“I’ll never understand that.”
“It’s not so difficult. I’ll show you. Give me a person, any person.”
Shyla looked around before subtly jerking her head toward an older man who looked out of place from the crowd of sharp-dressed, hurried people. He walked with a slight limp and scowled at the people rushing past him.
“That’s so easy. His name will be Samuel Jenkins. He served in Vietnam maybe. He left a young man with strong aspirations and a ripe future that included a red haired, freckled-faced girl. He came home broken, defeated, and half-dead. While he’d been battling a war, his life escaped him. The girl moved on. His father died. His laughter became hollow. His tears saltier. His bones brittle.”
“Sounds very sad.”
“It is, until he meets another girl, one that brings sunshine into his dark life.”
“How can you create a whole life from merely glancing at a person?”
“I’ve been doing it for a long time. You gave me someone very easy because he doesn’t fit in, but it becomes more difficult when you pick someone ordinary because then you have to find those inner feelings that makes them stand out. Why don’t you try?”
Shyla searched the crowd, noticing a man with a business suit, which wasn’t unusual except for his lime green tie with a pattern of pink polka dots. He would be easy to draw from. “I pick him.”
Nick’s smile shifted into a frown. “We should go.”
“Why?”
Nick didn’t answer. He stood quickly and threw down a few bills before reaching for her hand, leaving their barely finished food. When she turned back, she saw the character she’d picked was leering at them, his footsteps quickening.
“Don’t run from me, Dorsey!” Lime green tie screamed.
Nick tightened his grip on Shyla and led her down the street.
“Nick, what’s going on?” she asked.
Nick halted, taking a deep breath. He placed a hand on each of her shoulders. “Go home, Shyla. I have to talk to him.”
“But—”
“Go home,” he said, pushing her away.
“Nick!” The man yelled, rushing toward them.
“What can I do for you, Tim?” His demeanor transformed in that brief moment. His tone, composed and unruffled, seemed very opposite the aggressive man, as if they were having two different conversations.
“I want to punch you again.”
“I’ll let you if it makes you feel better, but we both know the last time it hurt your fist more than my face.” Nick let go of Shyla’s hand, turning to the man. “I can’t talk to you right now, but if you want to have a real conversation I would like that.”
“What I have to say to you will just take a minute. Stop leaving roses on my sister’s grave. In fact, stop visiting her all together.”
“You can’t ask me to do that.”
“Haven’t you done enough? You really need to mock all of us with your false grief?”
“Tim, just calm down.”
“Calm down? What the fuck is wrong with you, Dorsey?” Tim turned his attention to Shyla. “And are you doing the same thing with her? Are you going to introduce her to your sick, twisted life, too?”
Nick grabbed a fistful of Tim’s shirt and pushed him against the wall. Tim’s eyes widened. Nick was taller and outweighed him. “You don’t talk to her.”
“You afraid I’ll tell her what a sick fucker you really are?”
Shyla gasped as Nick slammed his fist against the brick wall several times.
“I’m sorry,” he repeated the words as he let the man go.
Tim straightened his tie and fixed his jacket. “I would expect nothing less from you. You can say you’re in recovery, but we both know you’ll always be a junkie. You can apologize until the day you die, and it will never be enough.” He turned toward Shyla, a warning in his face. “You should keep better company.”
Shyla opened her mouth to reply, to object, to defend, but Nick shook his head before she could utter a word. “Don’t say anything.”
“He can’t talk to you like that, Nick.”
“Yes, he can.”
Tim stalked off the direction he came. Nick walked to the edge of the sidewalk to hail a cab.
“What just happened?” she demanded.
“Go home. I’ll take the next cab.”
That was a ridiculous idea since they were headed in the same direction. She took his hand in hers, surveying his bloody knuckles. “You’re hurt.”
He pulled away. “My own fault.”
“Let me help you.”
“I don’t need you.”
There was a new cold edge in his voice she’d not expected. In response, she made her voice as calm and collected as she could under the circumstance. “I’m going with you.”
Her simple statement must have worked because he didn’t argue. He didn’t say anything. A cab stopped, and they got in. Everything had happened so quick she couldn’t even process it. She held his hand and leaned against his chest, but he didn’t embrace her in any way. He looked straight ahead like a statue. He didn’t even react to the pain of smashing his fist into a brick wall.
Shyla led him up to his apartment and walked him straight into the bathroom. He sat on the closed toilet lid while she tended to him. He was quiet, even when she put the antiseptic cream on his raw, bloody knuckles.
“Why don’t you ever ask me about the scars?”
She was grateful he was talking, but his voice, distant and cold, made her shiver. “I could see it was a painful subject for you. I figured you would tell me when you were ready.”
“There are things about me you don’t know.”
“I know you are a decent man, Nick. You don’t deserve the things he said to you.”
“He lost his sister. He blames me. And guess what, Shyla? He’s right.”
She bandaged him up and followed him to the kitchen. He poured himself a scotch.
“I don’t believe that.”
