Once we’re all gathered, the doctor puts his glasses on and opens a folder on his desk. And from there, he delivers his news.
10
NATALIE
Ihaven’t seen or heard from Sergio in three days. I’m confused, not sure what I should be feeling. Not sure I should be feeling anything at all.
If he’s gone, it’s for the best. Drew’s right. I can’t get involved with someone like him. What the hell am I even thinking? But why did he go without a goodbye? I don’t understand.
It’s past eleven at night when there’s a knock on my door. I’m in the living room studying for a test. For a quick moment, I’m glad about the new locks on the doors, but shake myself out of it.
The knocking comes again, harder this time.
“Just a minute,” I call out, zipping up my hoody. A damp chill clings to the walls of the house on these wet winter days. I understand why the owners leave until spring.
I look through the window beside the door and if he didn’t have his face turned up to the streetlamp, I wouldn’t have opened the door, but it’s him.
I unlock and open the door. His hand is mid-air, ready to bang against the door, and I see right away he’s in bad shape.
“Sergio?”
He looks at me like he’s almost surprised to see me. He scratches his head. His coat is open and he’s not wearing gloves, hat or scarf. His face is red like it’s been whipped by the wind that hasn’t stopped howling for the last hour.
“I was walking,” he says. I can smell whiskey on him.
“It’s freezing. You went walking tonight? Here?”
He makes some sound, looks beyond me into the house.
“Are you drunk?” I ask.
He returns his gaze to me, shakes his head, but I’m not convinced. He steps inside without waiting for an invitation. I close the door, shuddering at the cold.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
“Long day.” He stops, looks off in the distance, shakes his head. “Long fucking week. You have something to drink?”
“Coffee?” I ask, not surprised when he shakes his head.
“Something stronger.”
“Um.” I walk into the living room. He follows me. I don’t drink whiskey, which I think is what he’s looking for, but the owners have a stash of it. I open the cabinet, look at the various bottles, feel Sergio step close behind me. I turn to him, study his face. He’s scanning the selection and a moment later, chooses a bottle from the back. He doesn’t bother to pour it into a glass but drinks directly from it.
“Are you okay?” I ask carefully.
He looks at me, his eyes fierce in the dimly lit room. He drinks another swallow, sways on his feet. “I have a key,” he says, producing a ring of keys from his pocket.
“Good for you,” I say, not quite following. I reach for the bottle in his hand. “Maybe you’ve had enough.”
He draws it back and shoves his keys back into his pocket. Drinks again. When he takes a step to the side, he knocks his shin right into the coffee table, and mutters a curse.
“Why don’t you sit down,” I say, taking his shoulders, turning him toward the couch. “And give me your coat.” He reluctantly lets me take the bottle for the moment it takes him to slide his coat off. He flops onto the couch, taking the whiskey back from me to drink another swallow.
“What were you doing?” He picks up my notebook.
“Nothing.” I take the whiskey from him, push the lid back on.
“Tell me about the professor.”
