by Theresa Weir
“Thanks for the flowers.” Then I went inside.
“What’d the asshole want?” Rose asked as I hung my jacket back on the peg and reached for my apron.
“He wanted to take me out to dinner and a movie.”
Rose stared at me. “You? Dinner?” She burst out laughing.
“Not me?” I asked, looking for confirmation but now feeling what the hell? Was I that weird? Weird was only good when you were in charge of the weird.
“So not you.”
Chapter 23
Hand up my shirt kneading my boob. Hard dick pressed against my thigh. Mouth mashed against mine. Another hand inside my panties, a finger stroking me.
I moaned and grabbed a pair of bare shoulders.
Tongue probed my mouth. The taste of cigarettes and beer, the smell of old sweat, the feel of long facial hair.
I came awake with a jolt and realized the guy fondling me was a stranger. Too dark to see, but he definitely wasn’t Ian. And I hadn’t been drinking. I hadn’t hooked up with anybody. I was home—or rather at my new home—in my own bed.
Break-in?
“Stop.” I shoved at the shoulders. That enticed him more because he shifted his weight, pinning me down. He tugged my panties to mid-thigh, and I could feel his dick trying to work it’s way between my legs while he sucked on my mouth, then buried his face in my neck.
“Stop!” I pushed harder and he pushed harder. I tried to bring up my knees but he was too heavy. I think I screamed. I’m pretty sure I screamed. Using both hands, I pounded on his head, slapping and slugging.
“Whoa, whoa!” He sprang away and I heard him hit the floor. “That ain’t cool. That ain’t cool at all.”
Heart thundering, body quaking, I felt around for the lamp and turned it on. There on the floor was a naked guy with long, straggly hair. A kid, really.
“I’m calling the cops.” I reached for my phone. Dropped it. Shaking so much it didn’t seem real—like a bad actor pretending to be afraid. Fear. Give us fear. I grabbed the sheet. Covered myself. Managed to snag the phone again.
“Hey, chill.” He put up his hand, palm out. “I’m the one who should call the cops and have them kick you the fuck out.”
It dawned on me that he lived here. Lived here. Which meant I wasn’t safe in my own bed. I let out a sob, swallowing it halfway. Couldn’t let him know how upset I was.
“I can tell you right now most chicks don’t mind waking up to find me in their bed. Your door was open. In this house that’s an invitation. So…you’re the one who screwed up.”
“Get out of my room. Now.” Brave front. “And buy some deodorant.”
“I pay the rent here.” He jumped to his feet. “The lease is in my name.” He strutted a bit, raked both hands through his hair, then pointed at me. “I want you out. I don’t know what Shavon was thinking letting you move in. You crazy bitch.”
He stormed from the room, as much as a naked guy could storm.
“Shavon! Hey, Shavon! What the hell did you bring into our house? Who does that chick think she is?”
I heard a murmur of voices, then the creak of a bed. Then more bed creaking as I realized he and Shavon were doing it on the other side of my wall.
“You’re really missing out!” Shavon shouted.
I was still trembling. I couldn’t seem to stop.
Sometimes I think we get caught in these clusters of bad. Like once the pattern of bad starts it builds and grows and no matter how hard we try to break the pattern something else is at play, something beyond our control. And the bad can last weeks or months or years. That’s the problem with bad.
The bed next door was hitting the wall, and I swear I could feel my room shaking.
They were doing it to antagonize me because now the vocalizations were louder and Shavon was screaming at him to fuck her harder. Finally the pounding and screaming stopped, and then the laughter began. Both of them. Laughing hysterically and loudly.
“Want to join us?” Shavon shouted between the fits of laughter.
“What’s her name?” I heard the guy ask.
“Molly.”
“Molly!” he shouted through the thin walls. “Come fuck with us!”
Sometimes I really hated people. A lot of times I really hated people. And I wished I’d never tossed any tips into Shavon’s damn violin case.
