He smiled for real then. “Would you let me?”

“No,” I said.

“All right, well, good luck, then.” He gestured toward the bathroom. “Don’t get the stitches wet,” he called as I closed the door behind me.

“I know,” I called back, rolling my eyes. But I also knew there was no way he would send me on my way if he thought I wasn’t able to handle myself. There was something reassuring about knowing Bennett’s assessment. That I was fine and would be fine. That the danger had passed.

This was how he handled patients, prodding them out of bed, convincing them to circle the floor. A firm push toward getting better even as they resisted. A detached, clinical kindness.

I wanted to run the wash immediately, destroy all remnants of the night before. But that would look suspicious with Bennett here. And he’d probably insist on doing it himself.

My feet turned the water in the tub a dull brown, dirt lingering from last night. Circling the drain was a piece of a leaf, which had probably been tangled up somewhere in my hair. I scrubbed under my nails, but they had already been cleaned in Rick’s bathroom.

After, I slipped on a pair of loose sweatpants and an oversize shirt—no use pretending at this point. My bedroom door was open, but there was no sound coming from the rest of the house. “Bennett?” I called, stepping carefully into the hall.

Bennett had obviously made his mark on the house. He was an organizer in both times of stress and times of boredom, and I couldn’t tell which was the source right now. He’d stacked the magazines I’d occasionally bought at the G&M, by date. It looked like he’d also fluffed and redistributed the throw pillows on the couch. The living room smelled faintly like glass cleaner. I wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d wiped down the windows and the furniture while waiting for me to wake up.

And now he seemed to be tackling the porch. The front door was ajar, and he was on the small stepstool I usually kept beside the fridge, replacing the light bulb.

I knew the surface of Bennett well. Could see something of myself reflected in his way of interacting with his surroundings, how deliberate he was with what he chose to do or say. There was always a familiar comfort with him.

But when Elyse started at the hospital and latched herself on to our twosome, it recalibrated the dynamics of our friendship—like I could see it now only from the outside in, with all the things he kept hidden from me. Bennett was harder to read, with a layered exterior I couldn’t always see beneath. Elyse was a little more on the surface, and there was a different kind of comfort in that.

Right now Bennett’s cool focus on his task was giving me my first moments alone since the police arrived.

I used the alone time to open the rest of the drawers in the kitchen, searching for the box cutter. Rick had given it to me when I’d first moved in, to help unpack the boxes. It had a black handle and a shock of blue paint on the edge, something that once reminded me of a child’s room. It should be easy to spot, easy to find. But it wasn’t in the drawer with the pot holders, or the coupons and receipts, or the Pyrex containers.

I had just closed the last utensil drawer when Bennett’s voice cut through the room. “I picked up some things, if you’re looking for something to eat. Didn’t know what you had to work with here.”

I turned, hand to heart, noticed the brown G&M bag beside the fridge. There was a half-drunk glass of orange juice resting on a square of paper towel beside it.

“I do own food, Bennett.”

He dropped the old light bulb into my trash, carefully tied up inside another plastic bag, then grinned as he poured me a second glass of juice. And I trusted that he knew what would be best for me. It was so easy to let someone care for you. How long it had been since it wasn’t the other way around—searching for my mother when she didn’t come home at night; searching the house for pills; searching for a place to wait out her mood swings between care and anger and paranoia.

When I moved away, every time the phone rang, it suggested that something had happened to her. I’d realized I couldn’t save her. None of us could. The only people we could save were ourselves.

“You look like you’re feeling at least two hundred percent better,” Bennett said.

“I was starting from a pretty low place.”

I placed the glass on the counter, feeling the cold work its way slowly down my esophagus, like everything had become paralyzed while I’d been sleeping.

“You should keep off the leg when you can,” he said.

We relocated to the living room, where the remotes were lined up on the coffee table. He’d found coasters in some side table drawer, and we used them now for our glasses of juice. They were only ever out when Bennett was over. Bennett lived in a new townhome community closer to the hospital—whenever I stepped inside, it was so clean that I questioned whether he actually lived there.

We could hear the investigators calling to one another from somewhere in the distance, and Bennett turned the television on, volume low, the dull hum of the weather report drowning out their voices.

“So. Want to tell me about last night?” he asked.

“You first,” I said. The steady rhythm of his voice was a comfort, even amid all this chaos. It calmed me, seeped into me. I sometimes thought I was a chameleon, quietly changing shades to blend in with the environment. I didn’t know whether this was an inherent part of myself or a coping mechanism from all the attention. This pull toward camouflage. The need to not draw extra notice.

He grimaced. “You were gone by the time I got back to my seat.”

I remembered Elyse telling me that Bennett had been irritated when I’d left without saying goodbye. Flashes of early in the evening came back to me. Elyse flirting with Trevor. Bennett talking to his ex. It still prickled.

“I wasn’t feeling good, I told you.”

His knee bounced beside me. “Liv, why didn’t you call me? When you got to the hospital? I had a message from Elyse, but I didn’t know whether you were okay until I got to work in the morning.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

His expression darkened, and he looked off to the side. “You should know you can call. Even though my phone was off, leave me a message. Let me know you’re okay. Don’t let me wake up to this again.” He took out his phone and played Elyse’s message, her voice high and tight, cutting through the silence: “Goddammit, Bennett, pick up the goddamn phone. Listen, I just heard there was some incident at Liv’s place. She’s at the hospital now. Thought you’d want to know.”

Then dead air.

“An incident,” Bennett repeated. He shook his head. “That’s the first thing I heard this morning. Nothing else. Nothing from you, nothing about whether you were okay. By the time I got to the hospital, you’d been released. By the time I reached Elyse, you were asleep.”

My stomach sank. The truth is, I didn’t know why I hadn’t called him. Hadn’t even thought to do so. Maybe I just wasn’t used to having that person to depend on. I was unaccustomed to the expectations of longer-term relationships. My friendships in the past had existed by proximity and hadn’t bridged the gap of time from high school to college, from college to grad school, from grad school to here. I maintained a comfortable, casual distance and relied on myself.