“Let me know if you need anything,” Roberta says, already out the door. I hear her loafers squeak down the hall.

I spend the rest of the day cleaning, gradually getting dustier and dustier until I’m filthy and the classroom is . . . looking about the same. Nothing looks clean under fluorescent lights.

There’s not much more I can do. I’m exhausted, and I still have another few days until school actually starts, so I give myself permission to leave. I stop at the TJ Maxx in Aster for some cheap curtains, then drive across the parking lot to the grocery store. It’s called Tops Friendly Markets.

I don’t find it any friendlier than the average grocery store, which disappoints me more than it should. I buy apples, eggs, guacamole, pita chips, ginger ale and multiple frozen pizzas. I make an impulse purchase of birthday-cake-flavored gum. It doesn’t taste even remotely like birthday cake.

Yet another disappointment.

On the drive home, as I chew the bland gum, a negative thought begins to worm around my brain.

Isn’t it classic me? To put faith in something implausible, like a grocery store with an exceptionally friendly staff, like birthday-cake-flavored gum, like a storybook happily ever after, like true love. Whenever I’m let down by reality, I’m simultaneously shocked and embarrassed by my lack of ability to anticipate the completely predictable outcome.

I attempt to spit the gum out my window, but it gets stuck on the side of my car.

By the time I get to Main Street in Rowan, there’s a sinkhole opening in my chest. All I can think about is how sad I am and how I can’t escape the sadness because I feel it. It’s coursing through my body with the swift ruthlessness of the flu. I can barely hold the steering wheel. I don’t have the strength.

I have to pull over.

I park in the first open spot I see. It’s in front of a squat cottage. It kind of looks like a mushroom. Brown roof, white stem of building. The door is comically short, and on either side, there are two round windows. There’s no sign.

The cottage looks funny next to its neighbor, a neon pink building, the loudest one in town. Luckily, that shop has a sign I can read: Simple Spirits, Wine & Liquor.

I don’t really want to get out of the car, with my halo of frizz, legion of dust mites. I’m wearing my most raggedy jeans, a sweat-stained T-shirt and sunglasses that I thought I could pull off once upon a time, but I now suspect make me look like a ninety-year-old woman. They keep sliding down the greasy bridge of my nose.

I take off my sunglasses and rub my nose with the back of my hand, hoping it absorbs some of the oil or, at least, distributes it more evenly so it’s not pooling there. I take a reluctant look in the mirror.

People might shudder as I pass them by, hold their children close while recoiling in horror.

But . . . I could really use some wine.

I grab my wallet and get out of the car. I hurry into the store, hoping no townspeople will spot me and think they’ve seen some sort of mythical trash monster.

I miss the step down entering the store, and almost fall flat on my face. I catch myself somehow, my arms out in front of me, gripping the air. I look around, ready to be mortified, but there’s no one here.

The ceiling is vaulted; there are exposed beams. It’s all very rustic. The walls are lined with shelves, and there are two round tables in the center of the store. One has a few bottles of wine on it, the other different types of liquor. There is a little note card in front of each bottle. I walk over to the wine table, ready to pick my poison. As I walk, the thick floor planks squeal beneath my feet.

I pick up a note card. Chianti. It’s earthy. Notes of tobacco, of red fruit.

I know nothing about wine except how to drink it.

“You don’t want that.”

The voice comes from behind me. I’m not startled by it because it’s a lovely voice. The tone of it. It’s an instant balm.

I turn around.

The floorboards wail under my weight, but when she walks, they make no sound at all.

She’s the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen. Easily.

Dark waves cascade down to her waist. So much hair, thick and shiny. How does it shine like that? It’s like her hair is emitting its own light.

She has big almond eyes, an ethereal hazel, like two pools of amber. She has long black lashes and her eyebrows are epic, full and lush, steeply arched. I want to touch them.

Her cheekbones are high, pronounced. Nose delicate and straight. Her lips are extensive, the twin conquerors of her face. They hold a natural color, a rosy pink. I doubt she’s wearing any lipstick, or any makeup at all. If she is, whatever it is, I would buy it. Her skin is a new state of matter.

I can’t tell how old she is, maybe late thirties? Early forties? She smiles at me, a pleasant, frank smile. Her cheeks round, and soft lines appear at the edges of her eyes.

She reaches out and runs an elegant manicured hand along my forearm, then takes the card out of my hand and places it back on the table.

“Come,” she says. She leads me over to the back wall. “The Bordeaux. You want the Bordeaux.”

