Chapter twenty-eight:
“Excuse me?” I ask a lady with the large red purse. “Where am I?”
She clings to her purse and ignores me, wandering away as if I just tried to rob her.‘I’m a good boy!’I want to call after her. But I don’t, because I’m not stupid. I understand how this all looks. My hand is stitched up, my clothes are all bloody, and I have no sneakers on my feet.
Yeah, it looks bad.
Of course it does.
But it’s not, really.
It’s just a misunderstanding.
There’s a homeless man on the ground, a small paper cup in front of him. I crouch down, the rain dripping into my eyes.
“Excuse me, where am I?” I ask.
His guarded eyes look me over. I honestly feel like they see everything. They see the truth and the lies. The damage and the heartache.
“Seventy-fifth Street,” he replies. He notices I have no sneakers. “Your feet are getting wet,” he says. A small nod to my soaked feet.
I smile, and refrain from showing him my impatience, because of course I know my feet are getting wet. I have no fucking sneakers on and it’s raining. What else would happen? I’m not fucking Jesus. I can’t walk over water, can I?
“Yeah, I know,” I say, controlling my temper. “I need to get home,” I say, standing back up. “What time is it?” I ask.
“No idea. My grumbling stomach says dinnertime, though. But then it always says that.” He laughs, and I’m not sure why he’s laughing because that’s not really funny. But I laugh with him, because I don’t want to be rude. Not even to him. Because everyone deserves politeness—unless they’re an asshole like Adam, anyway. This guy doesn’t seem like an asshole, just a drunk old man.
I start to walk away, already working out where I am and how I can get back to Carrie.
“Hey, hey,” he calls after me.
I look back down at him.
“Got any change?” he asks. I put my hands in my pocket to get my wallet, because of course I can help, buddy. We’ve all been there when our luck has run out and we’ve got nothing left. But my pockets are empty. No keys, no wallet, not even Carrie’s cash. Andfuck,I think. I shake my head and mumble an apology to him, and then I walk away, feeling pissed off because now I’m going to have to walk all the way home. Well, all the way to Carrie’s.
I walk through the streets, my feet soaking wet and cold. I step on grit and stones that cut my feet, and I shiver under the weight of rain. The night falls heavy around me, the traffic forever bustling. Cars horns blare, lights flash, people push and pull and charge and shove, and then I’m at the pharmacy and the lights are off, and I know I’m nearly there.
My teeth are chattering as I walk up Carrie’s street. The lights in all of the other houses are off. It must be really late now. Or really early. I reach her house, I climb the steps. I remember that I don’t have her keys now, so I go back down the steps and down the side of her house. I walk through the mud and I want to cry, but I don’t, but I really want to because I’m cold and tired and everything hurts. Especially my feet.
I see the window I went in earlier and I climb back through it. I fall to the floor—again. I crash into the side table—again. I make my way down the hallway and I open the living room door, and I look in and see Carrie on the floor.
She’s tried to get out, but I’d locked the door and she was tied up, so she couldn’t really move, never mind unlock the door.
I smile, even though my teeth are chattering.
She looks up at me, and I see the mess her face is. Guilt rips through me.
She sobs, tears pouring down her cheeks.
She’s shaking and looks so frightened.
Guilt rips a hole in my heart.
“I’m sorry, Carrie,” I say, and my voice is thick with tiredness and pain and guilt.
I see the puddle of piss she’s in and I frown. I don’t want to touch that mess, but I know I’ll have to. I take a step into the room, and then decide it can wait for a bit longer because I need something warm to wear. I need to get out of these wet clothes. I need food. And damn it, I need a piss too.
It’s not always about you, Carrie. I’m important too, you know. I came back for you!
