She might be protective, and since he won’t tell me why he’s there, I thought it was best to get him home.
And now he’s here.
“Wait, how did you get here?” I ask him.
He shrugs. “I walked.”
“That’s kind of a long walk, pal.”
“Well, I had to.” He pushes up his glasses. “I wanted to tell you I’m sorry.”
It’s an awful long way for an unnecessary apology, but I know why he’s doing it. There’s an expectancy on his face as he waits; a hope I should have never given him in the first place. This was never more true than last night.
I wipe sweat and grit from my forehead and concentrate on polishing up the newly repaired windshield on the Impala. “You were pretty drunk. We all say things. Do things.”
“Yeah, sure.”
When I glance over at him, he looks crestfallen.
“It’s really okay,” I say. “I mean, I’ve been there.” I rub a cloth over the smooth glass. “I was in the city one time and had a few too many. Fell down some stairs. It happens.”
“Yeah.”
I can’t take the hurt on his face. “Don’t worry about it, pal. It’s all right.”
He nods, makes a glance around the garage, and backs toward the door. “I guess I should go.”
I toss the cloth over to my workbench. “Sure you don’t want a ride back?”
“No, I like walking.”
And then he turns, his head down, and I feel like such a heel. It’s like holding in a breath while hiding. When summer days were long and easy, I’d go into the barn during hide-and-seek. My place was up in the loft where I could look down and watch my brothers walk in to look for me. Glen never found me, and Jimmy would play along, act like he didn’t see me when he clearly did. And I would try to stay out of sight, hold my breath, and I’d take the whole thing so seriously. I didn’t want to be found, even back then. I learned to stay quiet for hours, amuse myself, because I knew eventually they would stop looking. They would give up. If there was no longer anyone to miss you, to look for you, to think of you, you could do anything. Go anywhere.
You’re free.
I go to the door, light a cigarette. I watch him walk away, hunched, hands in pockets, and I feel braced, cemented on the spot. I can’t muster up the voice to call him back even though I want to. I want to say what it was last night, give it a name, and give it life. Because sometimes I want someone to search for me, never give up on me, and think of me. But it’s just going to die now, the further he gets; it’s being pulled apart and this will be the end of it then. I shouldn’t have put my arm around him. I shouldn’t have asked him over, and this is what I get.
But then, without breaking his stride, he does a full circle and comes back. He walks right up to me and gets close, so close I take a step back, and he lifts his head to look at me, those eyes holding secrets I want to know. A whole life ahead of him, and I don’t think those eyes have seen the things I’ve seen. He’s green; he’s new. What right do I have?
“I wasn’t that drunk,” he whispers. “And you weren’t drunk at all.”
I avert my gaze. Take a drag from my cigarette.
“And you can’t tell me I imagined it because I was drinking. I know I didn’t.”
I look over at the parking lot owned by the place next door. A lady gets out of a Pontiac with two little kids. The girl shoves a lollipop in her mouth and gives us a long stare.
I finish my cigarette, drop it, stomp it. “I need to get this done.” I nod to the Impala. “See you around.”
And like a smooth piece of chocolate, I turn my back to him, and make my way over to the workbench. I get a piece of newspaper and a bottle of window cleaner. And I can feel he’s still there, his gaze on the back of my neck, pricking me like needles, but it’s the kind of sting I crave. I want. I deserve.
When I finally muster up the nerve to turn around, the garage door is empty. Sun shining, and no sound but the silence.
I stand just inside by the balcony door.
I’ve got my Pabst and my pack of Lucky’s. It’s automatic at this point, just something that I do, but yet I’m standing here, unable to go through that door. Just a few days ago, I would have gone out, sat in my chair, and quickly glanced to my lower left to see if he was in the shrub. It got to be comforting after a while, something to expect, something to rely on. It only got irksome when it looked like he wasn’t trying very hard to hide. When I felt like I had to go to great lengths to pretend I didn’t see him. Turn my head and act as if I were interested in something in the distance, focus on my cigarette, just something, and then it got to be tiresome. Annoying.
That’s where I went wrong. I spoke up, broke the spell, and now I can’t even smoke on my own damn balcony. I slump down at my kitchen table. I turn on the radio, light my cigarette, and roll through the stations until that annoys me, too, and I turn it off.
