Something is wrong.

I can smell it in the air; even when we land back in California (six rows apart from each other, might I add), even when I'm dragging my luggage to the closet to unpack it, even when I check all Google alerts for Brett and nothing's flagged.

My spidey senses are tingling and they have never failed me. Disaster is coming.

But, I recognize, it might just be my own disaster. I haven't been able to shake the feeling of spiraling since stumbling in on Brett and his latest conquest. It didn't bother me, or it did and I don't care, or I do care and I don't have the time to process that.

It's definitely the latter.

I practice some stupid breathing exercises as I pull the dirty clothes from my carry-on to dump into my hamper. The light in the closet flickers, my attention flickering with it. 

I pack efficiently - always have - and unpack even more efficiently, which is why I'm doing it the second I walk in through my door from the airport. I try to ignore how my apartment smells foreign even after just a weekend away. It never has smelled quite right. This isn't to say that my apartment carries some mysterious or off-putting stench - it doesn't. It's more of an issue with how infrequently I'm here. Maybe it smells sweet like vanilla and clean like Clorox, but it has never smelled like me. My own furniture doesn't bear my own scent.

My clothes are in the hamper or tucked into their respective drawers or hanging on their respective hangers within four minutes of returning home.

I stalk to my backpack, which is still sitting deposited on the floor by the front door. It's a ratty thing, something I've had since college. It might be the only piece of me that isn't prim, proper, or meticulously planned. Dirt scuffs the fabric on the bottom and one zipper on the side broke off, so the pocket just hangs open lamely. The water bottle netting on the side is completely stretched out from the various bottles I've forced it to hold. An enamel pin is clipped to the top, something I got my freshman year from my mom that just says, "Nevertheless, she persisted."

I'd always thought there was some irony in that saying. Isn't that the only option? What other choice do we have but to carry on? 

I retrieve the bag and drop it to my kitchen table with a heavy thud. I start by emptying the smaller pockets of snacks and receipts and headphones and chewing gum. Then I work backwards to the larger compartments, pulling out my notebook and chargers and laptop.

I pause, blinking dumbly at the array of contents spread out on my table like a collection of evidence from a crime scene.

That is not my laptop.

"No, no, no," I whisper, feeling the panic start to take root in my gut.

I open the laptop so quickly I nearly snap the thing in half. It lights up, warning me that the battery is low and it only has eighteen minutes of power remaining.

Hello, Brett, it reads.

At this, the panic morphs into something more like annoyance or joy or the warm bubbles of laughter. I ask Siri - politely - to give him a call.

"Hello?" he asks, the audio buzzy and distant with the white noise of him driving.

"I have your laptop." It comes out like a confession. It feels like a sin.

Brett only laughs. "That's good, because I have yours. I'll be there in fifteen minutes."

I stand from my table and peek out of the blinds hanging above it, as if I'd see him coming from all those miles away. The day is bright and hot, the sky clear and vast.

"You're coming over?" I ask, then immediately hate how needy and stupid I sound. I clear my throat. "You didn't tell me you were doing that."

"I only noticed halfway through my drive when I was looking for the gummies somewhere at the bottom of the bag. Your laptop is fat."

Ridiculously, I jump to defend this, then decide it's not worth the air.

"Text me when you reach the parking garage, I'll bring it down to guest parking and we can do a quick swap."

"Actually," he says, his voice lilting. "Can I stop by to pee?"

* * *

"You're a toddler," I hiss.

He lifts his hands in bewilderment. "For having bodily needs? Sorry, next time I'll just absorb it into my bloodstream."

I had to meet him down in guest parking in order to fob him into the building. He'd climbed out of his Jeep looking as sleepy and soft as he did on the plane. We'd arrived, flown, and left separately, succeeding in having almost no contact between JFK and LAX.

Something within me ached. It was the wrongness I'd felt before, a solid lump in my gut, rolling with every step I took.

The door to the building chimed as my fob unlocked it. We rode up the elevator to my floor, then walked in silence down the dystopian concrete hallway to my unit. Just before we reached the outside of my apartment, the door across from mine opened.

Sean stepped out, deep in conversation with a beautiful woman. She was a petite thing, with glossy, swollen lips and a neat, black bob that was tucked adorably around her ears. They didn't notice us at first - ASL needs one's full attention to pick up on the body language and facial expressions of the other person, but there was something deeper to it. He was completely entranced by her. He was looking at her like he was trying to memorize her image right there before him, like he might trip and fall into her and live there forever. 

The breath left my lungs faster than I'd like to admit. 

As he turned to lock the door behind them, his eyes caught mine.

Mia! he signed. I haven't heard from you in a minute!

I cringed.

The girl looked between Sean and us as we walked closer, clearly waiting for an introduction. Sean locked his door and slid the keys into his pocket before turning to give us his undivided attention, just as Brett and I made it to face them.

This is R-E-B-E-C-C-A. My costar, he signs to me. She gives me a shy wave, and I sign back that it's nice to meet her.

