Last Train to Babylon Read Online Free Page A

my throat tightens. I have to swallow just to keep from vomiting up my half-eaten bagel.
    There will be sympathetic nods. And there will be Adam.
    There will definitely be Adam, with his gray eyes and sloppy hair—his stupid face—always whining about something, always sulking.
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    I stand up and pick lint off my T-shirt. Danny pulls me into his chest. My face presses up against him at an awkward angle. My nose bends, I can’t really breathe, and my instinct is to pull away, but I try and let my body relax in his arms, even if it’s only for five seconds—which I think is my record. One. Two. He smells of cedar chips; he keeps his sweaters in an old chest at the foot of our bed. Three. Four . He releases me and I take a step back. My life with Danny is comfortable. It’s safe. It’s quiet. It allows me to go through the motions undetected, detached. And the idea of leaving it for a funeral on Long Island makes my guts ache.
    I hold out my hands. “It’s impossible to get a decent manicure around here. For twenty bucks, you’d think it would last more than a week.” Danny looks at me like I’m crazy. I glance at the chipped polish and remember the name: Wicked.

27
Chapter 3
    W HO PUT THE word “fun” in funeral? If you really think about it, funeral sounds like it should be synonymous with “carnival” or “funnel cake.” But I can’t think of anything fun about Rachel’s funeral, except for the fact that she won’t be there.
    I sit on the stone stoop of a walk-up, four buildings down from our own so Danny won’t see me. It’s nestled between two oversized brownstones, just a few feet from York Avenue. It’s humid, too hot for October, and my left temple throbs.
    I suck on a Parliament and rub two fingers into my temple. I allow myself one cigarette a day—usually in the mornings before work—just to take the edge off. But this is my second. Rachel is dead, so I’m having two today.
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    Danny doesn’t know I smoke, and I don’t consider myself a smoker. I’m not a smoker, at least that’s what I tell myself. I’m not a smoker, and I’m not a cheater . He thinks I only smoke when I’m stressed or drunk and says an actual smoker would be a deal breaker for him. But with the way he’s been looking at me today, peeking over the top of his laptop, all squirrelly, I’m sure he wouldn’t have anything to say about it.
    It’s only been four hours since I got the call, but I can already see through his probing suggestions like plate glass : If you go home . . . When you decide if . . . If you’re feeling up to it . . .
    I wish he would just ask me. Just ask me. Are you going home for the funeral, Aubrey? I would like to know so I can plan accordingly. I think I’d have to respect that. But until he asks, I will purposely avoid giving him an answer.
    I do a lap around the block, slather my hands with Purell for thirty seconds, add a drop of lotion, spritz my hair with coconut-scented body spray, and pop a piece of spearmint gum. It’s a ritual, and it usually covers the lingering smell.
    Back at our apartment, I smell like a piña colada as I sift through some of my things, setting them on my bed one by one while Danny watches the Jets game. Underwear, a nearly empty bottle of Xanax, a couple of sweaters, not enough socks. Every commercial, I stick my head out the bedroom door to make sure he hasn’t gotten up to check on me. Deodorant, face wash. He hasn’t moved in an hour. I think he may have passed out. Toothbrush, yoga pants. I drag a sack of dirty laundry out from my closet—if anything, I’ll get some clean clothes out of this debacle. In one swift motion, I swipe the contents off my bed into the laundry bag.
    I e-mail my boss from my phone in the bathroom. I turn the shower on, letting the water drown out the sound of my fingers clicking the keys.