Chapter Text
I should probably clarify that I was not living on Rhonda Lloyd’s couch.
Not officially.
I was house-sitting, which is what people call it when someone with better furniture trusts you with their plants, their alarm code, and the quiet implication that your life has taken an unfortunate but temporary detour.
I was between apartments, which is a polite way of saying my life had developed a scheduling conflict with stability.
I stretched out on Rhonda Lloyd’s couch, temporarily enjoying its heirloom-quality craftsmanship, premium materials, and bespoke tailoring — all phrases I knew only because Rhonda had used them when warning me not to eat anything orange within six feet of it.
For a moment, I let myself sink into the cushions and pretend I was the kind of man who belonged on furniture that probably had its own insurance policy.
Then my phone buzzed.
I snapped back to reality and stood up immediately, like the couch had caught me.
“Rhonda,” I answered.
“Arnold,” she returned. Then she let out that sigh — the one that meant she wanted something and had already decided I was the most reasonable person to inconvenience. “I need you to bring me something.”
Of course.
“Happy New Year to you, too.”
She scoffed. “Don’t be provincial, Arnold. It’s not New Year’s yet. Anyway, there’s a garment bag in my hall closet. Black. Not charcoal. Not the black one with the gold zipper. The black one with the black zipper.”
I glanced toward the hallway. “That narrows it down to a haunted hallway of identical bags.”
“You’re a writer. Use context clues,” she said firmly. “Besides, Gerald is already here, and he brought Phoebe, which means the house has become emotionally balanced in a way I did not authorize.”
For a moment, I almost talked myself into it. Gerald would be there. Phoebe, too. A house full of Rhonda’s people was still a house with at least two witnesses who understood basic human mercy.
Then another thought caught up with me.
“Who else is there?”
“Nadine. Leah. Leah’s husband. A few people.” A pause, deliberately long enough to make me suspicious. “Helga.”
I looked at the couch, then toward the hall closet, then at the life I had been trying to call temporary.
“Helga Pataki?”
Rhonda let out a breathy laugh. “Unless you know another Helga with that resting felony expression.”
“I didn’t know she was part of the weekend.”
I heard ice clink against glass. A cocktail, probably. Rhonda made even inconvenience sound like it came with garnish. “Arnold, it’s a guest list, not a federal disclosure.”
"Just asking."
“And your voice developed posture.”
“That doesn’t mean anything.”
“It means bring a better shirt.”
I looked down at the sweater I had been wearing since breakfast. It was clean, which I felt should have counted for something.
“Bring the garment bag,” she continued. “And don’t fold it.”
“How would I fold a garment bag?”
It sounded like she set down her glass. “Men find ways to disappoint fabric.”
“That feels unfair to both men and fabric.”
“Arnold.” She said my name with the soft menace of someone who had never carried her own luggage.
“Fine. Black zipper. Not gold. Context clues.”
“And there’s a shoe box underneath it.”
I closed my eyes. “Of course there is.”
She hung up, and I let myself sit back down on the couch, just for a second.
A minute later, I found myself standing in front of Rhonda’s closet, wondering how my life had gotten me to this point.
Gerald called while I was staring at five black garment bags like I had been asked to identify a suspect in a lineup.
“You coming?” he asked.
“I’m currently in couture witness protection.”
“So yes,” Gerald responded.
“Apparently.”
“Good. Bring chips.”
“Rhonda asked for a garment bag, not chips.”
“That’s because Rhonda thinks snacks ruin silhouettes. Bring chips.”
“I don’t even know where she keeps snacks.”
“Arnold,” he said, with the patience of someone who had known me long enough to be disappointed efficiently. “You are house-sitting. There is food somewhere.”
“There are labeled drawers,” I admitted. “But they look decorative.”
“Open one that says ‘linen’ and take your chances.”
I raised one brow. "I’m not getting arrested over artisanal almonds.”
“Just bring something. Also, Rhonda told you Helga’s here, right?”
I paused. There was a moment where I considered pretending I lost service. Unfortunately, my life does not support that kind of narrative mercy.
“Yeah…What’s she like?” I asked, before I could stop myself.
Gerald didn’t miss it. He never did.
“The same,” he said. “But more so.”