Now they were talking to each other. “How did that chick end up here?” he asked.
“She seemed cool,” Shavon said. “And she has a nice body. I knew you’d like that.”
“I would have liked that.”
Shavon laughed.
“She has to go.”
No problem. I was already on my way.
Pulling on a pair of jeans, lacing my boots, tugging on T-shirt and hoodie, stocking cap. Stuffing my laptop into my backpack. I put a heavier jacket—a vintage military parka I’d picked up at Everyday People—over my hoodie in case I didn’t make it back to get the rest of my stuff for a few days. My decision to leave helped calm me.
Outside I hefted my backpack over my shoulders, unchained my bike, and began to pedal away. Flat tire.
Exactly what I meant about the bad things vortex. It was sucking me in.
I rechained the bike to the porch railing, then took off down the sidewalk. I checked the time on phone. After two o’clock. The naked dude must have come home after the bars closed.
With hands on the straps of my pack, I set a brisk pace. Whenever I passed a streetlight I could see my breath. I didn’t realize where I was going until I spotted a cross street that led to Rose’s new place. I turned and headed that way.
A string of blue lights on the enclosed and locked porch, but the rest of the house was dark. No van in the driveway, but Isaac could have been on tour. I went around back and knocked on the kitchen door. Since it was two o’clock on a Saturday night—or early Sunday—they were probably at a party. I could wait, but it was cold and I’d partied with Rose enough to know that sometimes she didn’t give up until dawn.
Rose’s was about a mile from our old place and I happened to think of my car. Was it still there? Had it been towed?
I slipped off my backpack and dug around until I found my car keys. I tucked them into the front pocket of my jeans and took off in the direction of the old homestead.
Fifteen minutes later I rounded a corner to see my faded black Corolla. It looked like home. Even though I was exhausted, and even though my shoulders ached from the heavy backpack, I ran. I actually ran toward the damn car.
The street was well lit, and I could see pieces of paper stuck to the windshield and tucked under the wipers. Tow warnings, issued by the street department. I removed them all, bundling them in my hand. Then I tried to unlock the car with the fob. Nothing. I tried again. Nothing. Now what? The key. I could actually use the key to unlock the door. I almost slapped myself in the forehead. My God. How stupid. I unlocked the car, dropped my backpack on the floor in the backseat, crawled in after it, and relocked the door. Then I removed my heavy coat and covered up with it, found an old sweatshirt on the floor to use for a pillow, and went to sleep. Home sweet home.
Chapter 24
I dreamed I was in a carriage. Like a horse-and-buggy carriage, the movement soothing and the sound of the horse’s feet repetitive in a good way. I squirmed around, the bump in the seat driving me crazy. What kind of carriage had a bump in it? A bump like the backseat of my Corolla.
I gradually awakened to realize I was not in a carriage pulled by horses, but in the safety of my little car. The odd thing? The car was moving.
I tossed my coat aside and sat up. Streetlights flashed by, and I heard the sound of shifting gears. Through the windshield I saw a winch on the back of a flatbed and lettering that said Bob’s Tow Service. I sat up straighter and looked out the side window. My car was sitting on the back platform of a tow truck, and we were tooling down I-94.
What the?
I lunged between the front seats and pounded on the horn
. I thought I heard a weak peep. I tried a second time. Nothing. The fob hadn’t worked either. Windows wouldn’t go down. Battery dead.
I tried waving my arms, hoping the driver might see me in the mirror. Futile. I finally settled back and enjoyed the ride while taking Instagram photos with my phone. Had to document this crazy shit.
It didn’t take long to get to the impound lot because there was very little traffic. Once the truck came to a stop I bailed out on the metal platform at the same time the driver climbed from the cab. He looked really surprised to see me.
“You should check to make sure nobody is in a car before you tow it,” I told him as I stuffed my arms into my heavy coat, grabbed the straps of my backpack, and jumped to the ground.
“I thought I checked.”
“Not very well.”