Brett coughs beside me and I am jolted from the deep hole I'm trying to crawl into, realizing much too late that he has no idea what's being said.

"Sorry, Brett," I say, signing the words as I speak them aloud. "This is my neighbor, Sean, and his costar Rebecca. He's the one who always makes you cookies. Sean, this is Brett, the taster of said cookies." 

Sean's face lights up in genuine delight and he claps once with joy. It's nice to meet you, finally!

Something about this moment feels inappropriate. I've rarely had to interpret for Sean before, but there's no other option for Brett other than to leave him out of this conversation.

But there's another emotion welling up in the pit of my stomach, something murky and severe. I swallow it.

"This is the cookie guy?" Brett asks, his voice dripping with disbelief. He's staring at me and so are they, waiting for the translation.

Sean beams when I've interpreted for him. Wish I could make him more, but I'm moving in two weeks!

I catch my grimace just as it happens and plaster a smile on instead. "Amazing!" I exclaim, signing as I do. A nasty part of me is almost thankful that he can't hear how shallow it sounds, but I'm certain it's written just as clearly on my face.

I look between Sean and Rebecca - stunning, Deaf Rebecca. Rebecca, who meets Sean midday on a Monday to hang out, who has dreams as big as his, who can connect with him on a cultural level that I'll never be able to mirror as a hearing person. And Sean, who loves people so wholly, who is so generous and compassionate it can almost be hard to receive. The two of them, even as friends, will be better to each other than I ever was to him.

My throat gets scratchy and my clothes shrink around my skin, or my skin shrinks around my bones, or I shrink entirely right before their eyes. I sign something frantic and probably leaning towards gibberish about how Brett and I need to get going.

Sean offers a warm smile. It was great seeing you, he says.

Rebecca grabs his hands and I wince when his envelopes hers completely. They walk past us with polite waves, and then I'm falling into my apartment like I'm seeking refuge from something.

Brett all but catches me on my way down.

"Oh, Mia," he says, wrapping an arm around my shoulders as I close the door behind us, panic brewing at the top of my lungs, constricting my airways. "What's going on?"

I break from his grip and run my fingers through my hair, pacing back and forth from window to wall while Brett watches me from the entryway. "That's Sean," I tell him weakly.

"Cookie guy," he adds, but it's almost a question.

I nod.

"He's the boyfriend who isn't your boyfriend."

A shaky breath leaves my nostrils and I pause briefly at my kitchen island when I spot a water stain. I find solace in grabbing something to wipe it away with.

Brett takes this action as confirmation.

He takes slow, steady steps further into my apartment, approaching me like I'm a wild animal with an injury and he needs to pull me out of the bear trap. 

"So," he ventures carefully, "if you weren't dating, what's the matter now?"

"Everything is the matter!" I cry, throwing my hands up. It's a slow demolition, but sure enough, the bricks holding me together start to crumble. The feeling begins in my feet, like a tower crashing from the bottom up, every muscle turning liquid until the dam breaks and so do I.

"I'm not looking forward to my future. I have perfectly curated every year of my life to set myself up for success, but I forgot about all the parts of life that make it worth living." I start sputtering and realize with moderate horror that tears are streaming down my face. Brett softens and continues his steady walk towards me, just barely clearing the couch as I keep going. 

"I might be a successful publicist, and maybe I'll be great one day, and maybe I'll make a ton of money, but I don't even know if I like doing it! And fuck, I just can't inherit that business from my dad. It's built on lying and cheating and that's bad juju I don't want. I sided with my father so much growing up that I haven't spoken to my mother in months. My only friends are girls at work, and half of them are scared of me because my dad's the CEO."

Brett rounds the island, just inches from me now. I reach my breaking point.

"And then I meet people like Sean," I cry, my voice growing more puny as I run myself ragged. "People who follow their dreams; hell, people who have dreams in the first place. People who get to love others and not feel like it's a weakness, who bake for their neighbors just as an expression of love, who move off to other states to film revolutionary movies and casually date their costars. And it makes me realize I don't have that - whatever that gene is that makes you a loveable person. I don't know myself at all. I've never even met me."

And then my knees buckle, or maybe I deliberately collapse into his solid body in front of me. He wraps his arms around me, turning us so my back is against his chest, then slowly slides us to the floor of my kitchen. I start to shake and sputter like a washing machine thrashing around mid-spin cycle. He says nothing, he just buries his head in my hair and whispers words I can't hear over the sound of my sobs.

I haven't cried in months, possibly years, and it's evident by the severity to which I do so. The sun has started her descent in the sky by the time I start to pull myself together. We've not moved, Brett still holding me tightly from behind, though he's rocking us side to side and humming a tune I don't know.

By the time I start to catch my breath, he uses the heel of his palm to wipe away some of the tears on my cheeks.

"For what it's worth," he says, his voice rich, nearly a whisper, "I've met Mia. And she is absolutely perfect."