She scans the shelves until she spots the bottle she’s looking for. She materializes a ladder and begins to climb up the bottom rungs to reach the bottle.

She’s wearing a long, silky black dress. It’s got a low-cut sweetheart neckline and she has it cinched tight at the waist with a braided black leather belt. I peel my eyes away. If I let them linger any longer, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to stop staring. How is she possible? Is she famous? Why is she here?

She passes the bottle down to me.

“Here,” she says. Her voice is like smoke. “Drink this.”

She climbs down the ladder.

“If you don’t like it, you can bring it back,” she says. “But you’ll like it.”

“Yes,” I say. “I mean, I’m sure I will.”

She looks at me for a moment, her eyes bright and full of affection.

We just met a minute ago, but I swear she’s looking at me like we’re best friends, like I’m her favorite person.

“You wouldn’t tell me, would you?”

“Sorry?”

She circles behind me as she speaks. “If you didn’t care for the wine. You wouldn’t bring it back. You wouldn’t pour it down the drain. You would drink it anyway. Have one glass. Give it another chance. Have another.”

A strange, prickly chill travels up my back.

Am I that transparent?

“I don’t mean this as a bad thing,” she says. “You seem so open. So polite. I appreciate it. These are rare qualities, especially these days.”

She walks behind a counter at the back and begins to write something down in a leather-bound ledger. I assume this store is hers. She seems too glamorous to work anywhere. She should be draped across a chaise longue underneath a large palm.

She has some kind of accent. It’s vaguely European, a little haughty. I can’t identify it.

“Feel free to tell me to fuck off,” she says. “I like to think I’ve got good instincts about people. That I’m intuitive. But what do I know, really?”

“No,” I say. “You’re not wrong. I’d drink the wine. Even if I didn’t like it.”

“Close your wallet, darling. I’m not going to charge you for it. Just marking for inventory.”

“Oh, wow. Thank you,” I say. “Are you sure?”

“Quite,” she says. “You’re new, yes?”

“No, I’m thirty,” I say, losing the battle with my reflex to make everything weird, to tell bad jokes when I’m feeling uncomfortable or overwhelmed.

She laughs, and the relief is euphoric.

“Almost new,” she says.

“I did just move here. Yesterday, actually.”

“Welcome,” she says. “I’m Sophie.”

She reaches out her hand. She wears gold and silver rings. Thin, delicate bands on all of her fingers. On her right index, she wears an enormous garnet. It looks medieval.

I shake her hand, ashamed that mine is clammy, that my nails are short, dirty and broken, the cuticles out of control. I wear no rings.

Her grip is firm, and she puts her other hand over mine, like my hand is something precious or fragile, something that requires extra care. Like a gem or a sick bird.

“I’m Annie,” I say. “Annie Crane.”

“Annie,” she says. My name has never sounded so beautiful. “Lovely to meet you, Ms. Crane.”

Should I curtsy?

“Have you met anyone else in town?” she asks.

“No, not yet. You’re the first.”

She smiles like she takes some satisfaction in this. “What brings you here?”

“I’m teaching at Aster High. I teach English and ASL.”

“Mm,” she says. “Teaching is a very noble profession. Requires quite a bit of patience.”

“I think it’s the same as any job,” I say. “Can be hard sometimes. But that’s why there’s wine.”

Why did I say that? That was so corny. I wish I could melt into the floor.

“Annie,” she says, “we should get coffee sometime. Won’t you come to the farmers market this weekend? It’s on Saturday. Every Saturday, Memorial Day through the end of October.”

“Sure,” I say. Is this small-town life? Inviting strangers to coffee?

But are we strangers? It doesn’t feel like we’re strangers.

“Wonderful,” she says with a single clap. “I’ll introduce you to everyone in town. They’ll be so excited to meet you.”

“Really?” I ask, my skepticism slipping out of my mouth like excess sauce.

“Of course.” She laughs. “We don’t get many new faces here.”

“Oh,” I say. “Um, where is the market?”

“Just down the road, there’s a little path. You won’t be able to miss it,” she says. She’s standing so close to me that I can smell her perfume. It’s lavishly floral.

I’m taller than her by a few inches, which is not unusual. I’m five foot nine and typically taller than my friends. But I don’t feel taller than she is. She carries an air of authority.

It could be because she’s so beautiful. It elevates her. Puts her on another plane of existence. Or maybe it’s the accent.

“I’ll see you Saturday, then,” I say. “Thank you for the wine.”

