Only At Night Chapter 8

One perk of working nights: traffic was nothing. There were so few cars on the road that driving felt unreal, like I had wandered somewhere I wasn’t supposed to be, somewhere illegal if not outright liminal. 

The GPS showed that Carina’s place was a good nineteen miles away; a long commute even with no traffic. And it wasn’t like I could play the radio, not without waking Carina. I was alone with my thoughts and the empty road. 

I tried to think about being all boyfriend-girlfriend with Carina—shift into being in a relationship like I was coming out of a cocoon—but it all felt so high school. I didn’t place any great premium on my freedom or spare time, much less the vague idea of being able to go out and ‘lay pipes’ whenever I wanted. I had spent too much time on my own, bored out of my mind, and feeling lonely to romanticize independence to too large a degree. If Carina wanted to take up some of my spare time going rock climbing or dress shopping or learning to bake cakes as a couple, I was down for it. 

It just all seemed so unreal, like the empty road being eaten up by my headlights. I had a sinking feeling, encapsulated in thoughts of Carina backing out of this—telling me we were rushing into things, or that I’d misunderstood something, or that we should just be friends. Did people actually say that? I was trying to figure out what about romance I hadn’t picked up from hacky sitcoms and nothing much was springing to mind. I only really had the common sense stuff pop culture had drilled into my head. Do my share of the household chores (easy, since I’d done a hundred percent of them for myself), listen, communicate, don’t cheat on her or assume she was a slut. Easy. Was that all there was to it or was I being painfully naïve?

The skyscrapers of downtown were already in my rear-view. Now the high-rises of the office blocks, apartment complexes, and banks started to dwindle away, like I was leaving behind a redwood forest—riding the highway over stretches of suburbia and strip malls, like scavengers fighting over the scraps of the city. And still, Carina was either unable or unwilling to pay for a place out here. Her home was still further out. 

In the boondocks, nature rushed in like some infection taking hold. The further I went, the less concrete I saw. Grass, trees, bushes and scrubs—if it weren’t for the billboards that floated by my seeking headlights, I might’ve thought I was lost. 

The sun started pulling itself up, giving the world a pink flush like blood was rushing into dead flesh. Had Carina and I really spent so long… entangled? Maybe it was global warming. Though, would that have any impact on when the sun rose? Couldn’t—that was all orbits and the Earth’s rotation. That stuff wouldn’t change if there was a nuclear war.

I reached for the radio, was reminded of the GPS display, and stopped myself. I was trying to turn my attention away from the question of Carina, the open uncertainty of our relationship. Maybe I’d ruined everything. Maybe this was all her way of ending it. I told myself to stop thinking about it. I wasn’t going to come to any conclusions without Carina weighing in, and she was dead to the world. 

The sun spilled over the rows of trees that bracketed the road—sort of like a forest—and stabbed at my eyes. Wondered if this was what vampires felt before they burst into flames. I lowered the sun visor. The GPS started giving me instructions again. I turned off the highway, taking the labyrinthine twists of side streets and roundabouts. A new housing development. Curiouser and curiouser. The name—Alpine Heights—rang a bell… something about new low-income housing. You could’ve fooled me. The houses looked like perfectly respectable A-frames: lawns and everything. Still trying to distract myself. I should’ve put in some earbuds before I started driving. I did that once while driving my sister to the airport. 

I was on the right street now. Just ticking off house numbers as I drove by. It was well and truly morning now; the birds were singing and everything. Going maybe ten miles an hour, I chanced a look back at Carina. Still sound asleep. 

The GPS told me I’d arrived at my destination. I pulled to a stop at the curb. The houses in this row were more like cabins, those tiny living spaces that were supposed to be so chic now. Probably smaller than my apartment. The one I’d parked in front of was, I don’t know, about as tall as a painter’s ladder and as long as a limousine, stretching into a backyard that was maybe big enough for a beagle. Not too shabby, so long as you were living alone. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Ivan.

I tried for a moment to figure out how to shut the van off, before thinking to press the Start button again. It proved to be a Stop button as well. I left the dashboard to go dark as I went back and checked on Carina. This time I gave her a little shake. How much energy could it take to walk to the front door, get into bed, and resume passing out?

“Fi… mo… min…” Carina said blankly, like I was making an international call to her and she was somewhere in Japan. Getting her out of that coma would certainly have entailed waking her up entirely. I looked around. The neighborhood was half-deserted, as in unoccupied. No cars in driveways, no sign of residents whatsoever. Further down the road, several houses weren’t even finished. That just seemed lazy. How much effort could it take to get one of these hobbit holes done? 

And of the houses that were occupied, no lights were on, no curtains open—the newspapers hadn’t even been delivered yet. Good. I could picture myself doing this and it made me feel like an overenthusiastic date rapist. Maybe Carina wasn’t getting enough sleep. Too many 5-Hour Energy Drinks to get her through the night. 

I unlatched the sidedoor and rolled it open. Now that I’d decided on a course of action, there was no point in hesitating. That would only increase my chances of getting caught. I picked up Carina in a bridal carry—true to form, she showed as much interest in the proceedings as a cat that’d been fed—and exited the vehicle. Carina was so light and so small that I could tuck her onto one elbow and carry her that way as I used my other hand to close the door behind us. I carried her to the house’s front door, turned the knob—

Locked.

Key. Key was in her purse. I’d left the purse in the van. I set Carina down beside the front door and rushed back to the van—it was locked too. I pulled at the door handle in disbelief. Still locked. Some automatic safety feature. I could see her purse just inside, with no way of getting to it. I tried the door to the passenger seat. Naturally, that was locked too. I couldn’t bear to try the rear door and driver’s as well. I hurried back to the front door. Tried the knob again in case of a miracle. Nope. I was locked between vehicle and domicile, with an unconscious woman at my feet and the morning rush about to start.