“This car has been on the tow list for the past two weeks. I was trying to cut you some slack but I couldn’t let it sit there any longer. Somebody kept calling about it.”
That would have been the old lady next door who didn’t like anybody parking in front of her house.
He went back to the cab and returned with a sheet of paper. “Here’s the number for information on getting your car released. The sooner you get it out the less it’ll cost you. Flat towing fee, plus daily storage of eighteen bucks.”
I almost said thanks as I took the sheet and stuffed it into a zippered side pocket of my coat. I didn’t see a point in telling him I wouldn’t be back.
I glanced at the car and felt a pang of sorrow. I was going to miss her. And to go this way… it felt like I’d just taken a beloved pet to the pound.
I walked through the gate and the driver swung it shut, locking it after me.
Where the hell was I?
I found a street sign. Colfax Avenue. I could see enough of the skyline to know I was north of downtown Minneapolis. Which meant I was eight or nine miles from Rose’s. I wasn’t familiar with this area of town, and no buses would be running right now. And anyway it was super industrial. Probably didn’t get much bus traffic, if any. Wasn’t this where people were always getting murdered? I might think about death a lot and I wasn’t afraid of dying, but I sure as hell didn’t want to get killed standing on a street corner.
I pulled out my phone and contemplated the short list of people I could call. Rose. Taylor, who didn’t have a car. Then there was Ian.
I stared at the screen, mentally braced myself, and called him.
“Hello?” came his groggy response. I imagined the way he’d looked in my bed, confused and hair all over the place. Adorable.
“Are you…um, busy?”
He breathed deeply, struggling to collect himself. He made that dude sound that girls don’t make, the sound where they inhale deeply while talking. “At three-thirty? Nah.”
“Did I wake you?” Of course.
“Did you rethink that date invitation?”
“I might need a ride.”
“You in trouble?” Now he sounded alert, and I imagined him sitting up straighter.
“Not trouble. I’m at the impound lot in Minneapolis.”
“Impound lot? I didn’t think you had a car.”
“The whole thing is a long story. Kinda funny. Like something I’ll laugh about later.”
“Hold that laughter. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
I gave him the location, then disconnected. While I waited I went through my photos, posting the towing fiasco to Instagram and Facebook.
A shady black Cadillac, circa 1990, drove past going really slow. It turned around and headed back. What should I do if it stopped? Maybe they just wanted to rob me, not kill me. I’d give them my laptop and phone and run down an alley or climb the fence into the impound lot.
You’re always supposed to walk with purpose, but I don’t think I’d ever heard anything about standing with purpose. And I really didn’t want to ditch my backpack or phone. I’d already lost my car, and who the hell knew if my bike would be there when I stopped to get it.
The beater was almost even with me when I heard the sound of another engine. Coming around the corner was Ian’s van. He fast-braked in front of me and threw open the passenger door while the shady car sped up and continued down the street. As I clambered in, Ian grabbed my pack and put it between the bucket seats. I slammed the door and we took off.
“I saw your Instagram post so I kind of get what’s so funny but I don’t get how it happened.”
He followed me on Instagram?
“How did you end up in the car when it was being towed?”
He’d probably beat the crap out of the hairy, smelly dude if I told him what happened, and I couldn’t deal with more drama tonight. “I fell asleep in the car and it got towed.”
“That’s not the whole story.”
“It’s not, but I don’t want to get into it right now.” So I lightened the conversation. “You should have seen the look on the tow-truck driver’s face when I stepped out of the car.” I laughed, remembering.
“He probably sees some weird stuff. And most of the people he deals with are pissed off as hell. Wouldn’t want his job.” He turned onto I-94 East, heading back through Lowry Tunnel and past the cathedral. “Where to?” he asked, probably assuming I wanted a lift to the rental house. I hadn’t really thought past asking for a ride.
“Not my place.” If Rose was home I could sleep on her couch, but there was good chance she wouldn’t be back yet. “There’s a party going on and I can’t handle that now.” Two people could be called a party, right? Party of two?