“You’re welcome,” she says. “Have a good night, pet.”

“You, too,” I say. I’m careful not to trip on the step on the way out. I don’t want to embarrass myself in front of Sophie, this gorgeous, generous wine-store-dwelling goddess.

I get in my car and set the wine down on the passenger seat. I consider fastening the seat belt around it. It’s a straight three-minute drive back to my apartment. Back home.

I drive slowly. Bottle on board.

I park at the end of the driveway, in my spot, back wheel lined up with Mr. Frog.

“Mr. Frog,” I say, tipping my imaginary hat to him.

I load my bags onto my wrists. I carefully hold my wine in one hand as I unlock the door with the other. I climb the stairs. My feet land in the center of each step; my knees lift the exact right height. My body knows them already. It’s receptive to this new place.

The hope I felt this morning comes fluttering back. Cute apartment, charming new town, charming new friend.

I should allow myself this moment of optimism. I should give myself permission to feel something other than sad.

You could be happy here.

I open the door to my apartment and choke on my triumphant exhale. There’s a spider the size of a silver dollar scuttling across the floor. He vanishes before I can catch him, somehow squeezing into the gap between uneven floorboards.

“Enough!” I tell the spiders.

I’m disturbed by the size of that one, though maybe my mind exaggerated. Maybe it wasn’t so big.

I attempt to tap back into that optimism. I play music through the TV speakers, let the sound flood the space.

I set the wine down on the kitchen counter, unpack my groceries and put up my new curtains. I celebrate my privacy by undressing in the middle of my apartment, leaving my jeans on the dining table, my shoes near the window, my shirt over a lamp.

I turn the shower on, dial it as hot as it will go. I disappear inside the steam. I’m going to sanitize myself, scald myself clean. I scrub my scalp like an aggressive hairdresser. The water runs brown at first. I’m horrified.

I’d forgotten just how dirty I was from cleaning my classroom. I’m surprised Sophie wanted anything to do with me.

After my shower, I change into deliciously clean clothes. I cautiously water the plant, then dance around the kitchen while I make myself scrambled eggs for dinner. I eat them with tortilla chips and guacamole, standing at the counter. I look out at the backyard, at the woods, thick and dark and inscrutable. If that’s where the spiders are coming from, I guess I can’t blame them for wanting out.

I leave my dishes in the sink and open the wine. I pour it into a regular glass because I don’t have any wineglasses, which doesn’t feel very adult, but oh, well. I settle on the couch.

I’m suddenly hyperaware of my aloneness. Its descent is rapid and heavy as a summer storm. I scan for a spider, almost missing their company.

“If you’re hiding somewhere, you can come out,” I say.

I give it a minute.

No spiders.

“All right. Suit yourself,” I say. “Cheers.”

I sip the wine.

It’s like velvet on my tongue. My taste buds nod in approval, stand up and applaud.

I polish off one glass. Then another.

I lull myself into a pleasant, loopy state. I drown my better judgment.

I call Sam.

“Hey,” he says, “it’s the expat.”

“I’m upstate, not in Helsinki.”

“Where is Helsinki? Finland?”

“Yes.”

“Ever been?”

“When would I have ever been to Helsinki?” I ask him. I wonder if I’m slurring.

“As a small child. Maybe you went but don’t remember.”

“I mean, it’s possible,” I say. “Highly unlikely, but possible.”

“Could always ask Pat,” he says.

This conversation is officially not fun anymore.

“Mm.”

“Have you talked to Pat recently?”

“Have you?”

Pat is my dad. He likes Sam better than he does me. I’m not sure why. It’d be easier, less painful, to attribute it to the facts that Sam is a guy and that my being a girl was always a great inconvenience to my father, but I know that’s not it. At least, not all of it.

My mother died when I was five years old, and my early years of bows and lace dresses, tea parties and dolls, died with her. My dad is a former soldier who worked construction and didn’t have the time or patience for a daughter, especially one with such “feminine” interests. No taking me to my beloved ballet lessons. No Barbies. No makeup. It was school, microwave dinners in front of the TV to avoid conversation, chores, sleep. I did the dishes, the laundry, all of the cleaning. I could watch sports with him on the weekends, but I couldn’t comment, and if his team lost, I knew to get out of his way.

It sounds worse than it was. He wasn’t stern or unfriendly. He mostly didn’t know what to do with me or what to say. I’m sure his grief was a contributing factor. My grandparents always spoke about how much he loved my mother, what a beautiful angel she was. But for some reason I could never buy into that story completely. I wanted to, but what else could they say? She was dead. Narratives change when someone dies, especially young and tragically. Their history transforms. It transcends reality, into something more romantic.

