outside.
"It's four o'clock now," Caitlin said behind him. "He's going to come in here and try to kill us in an hour."
* * *
Trevor could not speak. He had pounded on the door, each time his fist hit, the anger in him loosened its grip, but only to be replaced by a tightly coiled spring of fear. It wound tighter each moment until he was sure his heart would explode out of his chest.
Meanwhile, Caitlin had stopped her rocking. Somehow, she'd found the gumption to calm down. She'd called the police and the operator told her someone would be there soon. Not fast enough for Trevor. First he'd paced, then he'd manoeuvred one of the armchairs from the living room in front of Caitlin's door. Now he was pacing again.
Instead of finishing the bottle of red wine Trevor had brought, Caitlin brewed a pot of tea and sipped it and looked at him. She raised an eye brow, thinking. A slow smile began to play about her parted lips.
