They’re the ones I packed in a hurry back in LA. The ones I got sent for free and had to post about with a bunch of insincere hashtags and an offer of 15 percent off with the code LANA15. The suitcase with the zipper that tore the first time I used it when we took a flight to Georgia to shoot a special episode of Brilliance.

I let the door fall shut behind me and I stare at the suitcase. On the table, I notice my phone. My real phone. I pick it up and see a picture of Dido as the background. Though I can barely see the picture because there are about a trillion missed notifications.

It is all undone.

I hear the sound of tires on gravel outside and know what I will see when I open the door.

A taxi. Its glowing sign diffused by the fog that’s descending upon the nighttime.

The driver gets out.

“You call a taxi to Dublin, ma’am?”

“No!” I scream immediately. Then I say, “Wait one second, I’m—I’m sorry.”

He climbs back in, like this happens all the time.

I pick up my phone and google Lana Lord.

A slew of articles comes up. News about the finale. News from an unreliable source suggesting Grayson and I are expecting because of yet another unflattering picture taken of me at Sushi Park.

The taxi honks once outside, politely.

I google Aimee’s name. Nothing much comes up until I add the name of our hometown at the end.

Her obituary.

“No, please,” I say out loud, fighting back soul-deep nausea, asking whatever forces to please have mercy and not take it all away. “Please, please,” I whisper.

I shut my eyes hard and then open them again, hoping that the place will be different again, back to my new normal. But no. In fact, I notice that it’s not even the house I got to know. Not really.

I glance around, noticing the little signs for which light switches to leave flipped and what not to throw down the toilet and where to find extra towels and firewood.

It’s a true rental house now.

The taxi horn goes again, this time less patiently.

I know what I have to do, but I don’t want to. I want to sit in the middle of the floor and never leave. Never. I don’t care. I’m not leaving.

But almost as if I am not in control of my body, I find myself going to my suitcase, pulling up the handle, and dragging it outside.

“Sorry!” I call to the driver. I feel fluttery and panicky and strange as my body goes through the motions of locking the door and replacing the key where it belongs.