“I’m a meth addict,” he said without any emotion. He sat on a dining room chair and held his glass out to her as if he was toasting her. She didn’t know much about the drug except that people who suffered such addictions were often dangerous. Nick had never made her feel that way, though. He made her feel safe and cherished. Still, she took a step back. She regretted the movement at once when his mouth twisted in a tight, pained smile that held no happiness.
His voice lowered, filling the silent room with a shadowed whisper. “Most people have that reaction. I’m glad you do. It shows me you have a good sense of self preservation.”
She swallowed, confused and alarmed by his admission. “I’m just surprised. You don’t act the way I think an addict would.”
“Well, you don’t act the way I think an Indian village girl would. I guess neither of us fit a mold.”
“How did you start?”
He paused for a while, and she wondered if he would answer her. Her heart wrenched for him.
“A few years ago when I needed to meet some deadlines for a book. I was careful, though. I made rules for myself and stuck to them, so how could I be a meth head? I smoked at night when I needed extra energy to write. I never emptied my bank account. I didn’t get all hyper and nervous.” He chuckled cynically. “Hell, I even have perfect teeth, and they’re all mine.” The words sounded hollow and rehearsed. Yet, there was a raw pain, as if being passive allowed him to get through the story.
“Why do you think you harmed that girl?”
“I didn’t just harm her, Shyla. I killed her. Her name was Jenny. She was a fan of mine. She was innocent and sweet…like you. I got her hooked on the stuff.”
“Did you love her?”
He shifted his gaze toward his hand as if just realizing he was hurt. “No, and that makes it worse in some ways. I used her like I always used women. She wanted more, but I wasn’t interested. She asked if she could smoke with me one night. And I was stupid enough to agree. She changed from a happy girl to
a strung out, depressed addict. It happened very fast. She stole from her family. From me. I tried to get her help, which was probably the most moronic of all the ironies in my life, because I, too, was an addict. I just couldn’t admit it.”
“What happened?”
“What usually happens to addicts. She overdosed and died. That was supposed to be my fate, not hers.”
“Are you still addicted?”
“I haven’t smoked in a long time, but you’re never free of it.”
She swallowed, her knees going weak as she replayed his confessions. She placed her hand on his shoulder. “It’s not your fault.”
“It is my fucking fault, Shyla,” he snapped, jerking her hand away. “You know the funniest thing? You would think that dark period would have been my rock bottom, but it wasn’t. I gave into my addiction even more after that. I became the definition of a tweaker. I woke up one night in a strange place with two naked girls beside me. I had no idea where I was or what we had done, except judging from the packets of crystal and pipes, I knew we’d had a party. I got on my motorcycle and took off. Thank God I didn’t kill anyone else that day, but I did crash into a tree. That’s why I have the scars. I checked myself into a clinic after I got out of the hospital. I stayed there for several months. That was over two years ago.”
Shyla crossed her arms, bracing herself against his words. “You pulled yourself out of it. You’re a different person now.”
“That’s not the point.”
“Then what is?”
“I can change who I am, but I can never change what happened. I killed her, Shyla.”
“You didn’t kill her.”
“I put her in places she would never have gone.”
Shyla took his hand and slowly caressed it. She ran her finger down the scar on his cheek. He winced at her touch but didn’t pull away. “Listen to me. Did you force her to take drugs?”
“No.”
“Right, it was her choice. She made those decisions. When a woman has choices, she also has responsibility and, more importantly, accountability to herself. You weren’t innocent in all of it, but you certainly did not cause her death. You said yourself you tried to get her help.” She cupped his face in her hands, leveling it so he could see her sincerity. “Nick, her family blames you because it’s easier for them than to cope with the loss, but it wasn’t your doing. You have to stop thinking that, or you’ll never truly heal.”
“You are so innocent you only see the good. That’s what I wanted you to see in me. That’s the side I showed you.”
“Don’t do that. Don’t act like I’m some stupid, naïve girl who doesn’t understand how the world works.”
Nick took her hand, but it wasn’t a sweet gesture. He stood abruptly. He pulled her toward the door. “You need to go.”
She yanked her hand away, standing in place, their bodies close enough that she could hear his heartbeat. She swallowed back the lump in her throat. If she started crying, she wouldn’t be able to articulate what she needed to say. “Are you asking me to leave for the night, or to never come back?”
He closed his eyes. “Both.”
The dam of emotion assaulted her then. Salty tears fell across her face. Her head hurt, her heart pounded, and her body shook.
“You’re going to leave in a few months anyway, so this was inevitable. You can finish the book on your own.” His voice sounded heavier, as if the air had thickened around them.
“We still have time. I’m not ready to say good-bye. You aren’t either.”
“I’m ready now. I don’t have room for you in my recovery.”
“You’re saying that because you think you might hurt me. You won’t. I’m strong. I would never make those choices. I can help you.”
He took her shoulders, gripping her. “You are strong. I have no doubts about that, but I am weak. Please go.”
She pulled out the phone in her back pocket. Her hand trembled as she held it out.
