I remember little things from that evening more clearly than I remember the plot of the film. The blue light of the television against Kinsley's face, the cardboard smell of the pizza box on the coffee table, the rain moving through the gutters outside, and the way she rested her socked feet across my legs. At one point she took my hand and drew a little circle on my palm while watching the screen. It was such an ordinary gesture that I felt foolishly grateful for it.
At about nine thirty, her phone rang. She glanced at the screen and rejected the call so quickly that I only caught the name because I happened to be looking in her direction. Vance. She adjusted the blanket and tried to return her attention to the movie, but less than a minute later the phone rang again, longer this time.
"You should answer," I told her. "If he's calling twice, maybe something actually happened." She hesitated for half a second, then accepted the call and put it on speaker as if that would settle any concern I might have. His voice came through loud and uneven, carrying the unmistakable sound of a man who wanted to be believed immediately. He said somebody had broken a window at his apartment and he was afraid whoever did it might come back.
He described glass on the floor, an open window, and a police dispatcher who had told him officers might be delayed. He said his hands were shaking and he couldn't bring himself to sit alone in the apartment. Twice he repeated that he didn't know who else to call, although at the time I didn't consider how strange that claim was for a man who owned a business and had lived in Columbus for years. Kinsley kept asking whether he was hurt, and he kept saying no before returning to the question of whether she could come over.
"Please," he said, his voice breaking in just the right place. "I just need somebody here until the police show up." Kinsley looked at me, and I felt a faint tension gather beneath my ribs. I didn't like the idea of her driving across town to spend a late evening alone with her ex, but I also couldn't imagine refusing help to somebody who had genuinely been frightened in his own home. A real emergency had a way of making ordinary boundaries feel less important for an hour or two.
I suggested she call his sister or a neighbor as well, but Vance said he didn't want to bother anyone who wasn't already awake. Kinsley stood, reached for her coat, and asked whether I minded if she went. The question mattered to me later, because it showed she still understood there was something unusual about the request. I told her to go make sure he was all right and to call me once she arrived.