But when I got down to the main floor, the rich scent of fresh coffee met my nostrils, making me peek into the room to find it empty, but half a pot sitting on the burner with a large metal travel mug sitting there waiting for me.
To be honest, I was more of a tea person than a coffee one, but the gesture was nice, and I hadn't gotten very good sleep the night before.
I wanted to blame the creaking house, the night animals outside—invasive and unfamiliar—but the fact of the matter was, it had nothing to do with those things.
It did, however, have everything to do with the man across the hall from me, likely peacefully sleeping the night away.
While I fretted and obsessed and had thoughts I had no business having about the man.
The situation was sticky enough already without me getting too wrapped up in this giant fantasy world I had created for myself. And therein lay most of my anxiety, my restless sleep plagued with worries.
That maybe he knew.
Or he might come to know.
About the calls.
His calls.
About who was the one making them.
"God," I whimpered, burying my face in my hands as I stood alone in the kitchen, mortification making the heat rise up my neck, blooming across my face.
It wasn't supposed to happen.
Of course, it wasn't.
What can I say?
It was the night that my divorce was finalized from a man who—when I had served him divorce papers—had told me that I could keep the car (which was mine to begin with) but that he was never going to let me get his precious Playstation or collection of comics.
I had been feeling really, really small.
Infinitesimal, really.
Damn near invisible.
I'd felt that way a lot in my life—overlooked, unnoticed—but something about the failure of the marriage that, admittedly, had only been a band-aid to my confidence issues from the beginning, made it feel all the more terrible.
I felt scratched raw, a wound you kept picking and picking and picking open, never letting it heal right.
And I was desperate for something, anything, that might make me feel better. Even for a moment.
My mind went to all my usual coping mechanisms.
A therapy visit.
But that would, at best, be first thing the next morning.
Calling my mom.
But she'd already taken me out to a "Happy Divorce" party where I had faked being relieved and happy to start again.
I didn't want her to know I had been putting on a show, that I was feeling this more than I should have, more than I ever would have imagined.
Not because of Blake, mind you. Good riddance to him and his utter inability to put the seat down, or pick up milk on his way home, or give me five minutes of his undivided attention on any given day.
But just my own deep well of dissatisfaction that was now mingled with a heady dose of failure.
I hadn't failed alone, of course. Blake had been an active part of the dissolution of our relationship.
We'd both seen it coming for months, a year, even.
But neither of us wanted to fix the underlying problem. So we spent our time angrily scooping water out of our sinking boat instead of patching up the hole that was causing the leak in the first place.
I guess it hit me so hard because I wasn't sure any of the nonsense I had said to my mother could ever be true for me. That I would ever be ready to date again. To feel the humiliation of a first date where someone who got incredibly frustrated with my inability to carry on a normal, casual conversation with a complete stranger.
God, I wasn't even sure I would ever find someone who would ask me out again.
I wasn't someone who had friends, who went out with them. Which left online dating. And my crippling fear surrounding it. Because I could be all kinds of things behind a screen, given space and time to think about my replies, to let my real self through, unhindered by the social awkwardness, my bumbling tongue, my shyness. I could be smart and interesting and, even at times, funny. But then someone would get me on a date and I was a nothing like that woman online.
Even just the idea of it gave me stress hives.
So I was pretty sure as I sat there alone in my empty apartment with my new/old last name, that I was never going to feel wanted again.
I mean, not that my marriage had been a heated one. Blake was happier lost in his fantasy worlds with female characters that were all boobs and hips and thighs, than in bed with me. And everything about our sex life made that clear.
Lights off.
Socks on.
Half-hearted.
Often unsatisfying.
And even when I did manage to get there, it was always—as Fee and the girls at work would call it—a "little O" and not the whole she-bang.
All those swirling thoughts mixed with the bottle of red wine I'd nearly finished—when I had never been much of a drinker because of my inability to handle it with any degree of decorum—made a crazy idea cross my mind.
Grab my credit card.
And call in at the office.
Because there was a man there.
And he had really pretty eyes.
And a really nice body.
And a deep, sexy voice.
And, if I tried hard enough, I could imagine that what he was saying to me when I called wasn't a job, wasn't something pathetic I was paying him to do, but something he wanted to say, something he wanted to do.
So I plugged in my information that I knew he would never see because Fiona was really good about having safeguards for callers' anonymity, I waited for him to answer.
Then when he did, I chugged the last of my wine, closed my eyes, and drifted away into the fantasy.
I meant for it to be a one-night thing.
But I hadn't anticipated how good it would feel, how empowered it made me the day after.
I'd held off for a while after, finding the confidence boost lasted several weeks before it started to fade.
I told myself I would find another way to get that same fix.
But then there I was in a low moment one night, my information plugged into a computer, his voice on the other end of my phone.
It seemed to go that way for a while.
One call would last me weeks, months if life wasn't too hectic.
But then, within a year, I was finding myself oddly addicted to the high of feeling desired, to having connection with a man. However fake it was.
The calls started to be every other week. Then every week.
Then, God, damn near nightly.
The nights he worked, anyway.
He called my 'baby' and my full name, and, God, the things he said. The things it did to me.
It started to fill a void inside I thought might always be painfully empty.
I knew how sad that was.
No one knew that better than me.
No one could ever say things to me that I said to myself about how weak and pathetic and needy I was for continuing on.
But I did.
Even though my bank account hated it, even though my savings hadn't seen any new deposits in six months.
I tried to remind myself that it was harmless.
It was fantasy.
Just like porn.
Or like the books I read and slipped away into.
No one was getting hurt.
Everyone was getting what they needed from the interactions.
But, deep down, I knew the truth.
It was a disaster waiting to happen.
First, because one day, and there was no telling when, he wouldn't be available to me anymore. Then what? I hollowed out again? I went back to silent nights at home by myself? Clinging to my mom for every spare bit of attention and affection she could give me, pretending it was enough when I knew it wasn't, when I knew she was worrying about how dependent I was on her when I should have long ago developed a support system that didn't involve my mother.