“You expecting anyone?” Liz asks, confused.
“I’m pretty sure that’s Jason.”
She stands and starts for the door. “I'll buzz him in...if you want.”
“Yeah. Of course.”
She makes her way over to the intercom and hits the button. “Hey, it's Liz. Come on up.”
“Thanks.” I can hear it in his voice. He’s pissed. Instantly I think of the man who saved me. I think of Shep Olsen. Every time I think of Jason, I think of Shep. I’m not sure why. But I count the seconds I know it’ll take Jason to ride the elevator up to my floor and I think of Shep sitting next to my bed. I think about his fingers touching mine.
Liz flicks the locks and starts cleaning up the remains of our dinner. She knows what comes next.
Jason opens the door. I turn around, but I don't get up. Liz is already sliding on her jacket.
“Claudia,” he says in a way that instantly makes me regret answering his text. I know what I look like. Step one: stop crying. Step two: heal so people stop looking at you the way Jason is currently looking at me.
Liz sighs. She's pissed. “I'm going to head home. Do you need anything else?”
“No, I’m fi—”
“I got it from here,” Jason interrupts. Lawyers, always with the pissing contests.
“I’m fine,” I say again. I stand and hobble a couple inches, ignoring the way Jason’s looking at my hands and my feet. Liz meets me more than halfway and hugs me.
“Just call me if you need me, okay? I'll come right back over.”
“I will.”
There's a terse “see you later” with Jason and then she's gone. Some of the tension drains out of the room. It's always like this. The molecules in the air can only handle so much posturing at once. Jason comes around the couch. His blue eyes are still hard on me. He's still pissed.
“Why didn't you call me?”
“I just got a phone. Today. The cops have my other one in an evidence bag somewhere.”
“Was your computer stolen too?” he snaps. Usually I'd tell him to fuck off. This time I'm quiet. I flinch.
He’s quiet for a moment before he sighs. “I’m sorry. I'm just stressed out from work. And I was worried about you. And Miles,” he tacks on.
You didn't even know Miles, I almost say. I just swallow instead. “I’m glad you're here, but I don't really want to talk about it right now.”
“No, I get it. You've been through a lot. I mean, look at you. You look like you went toe to toe with a bear.”
“Close.” His voice flashes in my ears. That sick laugh. He's telling me to keep running. It's funny to him. It's a game. He's going to catch me.
“I know just what you need. Sit,” Jason says.
I sit. He grabs the remotes and finds the Mets game. Once he’s situated with a glass of whiskey from the bottle he keeps above my fridge, he pulls me into his arms and tugs the blanket over me. I try to breathe.
“I know baseball always knocks you out. Just let the sweet sounds of the third inning rock you to sleep.”
Typically this is where I laugh, where I sarcastically thank him for being so considerate, then leave him to the game while I catch up on work emails or playfully tease his cock through his pants until he's forced to momentarily abandon the game to get me off. Tonight I just swallow and settle against his chest. There are more silent tears. He absently asks me if I'm okay, but he's screaming at the second baseman before I can answer.
I stare at the fire escape. Eventually I fall asleep.
* * *
Month Four
