100 Yellow Doors

november 24th, 2019, 6:18 a.m.

Iman, still lightheaded and dizzy from traveling, shuffled back into her apartment—well, now hers and Beck's—at an unknowable hour. She dropped her keys in the tin, catching herself against the wall. She had no way of knowing what day it was; she could be gone to a different time for what felt like five minutes and come back to find a week had passed. How much had she missed, she wondered? How many nights had Beck lost sleep, waiting up for her, watching the front door even for it never to open?

The hall light flicked on. "Iman?"

She staggered; everything felt fabricated, half-true. Herself, the voice that called out to her, the pool of golden light meeting the darkness of the front hall. "Beck—"

"Oh, hey. Hey, are you okay?" He caught her against him, closing one arm around her lower back, lifting the other to pat her hair with his hand. His voice was gruff, as if he was still sleep-drunken, his lips chapped where he dipped and pressed them against her temple. "Thank God. Thank God you're back."

She relaxed into his chest, squeezing her eyes shut. The world cemented itself again, the ground firm underneath her feet, her breathing steady in her chest. Even so, there was a name pulsing in the back of her head like the light on an answering machine, blinking and blinking, pay attention, pay attention—

"Julien," she said, shaking her head. "I went forward, Beck, to Julien's house—"

"Forward?" he stepped back, his hands resting on her shoulders as he peered at her—he was squinting, his glasses likely left behind on the nightstand. "Wait. You can do that?"

Iman swallowed, lifting a quivery hand to her forehead. "I guess I can. Anyway, it's just...there was a woman living there, and Julien was nowhere to be found. She said he'd rented the place out to her, but he stopped checking in after awhile."

"Here," said Beck, guiding her towards the kitchen, flicking lights on as he did. He pulled out a barstool and ordered her to sit, floundering about in the cupboards until he recovered a drinking glass. "So...maybe he gave the property over to someone else?" he said, filling the glass with water.

"The renter would know," said Iman, taking the water gratefully, lifting it to her lips. "Wouldn't she? Legally, I mean, she would have to be notified."

Beck sighed, leaning over the island. He was still in his pajamas, his afro lopsided where he'd flattened half of it against his pillow. "Then..."

"I don't know," Iman said, dropping her head. She pulled her phone from her pocket, but didn't turn it on. She had called him enough, left him enough messages. If he wanted to talk to her, surely he would have replied by now, wouldn't he? "I don't know, Beck. I just wish...I just wish I knew what was going on with him."

For a while there was no response, until finally Iman looked up to find Beck watching her, something in his sleep-weary brown eyes tinged with reluctant sorrow. She remembered something her sister had said: I just don't know if it's appropriate for you to be daydreaming about another man when you're engaged. Iman searched Beck's face, wondering if all her worry over Julien was misplaced, insensitive. She didn't peg Beck as the jealous type, not at all, but what if it was a part of himself he was just brilliant at hiding? Beck didn't keep many secrets, she thought, but the ones he did keep, he kept extremely well.

Beck extended his arm, resting it palm-up on the counter. Iman smiled a bit to herself, taking his hand, fingers interlaced, matching rings a silver glint underneath he light fixtures.

"Have you considered," Beck asked, rubbing circles into the back of Iman's hand, his eyes low, "swinging by his house?"

Iman had considered it, but she had done nothing more than consider it. "It feels intrusive."