“I’m not sure, actually.” The stoplights had been switched to caution, blinking red and yellow overhead. “As is often the case, you’ve never really said how you feel.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” I could hear the hard edge of my voice, and I saw Safie blanch. “Sorry, ignore me. I’m drunk.”
Safie’s eyes narrowed. “You’re good.” The cab arrived and she opened the door. “Drink some water when you get home.”
I watched her leave and pulled out my phone to check the time. Behind me, the door to the bar crashed open.
“You again.” It was the guy from the group, the one who told me to lighten up.
I forced a smile and asked, “How’s it going?” but looked back at my phone.
“I have a question.” He swayed into the air between us then caught his balance. He wiped at his face, rough down the length of it, and cleared something from his throat. “You teach at the college?”
“I do.”
“I can tell. You and your friend. Did you move here for that job?”
“That’s right.”
“Where from?”
“New York,” I said, and immediately regretted it. I should have said somewhere less worthy of interest, anywhere really. The wet cold of the night pressed into my bones. I was underdressed. “Listen, I need to get going.”
“What’s your hurry?” He surged toward me. I stepped back and smacked my head into the wall behind me—my phone knocked from my hand, landing on the sidewalk with a snap. He leaned in. His breath stank, sour from hours of drinking. “Do you think you’re better than me?”
“What? No.” My head throbbed.
“I think you do.”
“I don’t even know you.”
He seemed to look through me, watery eyes unfocused.
“Would you want to?”
“Want to what?”
“Know me.” He reached and grabbed my forearm and I flinched but didn’t move away, there was nowhere to go. He gripped me tightly and held me there, against the wall.
“What?” I stammered, trying to figure out what he wanted me to say, what could make him leave. “I—”
And then he let go and laughed, his big mouth hanging slack. “I’m just fucking with you. Relax.” He patted my cheek, two quick, dry slaps. He turned and walked off, laughing to himself. “Fucking Sawyer professors.”
I waited until he was out of view and then counted down from one hundred. When I reached the end, I picked up my phone. A jagged crack along the back. But it still worked. I dialed without thinking. I felt foolish, or really, I felt like a child: needy and scared. I was about to hang up when the call clicked on from the other side.
Stephen’s voice, groggy with sleep.
“Mark.” Across the street, a car U-turned, tires screeching, headlights off. I tensed, but it kept going and disappeared around the corner. “Are you there?”
“Sorry.” Why had I called? “I know it’s late.”
A pause. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. I don’t know.” I waited a moment and then … “Would you come over?”
“What’s going on?” The gravelly underbelly of sleep in his voice was gone, cleared out with alarm.
“I’m just having a weird night.” I flattened myself against the building. The brick pushed back, cold and ungiving. My head swam. “Never mind. I’m sorry I woke you up.”