This was exactly the problem with hook-up culture.

I tried to think: could I pick the lock? Sure, if I had a lockpick and I knew how to pick locks. Could I kick the door down? Possibly, but that would turn my considerate gesture to Carina into an application to be her next psychotic stalker ex. And I hadn’t even taken her to dinner yet. If I couldn’t think of something, I would have to wake Carina up and end up looking like a total dumbass. Think. Think. 

What would really be handy was if Carina could wake up and tell me some obvious solution, like she’d do in a sitcom after I’d tried one or two wild schemes. She’d say that the backdoor was unlocked, or the window in the sideyard was open, or that there was a spare key under the welcome mat.

I looked down.

There was a welcome mat. I was standing right on it. It said ‘Stand Here For Dog To Bark.’ I got off of it, crouched down, and lifted up the edges.

A fucking key.

I picked it up, tried it in the lock—klik—and felt like I was playing an adventure game. I opened up the door. Inside, the place was the size of a double-decker bus. I didn’t much see the point. Just get a mobile home and go up on the roof—it’d make moving a lot easier. 

The long corridor of the house led through a living room with a couch and TV against the walls opposite each other, then through a kitchen with refrigerator, gas-range oven, microwave, and some cupboards. At the far end, there were some bookshelves as a staircase led up to the second story. I assumed that would hold the bathroom and bedroom. Cozy. The place was decorated in a womanly version of Bachelor Chic. The furniture matched and the décor had some ineffable feminine touch—maybe the fact that there was décor, like framed paintings on the walls and lamps with actual lampshades. 

I took it in, stepped inside, and used my hips to close the door behind me. It was all coming together. I’d take Carina up to her bed, tuck her in, leave a note, then call an Uber and that’d be that. If it wasn’t the best date ever, at least it wasn’t catastrophic. Maybe I should date more women who were narcoleptic.

I was barely halfway through the living room when iron fingers circled my throat, squeezing the air going to my lungs until nothing was left. “What are you doing in my house?”

I looked around frantically, my self-satisfied mind now going a mile a minute, wondering where that rough voice had come from, what the fuck was going on? I saw my reflection in the TV at my side. I could see myself, Carina, and Carina’s hand wrapped around my throat. Way too late, I looked at her, and saw an expression of sheer bestial rage directed at me. If I’d been able to breathe before, that look would’ve put a stop to it.

Then, just as quickly, Carina relaxed her grip. Blinked and the hateful expression went away, replaced by a look of mild confusion. She looked me over, looked at herself, and even raised an eyebrow at the Thierry Mugler she still had on. 

“Ivan?”

“Yeah?” I said roughly. My voice wasn’t all it could be—it was a sure bet my throat was now a blazing red.

“Are you carrying me?” she asked.

“Uh-huh.”

She looked around some more. “Is this my place?”

“I… think so.”

Carina blinked some more as she considered this. “Did you take me back to my place?”

“Yes.”

“Why?” she asked, now sounding almost plaintive. 

“It seemed like a nice romantic gesture?” I rasped.

She considered that for a quick beat. “That’s very sweet,” she deadpanned. “Could you set me down please?”

Like I was going to tell her no.

For a woman who’d been comatose five minutes ago, she got her bearings in no time at all. Once I’d put her down, she stood up straight and looked around again, like she was checking for something. Finally, she came back around to me.

“Could I get you a drink?” she asked.

Again, like I was going to tell her no. “Sure.”

She walked to the refrigerator. “I have beer, soda, sparkling water.”

“Just plain water,” I said. “Not the angry kind.”

“It’s an acquired taste,” she said, like she was describing being a patron of the opera. But she got a glass down from the cupboard and filled it from the tap, then dropped in ice from the freezer. “Sorry about your throat. I can be a little… territorial.”

“It’s fine. I can be a bit grouchy myself in the morning.”

“If I had known it was you…” She handed me the glass. “And that you were making such a sweet gesture—Ivan, you didn’t have to come all this way. You could’ve just called me a cab.”

“You’re my girlfriend, aren’t you?” I drank. It hurt to swallow, but also soothed my sore throat. “I mean…” Aren’t you is what I meant, but it suddenly seemed crass to say it out loud.

“Worried that I’m getting cold feet?” Carina asked me. Going to the couch, she sat down and reached down to unstrap her high heels. I could see down the neckline of her dress. It brought back some extremely pleasant memories.

“I guess I was thinking we shouldn’t rush into things.” I said that and felt immediately like a model idiot. What kind of fucking moron worries about her saying this shit and then says it himself? But I’d look even stupider if I just left that hanging without finishing the thought. “Maybe we should sleep on it.”

“I thought I just did,” Carina laughed, standing up again, her bare feet sinking into the carpet. “And sorry about that, too. I… it’s kind of a condition… when I’m in one of these moods. I’m not normally like this—the dress and—throwing myself at you.” She looked at her kitchen counters. They were lined with unwashed dishes. “I promise, I’m usually a lot better at housekeeping.”

“You don’t have to be!” I protested. “I love doing the dishes!”

She smiled at that. “By that, do you mean throwing out paper plates?”

I shrugged. “Maybe.” I actually had a fairly elaborate system involving owning only two sets of plates, glassware, and silverware. I washed them all at once. When something was awaiting the Great Purge, I used Dixie cups or plastic utensils or, yes, paper plates in its stead.

Don’t judge me.

Carina patted the couch next to her. “Sit. I suppose I owe you an explanation after I almost crushed your larynx.” 

“Explanation?” I repeated. I’d learned to make smalltalk by playing Metal Gear Solid games.

Carina gave the couch one last pat before folding her hands in her lap. “Ivan—I’m not like other girls.”