“My couch?”
“Yeah.” And to make the situation less awkward, I came up with a logical reason for a visit. “I could check your hand.” I eyed the nasty gauze. “And re-bandage it.”
He seemed cool with that and five minutes later we arrived at our destination.
“I see the window hasn’t been fixed,” I said as we stepped in the back door. He’d boarded it up with plywood.
“Somebody’s supposed to come in two days. That’s good, because—” He stopped.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“People coming to look at the house? Has anybody been interested?”
“Yeah. A few.”
I nodded. “Good.”
On the table where I’d left everything were the homecare supplies. Gauze and peroxide and tape. “Have you changed the bandage at all?”
“I was afraid I wouldn’t get it wrapped back up. And I’m not sure I want to see it.”
I made an exasperated sound, turned on the light above the table and sat down, pointing to the chair next to mine. He took the seat and extended his hand, fingers curled, palm up. I carefully removed the tape, then unwrapped the gauze. I wasn’t sure how the stitches were supposed to look. The cut was red, but not oozing or anything. I opened the peroxide, grabbed a towel, put it under his hand, and poured the clear liquid over it. He made a face but didn’t say anything. I patted his hand dry, then put fresh gauze around it, taping it securely.
“There.” I surveyed my work. “You should change that every day.”
“I know. I will.”
He was staring at me in this wistful way that hurt my heart, maybe even broke my heart.
“I want to say stuff to you,” he said, “but I won’t. Because I’m afraid anything I say will send you running out the door.”
“Probably true.”
He picked up my hand with his uninjured one. “I’m just glad you called me. You can always call me. That will never change.”
It seemed like he was telling me goodbye, and I sensed this new resolution about him, like somebody who’d come to a decision and was glad the process was over, but maybe not happy about the outcome.
“You’re going to find out soon enough,” he said. His thumb stroked the back of my hand. This was goodbye. “I got an offer on the house two days after it was listed. And I accepted it. We close in a week.”
My brain stopped. And started. And sto
pped. “A week? That’s so fast. I thought that kind of thing took months.”
“Me too, but I guess the market is good right now. I actually had three offers, but the one I took wanted an early close. That’s why I decided on it. To get it over with.”
“A week… Wow. And after that?”
“I’m going back to Berkeley.”
Back to California. Why did that make my throat tight? Why did that make my eyes sting? “I’ll miss you.” The words popped out before I could stop them, surprising me as much as him.
“You’ll be okay. You’ll be fine.” He said it with such conviction that I almost believed him. So weird, because I’d already told him goodbye before. Back when I dumped him. When I left him. But it was different being the one left behind. A lot different.
“Do you have a place in Berkeley?” I asked, my voice sounding strange.
“An apartment. When I came here I didn’t think I’d be staying so long.”
“No.”
I shouldn’t care. I didn’t want to care. At the same time I wanted to turn back the clock to the day we painted the living room yellow. The day we’d first had sex. Made love. Whatever it was. It had been so perfect. That day had been so perfect.
I couldn’t help myself. I was giving him that look. A look I’d given him a lot over our short period of bliss. He’d seen it enough to recognize it.
I wondered if he had a girl back there. In California. I’ll bet he did. Of course he did.
I got to my feet. I turned off the light so we weren’t onstage. He still held my hand. I shifted my fingers so I was grasping his, and I pulled him toward the living room and the couch. “Not upstairs.”
“I know.”
An odd response, but I didn’t allow myself to dwell on it. Instead, I was careful of his hand as I helped him undress—until he was naked and I was naked, and then I pushed him back on the sofa, following him down. Forgetting about his injury he tried to grab my arm, then let out a surprised gasp of pain.
“I’ll do everything,” I told him. “You just lie here.”
His breath caught in sweet anticipation. I put my face against his neck and inhaled the clean scent of him. I kissed his mouth, and he didn’t taste like cigarettes and stale beer.