“Keep that.” He clasped his hand over hers. “I want you to have it in case of an emergency. You can still call me if you really need something.”
What she needed was him, but what more could she do to convey the message? She put the phone back in her pocket, not so much because of the emergency part, but because she wanted the photos of them. She wanted the memories.
Chapter 17
The next three days were the longest of Nick’s life. They reminded him of those first days of detox, followed by the first somber weeks of sobriety. He went back to his routine, which had altered since Shyla had come into his life. He went to more meetings and talked to his sponsor, which helped. He went to Jenny’s grave but didn’t bring a rose with him.
Although his body went through the normal motions, the girl who’d brought sunshine into his world owned the majority of his thoughts. He wondered what Shyla was doing. If she was safe. She’d become such a part of his life that he found himself listening for her timid knock on the door. His hands groped the other side of the bed in search of her. He came up with lists of random books and movies she might enjoy and made a mental note to share them with her before he realized that wasn’t possible. Nick Dorsey had seen his share of misery, but this pain was new, fresh, and merciless. He told himself it was just as well. It would be worst when she left, but he longed…lusted for the months he’d carelessly tossed away.
On the fourth night, he did hear the familiar knock. He hated how rapidly his heart beat in response. She didn’t wait for an invitation. She marched right past him. He glanced at his watch.
“Were you going out?” she asked, watching him button his jacket.
“Why are you here, Shyla?” he answered her question with his.
She set a brown paper sack on the dining table. “I brought you a sandwich.”
“I didn’t order a sandwich.”
“I know how picky you are. I wasn’t sure if you’d found another place. I wanted to confirm you were eating well.”
He chuckled. “You’re worried if I’m eating?”
“It’s not funny.”
“We talked about this.”
“No, Nick, you talked and I listened. But I’m talking now. I finally figured out what my pet peeves are.”
Despite trying to remain aloof, his curiosity couldn’t be dampened. “What are they?”
“People who have a false sense of failure. People who shut out other people. Oh, and definitely people who back out of their agreements.”
She shifted through her messenger bag and took out a stack of papers. “I wrote the next few chapters. I tried to mimic your style. You can read them or not. It doesn’t matter. I thought you might want to see how the story progresses.”
“Shyla—”
She held up her hand. “I’m going to leave now.” Her voice cracked. Nick struggled not to take her in his arms. “I don’t know who this guy is you spoke of the other night. I’m sure he existed, but I haven’t met him. I met you. The man who became my friend and later my lover. The one who always made me feel comfortable, safe, and special. And I think he must have existed all along, but he was buried under that other guy.”
“He didn’t exist, or maybe I should say he doesn’t.”
Her lower lip quivered, and he saw her internal fight to control it. “I care about you, Nick Dorsey, probably too much too soon for my own good. But I’m smart enough to know that whatever is happening with you, only you can fix.” She marched over to him and placed her hand on his heart. “If you’re looking for redemption, start here.”
With that, she walked out the door. He waited for a few minutes to pass until he followed her. He stayed in the shadows until he saw her go into her building and turn on the light. He’d been following her home to confirm she’d made the commute, carefully keeping a large distance behind her. It was a ridiculous idea. After all, she’d been making the walk on her own for years, but he justified his actions when he read the morning paper and saw a random story about a mugging or rape, even tho
ugh most of those occurrences were nowhere near the vicinity of the Village.
When he came back to his place, he tried to avoid the stack of bright white paper that sat on his table. He walked around it, threw a magazine over it. Out of sight, it wouldn’t matter as much. But it did, no matter how many layers covered it.
He unburied the sheets and lifted them to feel for weight. She’d written quite a bit. He scanned the first page, then the second. Eventually, he found himself hunched over on the couch, the pages before him, getting lost in another world. He was thankful she’d done this on her own. He couldn’t write this part no matter what. He had difficulty enough reading them, let alone trying to gage those painful feelings.
Pain, Nick thought as he read Shyla’s work, was a universal epidemic. It shut people down, tore them apart, but it also built them up again. Most importantly, it had the power to bond. Sometimes, it took understanding someone else’s to work through your own. Even fictionalized pain could have that impact.
Chapter 18
The Choice Less
Asha, like most Indians, regarded weddings as a sacred and cherished celebration. Asha and Aditi’s wedding was no different. The bride, dressed from head to toe, felt the weight of every layer she wore. There was a tiny sliver of gold in her nose and a million yards of fabric on her body. A Mangalsutra around her neck signified she was now a married woman. Although it wasn’t large, it felt foreign and cold against her skin. Her hands and feet, decorated with paisley and flowers in intricate henna paste looked strange to her. It was a happy occasion, so she tried to hold her smile in place, but by the end of the long day, it hurt too much. The guests wished her well, but she caught their whispers. Her lack of dowry, her lineage, and her reputation for obstinacy provided fodder for many conversations.
She imagined she might feel different being a married woman, as if her biology would transform once her and Aditi took the four rounds around the holy fire that signified their tie to each other. But she was still the same girl. Maybe those changes would happen now when he claimed the last thing she had to give.
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