Breaking and Entering | 18 June 2021

I’d been banging on the door for 15 minutes when I saw the kitchen window was open.  Did I dare? Could I actually get enough of a foothold to get inside?  One quick backwards glance at the street for passers-by, and I decided to go for it.

BNR Response

With one foot on the AC unit and the other on some kind of pipe, I hoisted myself up and clumsily shoved my body halfway through the window.  With my soft belly now squarely and uncomfortably across the sill, my face was immediately confronted with the stainless-steel goose-neck kitchen faucet.  Having acted quickly and without any planning, I had forgotten that this unlawful entry to Ridley’s home would land me in the kitchen sink.  One last headlong dive and I toppled, ass over tit, until I terminated an ill-shapen somersault on the Mexican ceramic tile floor. 

I knew I didn’t have a lot of time.  Even so, I was relieved that Ridley wasn’t home, and had some warped sense of confidence that I could procure the love letter I had posted from his pile of unread mail before he got back from his kickball game.  Given that we lived in the same small coastal town, I wagered a one-day delivery schedule and timed my “visit” closely after the mail had been deposited in his street’s mail slots.  In the distance, I could hear a Mariachi band in the park which sat kitty corner from his bungalow.  I longed to be a relaxed guest at the birthday party or baby shower where they were playing.  Instead, I was feverishly going through the belongings of my best friend whom I secretly loved.

First, I walked to the front door where I knew the mail came through the slot most days around 11AM.  No pile of mail.  Damnit!  He must have collected it before he headed out for his morning with the league.  I frantically looked around, not knowing where to look next and suddenly feeling that my plan was woefully inadequate to accomplish what I’d hoped.  I walked back to the kitchen and started scanning the concrete countertops.  Papers, bills, and a few post-its were by the fridge.  No mail. 

Why had I written that stupid letter anyway?  Why, after five years of lusting after Ridley had I suddenly chewed through my resolve that told me it was better to be friends than nothing at all?  This resolve had taken years to stiffen.  The letter clearly wasn’t in the kitchen.  I paused, just for an instant, to admire his Viking range once again.  I had received no indication that our status nor his feelings towards me had altered: he was affectionate, but not sensual.  We shared with each other openly and without varnish, but also talked about our romantic pursuits.  He always answered my calls, texts, messages, there was no game playing.  He laughed easily at my jokes and didn’t care how I looked in the morning or after hot yoga.  None of these things point to typical romance!  I scampered into the living room.  Maybe the letter was on the table by the remotes.  I looked everywhere for the pink envelope and Sara Vaughn postage stamp with my loopy handwriting on the front.  My heart was racing as I remembered all I had divulged in those two college-ruled pages: how I was hopelessly attracted to him and his lazy curls, how I had felt more than “friendly” feelings for years, how I wanted to take our relationship in a different direction, that I LOVED him.  Oh, Christ!  Yesterday’s second glass of afternoon rosé was really coming back to haunt me.  I had been so smitten after Ridley and I had had lunch yesterday.  We talked about comparative cinema, joked about my most recent quinoa recipe fail, and talked candidly about summer daydreams.  That goddamned letter that I then brazenly penned and posted hit me like a regret hangover immediately upon waking this morning.  Wait, what’s that on the coffee table under his keys? 

Wait. 

His KEYS?

I had been so desperate to extract and forget my confessional missive that all I heard was the rushing in my ears – blood coursing through my pounding head like a flash flood.  Now, I froze in-place, as if I would only be visible while in-motion.  I was now able to hear the sound of his commercial-grade rainfall shower being turned off.  Still not having located my letter but knowing I was about to get caught breaking and entering without any rational excuse, I was temporarily immobilized.  Panic was replaced with terror.  Ridley’s discovering I loved him wouldn’t be as bad as him thinking I were a common lunatic with criminal tendencies.  I spun around on my heel to head back toward the kitchen and tripped over his Pendleton rug, crashing onto the hardwood with an audible thud.  I heard the shower curtain spin on the curtain rod.  “Hello?!” Ridley called out.  I got up and raced toward the kitchen, not even conscious of whether I was making noise, talking to myself, whimpering, anything.  I briefly looked at that small kitchen window above the trough sink and realized that getting out seemed much more daunting than it had been gaining entry.  Nevertheless, I somehow got both knees up on the edge of the porcelain sink and was maneuvering my body around that fucking beautiful faucet, my head ducking over the windowsill, when I heard, “Sara?  What the hell is going on?” 

Well, fuck.

DD Response

I pushed my foot into the crevice between the bricks and reached for the ledge. My grip was tenuous, but my resolve was strong and hoisted me to eye level with his newly renovated, state of the art stainless steel kitchen. The cabinets were melon green and the center island housed an enormous cook-top with corresponding vent hood that rose to the vaulted ceiling above. I hauled myself up and slithered inside before I lost my nerve. “You want evidence?” I thought. “I’ll get plenty.”

I stand in the room holding my breath as I realize that the fucking bastard copied the kitchen layout from my childhood home. The St Charles kitchen cabinets were a different color, but it was the same layout, right down to the countertop insert for the blender. It had to have cost over $200,000. I snap a photo in each direction before walking to the next room.

Floor to ceiling bookcases… of course. I scan the shelves and easily spot the years of scrapbooks and photo albums I lovingly created of my children’s lives. The ones he said he didn’t have- the ones I “must have lost in my move.” I snap a picture knowing that I’m taking every damn one of them with me when I walk out the door. I also see the set of Compton’s Encyclopedias from my childhood and my collection of Tom Clancy mysteries lined up by date of release, exactly as I had them shelved in our house. My arms tingle with disgust and fear. I was living with a psychopath. I slept with him and had his children.

“Evidence. Gather the evidence,” I remind myself. I know exactly where he would keep it, so I walk forward. Three steps farther and I see it through the next doorway. Sitting against the dining room wall is the chest - his prized possession. He told all of our friends that it had been in his family for generations, but I know differently. I was there when he brought it home from the flea market. I was the one that stripped and sanded and stained it to the current rich mahogany brown as a gift. Why did I ignore all of the lies? “No harm, no foul” I lied to myself time and time again, until he turned his lies on me.

I opened the secret drawer hidden from view by the gilded scroll I painstakingly restored. I push in to release, and the drawer pops open. I snap a picture as I reach in and slowly lift the velvety covering. Cash. Lots of cash. I lift up a stack to photograph the depth of his reserves and see a key.

I take the key and as much cash as I can stuff in my back pocket and head to the back door for the box I left there. Furiously I stuff all of the photo albums and scrapbooks into the box, and turn to leave. A surge of energy pulses through my body, and I have an overwhelming urge to hurt him. I know it’s wrong, but I don’t stop myself. I take the key out of my pocket and walk back to the dining room. I grip the key and scrape it across the top of the chest with vigor. “Take that asshole!” The revenge feels like a jolt of power coursing through my veins.

I walked out the back door and left it wide open. Let him know I was here...