“That’s not helpful.”
“It’s accurate.”
He hung up before I could ask anything else, which felt intentional.
I chose the garment bag based on a combination of instinct and fear. Black zipper. Not gold. It felt like a moral decision.
The shoebox underneath it was heavier than expected, which suggested either expensive shoes or consequences.
I found chips in a cabinet labeled Seasonal Dry Goods, which felt like a philosophical stretch, but I wasn’t in a position to argue with interiors. They were rosemary truffle crisps in a matte black bag, which meant Gerald would accuse me of bringing edible wallpaper. I took them anyway.
By the time I stepped outside, it was late afternoon, pretending to be evening, the kind of winter light that makes everything look like it’s pausing before something happens.
I told myself this was just an errand.
I told myself this was just Rhonda.
I made it halfway to the door before remembering I had not packed anything of my own.
That was how denial worked. It lets you carry another person’s garment bag with the confidence of a courier while ignoring the fact that you were about to arrive at a New Year’s weekend wearing the same sweater Rhonda had already judged over the phone.
I set the shoebox on the entry table, then immediately picked it back up because the table looked like it had been imported from a country where people were sued for water rings.
My duffel was still in the guest room. I packed one shirt, then another shirt in case the first shirt looked like I had packed one shirt. I added socks, a toothbrush, and the notebook I kept telling myself was for work and not for writing down sentences that made me feel less unemployed.
My phone buzzed again.
Rhonda: Do not put the garment bag in the trunk.
I stared at the message.
Me: Where should I put it?
Rhonda: Somewhere respectful.
Me: That is not a location.
Rhonda: Then become the kind of man who understands tone.
I put the garment bag over my arm like it was a sleeping child with legal representation.
The shoebox went under my other arm. The chips went into my coat pocket because, apparently, I had become the sort of man who smuggled snacks out of labeled cabinetry.
At the door, the alarm panel began counting down from sixty.
I had forgotten my keys.
Of course I had.
They were on the coffee table, next to the couch I was no longer emotionally qualified to approach.
I made it back across the room with the garment bag held high, the shoebox pressed to my ribs, and the chips making a soft, judgmental crunch in my pocket. By the time I grabbed the keys, the alarm had reached twenty-three.
Twenty-two.
The duffel slipped off my shoulder.
Twenty-one.
I caught it with my knee, which was not a skill I knew I had.
Twenty.
Somewhere in the apartment, one of Rhonda’s plants seemed to watch me fail.
I made it out with six seconds left and locked the door behind me, breathing like I had survived something more athletic than leaving a rich woman’s apartment.
In the elevator mirror, I looked at myself: sweater, duffel, garment bag, shoebox, contraband chips.
Rhonda had told me to bring a better shirt.
I had brought three and still looked like a man delivering evidence.
Outside, the afternoon had started turning blue at the edges. New Year’s Eve weekend had a strange way of making even ordinary streets look like they were waiting for a decision.
I loaded everything into the back seat, except the garment bag, which Rhonda had apparently promoted to passenger.
Then I stopped for better chips.
Not because Gerald was right.
Because if I was going to make a fool of myself in front of Helga Pataki, I preferred to do it with options.
The Lloyd guest house sat at the end of a long driveway, glowing like it had been designed by someone who thought subtlety was for people with smaller windows.
Gerald opened the door before I could knock. His eyes went right to the items in my hand. “You brought goodies.”
“I brought Rhonda’s garment bag.”
“And chips.”
“Under protest.”
He took the bag from me, then looked me over. “You packed a better shirt?”
“Why does everyone know about the shirt?”
“Because Rhonda has been narrating your arrival like a weather event.”
From somewhere deeper in the house, Rhonda called, “If that garment bag is wrinkled, Arnold, keep driving!”
Gerald grinned. “Welcome to the weekend.”
I stepped inside.
Warmth, perfume, champagne, and somebody’s expensive argument hit me all at once.
Then, from the room to the left, I heard a voice say, “If Rhonda makes one more dramatic entrance about fabric, I’m setting the dress free.”
Gerald looked at me.
I knew that voice.
Of course I knew that voice.
Helga had always sounded like she was two seconds away from either insulting you or saving your life, and somehow making both feel like your fault.