Maybe my parents were hopelessly in love. Maybe she was the most incredible woman who ever walked this earth, but I used to wish someone would tell me about all the ways she was human. About her struggles and her suffering. Did she hate losing at board games like I do? Did she always fuck up the laundry? Was she the type to be early or late? Did she break out before big events, put toothpaste on zits and sleep with her fingers crossed?

“I didn’t mean to press a button,” Sam says.

“No,” I say, “it’s fine.”

The germ of quiet festers into a lingering silence.

When I can no longer stand it, my mouth decides to make the specific and terrible decision to say, “Miss you.”

The nothing that follows is devastating.

Eventually, he clears his throat. “When does school start again?”

It’s a brutal nonresponse. I would almost rather he said, You miss me? Really? That’s weird. I don’t miss you at all. Almost a decade together and nada!

“Thursday,” I say. “But I have to go in for meetings.”

“Right,” he says.

“I should let you go,” I say. The words hang there, slow and bloated as an uncle after Thanksgiving dinner. They don’t move, don’t dissipate. They’re too heavy, too full of meaning.

“All right,” he says. “Talk soon.”

“Yep,” I say. “Bye.”

I hang up and throw my phone across the couch. I reach over and cover it with a pillow.

It’s a new kind of sadness. Who knew it came in so many varieties? That it had such range? I’d call this one “the anvil of understanding.”

Our friendship won’t survive. It can’t. No more inside jokes. No more long conversations about nothing. No more hanging out. Hating the same movies. Loving the same music. None of that. It’s over. It’s done.

I was deluding myself into thinking it could be salvaged. I picture those people rummaging through their houses after a natural disaster. A tornado, a hurricane, an earthquake.

I cry into the couch. I use it like a giant tissue.

It’s an intense, drunken cry. Theatrical. I exhaust myself, and I must fall asleep, because when I open my eyes, they’re crusty and sensitive to the light, and there’s a shallow puddle of drool slowly soaking into the couch cushion.

My eyelids are heavy. I have a dull headache. I yawn and go back to sleep.

It’s only when I open my eyes the second time that I realize I’m not waking up on my own.

Something is waking me.

There’s a sound coming from the staircase. Like footsteps. Like someone is coming up the stairs.

I sit up, ripped from the fog of sleep.

I wait for the sound to come again, to prove itself.

It doesn’t.

It was loud enough for me to trust that I actually heard it, that it wasn’t imagined. I tiptoe into the kitchen, where I pick up a frying pan to use as a potential weapon, like I’m an old Italian woman. I walk back into the living room.

I press my ear to the door.

I hear nothing but the whistle of my own breathing through clogged nostrils.

“Hello?” I say through the door.

I wait.

Still nothing.

I open the door, pan held high just in case.

I flip on the light. There’s the distinct fizz of electricity.

I can see only the first few steps down to the landing. There’s no one there, but it’s possible that there’s someone around the corner, on the bottom half of the steps, waiting.

The bulb sputters. Goes out, comes on again.

I see a strange shape straight ahead of me, hovering above the stairs. At first I think it’s my eyes, my vision spotting from the flare of light. Then I realize it must be my shadow.

Only I’m holding a frying pan, and it isn’t.

It’s not my shadow.

There’s a pang of doubt. Am I seeing this? Does it exist outside my vision, in the physical world?

The bulb sputters out again.

There’s a faint creaking sound. It’s slow, agonizing. And then SLAM!

The door at the bottom of the stairs. It just slammed shut.

The light mercifully returns.

There’s no shadow. No shape. I muster enough courage to turn the corner. The bottom half of the staircase is empty.

I go down to lock the outside door. I guess I forgot to do it earlier when I got home. I did have my hands full. The wind must have blown it open. That must have been the noise I heard, the door clattering.

“Right,” I say, twisting the dead bolt.

I head back upstairs and close the apartment door. Lock it. I turn around to face the living room, the couch soaked in tears and boogers and drool, the nearly empty bottle of wine on the coffee table.

I sigh, mouth open, and taste a familiar brine.

I don’t know if I’m crying because I’m sad or startled or both.

I return the pan to the kitchen and put myself to bed.

You’re okay, you’re okay, you’re okay,I say to myself.

And there’s an echo, in a voice not my own.

You’re okay, you’re okay, you’re okay.