by Laurie Boris
“Shut up,” Emerson spat.
Sarah flitted a brief, compassionate gaze at Emerson before it burned into Jay. “I remember my roommate.”
“She says you got something that belongs to me.”
“How do you know she’s telling you the truth?”
He smirked. “I have my ways.”
Her expression could ice a volcano. “Get out.”
“You heard her,” Emerson said. “Why don’t you—?”
“I can handle this myself,” Sarah retorted.
“But Sarah, he’s obviously—”
“I. Can. Do. This.”
Jay leaned against the wall, waiting for them to finish bickering. His arms were crossed over his chest like he owned the building, the block, the whole city. Next he would probably light another cigarette and ask what was for dinner. “Go ahead, Sarah.” His tone was cool and condescending. “Do it. If you don’t have the stuff, I’ll take the money. Either or. I know you have it. Dee Dee’s a few fries short of a Happy Meal, but she’s no liar. I can sense that in people.”
Sarah’s eyes burned into Jay. “Maybe she’s just a good liar.”
Jay smiled. “She’s good, anyway.”
It happened in a heartbeat. Sarah’s fist connected with Jay’s good eye. She had a decent punch, for a girl. Jay lurched backward from the impact and the surprise and when he hit the wall, he crumpled to the floor.
* * * * *
Sarah backed away, rubbing her hand. For a long moment Emerson could do nothing but stare at the unconscious heap of rock star in the corner, and at Sarah. However angry she’d been with him over the years, he counted his blessings that she’d never pulled that on him.
But his limited medical training got the better of him and he was kneeling at Jay’s side, two fingers on the carotid, and then pried open his least-swollen eyelid.
“Is he…is he…”
He had a pulse, unfairly strong, and pupil response, but Emerson couldn’t resist. “Yes, Sarah. You’ve finally done it. You’ve killed a man.”
Her hands jammed into her hips. “Cut it out. I can hear him breathing from here.”
“Okay, I don’t think he hit his head. That would have been more dangerous. Probably he just passed out from the lighter fluid he’s been drinking, or whatever the hell was in that flask.”
Sarah pushed her hair back, darting a glance out the crack in the door, and said in a halting voice, “What are we going to do?”
“We?” Emerson said. “I just came by to return your things.”
Her gaze swept across the floor. “So I see.”
Their eyes met. Emerson was still on his knees beside Jay, Sarah above them, a look of resignation on her face, in the slope of her shoulders. He regretted what he’d just said. He’d wanted to make a statement that he wasn’t going to get sucked into a situation where obviously, she didn’t need his help. But it had been ill timed, and there had been no need for that level of cruelty.
“Please just help me take him upstairs,” she said softly. “My landlady will be home any minute.”
He got to his feet. “You don’t want him in your apartment. He’s dangerous.”
The corners of her mouth crinkled with wry amusement. “You bought that act? Big tough-guy hard rocker. He wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
“Sarah. He attacked me when I came in. He was high as a kite. He slammed me against the wall.”
Her face went slack, her eyes melting at him, searching him for signs of damage.
“I’m okay.” How desperately he wanted to hold her against him. “He wanted your key. I think he has a knife or a gun or something.”
She was slow to break his gaze. Hands shaking, she crouched next to Jay and checked his pockets.
“It was inside his jacket. On the left.”
She pulled back the left flap. Sticking out from one of the small inside pockets was a slender shaft of metal. She slid it out and held it up. “Here’s your weapon.”
Emerson felt himself blush. “What’s he doing with a goddamned nail file?”
“He plays guitar. He has to keep up his nails. Look, can we please just get him out of here?”
* * * * *
They arranged Jay on the sofa. Sarah asked Emerson to watch him while she went downstairs to clean up the vestibule. She returned with her forgotten possessions cradled like a baby in the remains of the paper bag.
“Maybe we should call someone,” Emerson said. He’d flopped into a flowered armchair across from Jay, finding it surprisingly comfortable.
“Like an ambulance?” Sarah gently set the heap of bag and broken things on the living room floor and sat beside it, her knees curled up to her chin, which made her look even younger and more vulnerable.
“I doubt it’s that serious. I was thinking about the police. He was attempting to break and enter. Or at least it was loitering with intent to do harm.”
“You’ve been reading your patients too many detective stories. No. I’ve seen enough of the police lately, thanks. I don’t want my name attached to any more trouble.”
“But when he wakes up, you think he’s just going to leave? He’s desperate, Sarah. He’s not going back to Boston empty-handed.”
“I’ll figure something out.” Her gaze dropped. “You don’t have to hang around. He’s not your problem.”
No way would he leave her alone with the jerk. “I don’t mind.”
He got a glimmer of a smile, although he could tell she was scared. She fidgeted with her sweater, picking at a snag in the weave. He’d bought her that sweater for Christmas a few years back. Again he wanted to hold her but didn’t feel far enough along in his recovery to risk the temptation. Also, he had Daisy to think about. He didn’t believe in being unfaithful.
“You didn’t have to bring back my stuff. Most of it I would have trashed anyway.” She looked at the mess next to her. “What’s this?” she said, pulling out the Victoria’s Secret bag.
What an idiot he’d been. He should have returned the pajamas to the store or given them to Daisy. The color would have looked good on her, although she preferred to sleep naked.
Sarah opened the bag. “It’s beautiful.” She pushed it toward him, expressionless. “But it’s not mine.”
“I know. It was supposed to have been your Christmas present.”
Her eyes softened. “Really?”
Emerson nodded, flooding with warmth.
“You still want me to have it?”
He laughed. “What am I going to do with it?”
“Keep it for reference?”
“Too sophisticated for Dirk.”
“Too expensive for Dirk.” Sarah stroked the green silk. “Em, you shouldn’t have spent this much on me.”
He shrugged his shoulders.
Jay’s arm slid off the sofa; his hand plopped onto the floor. Sarah, who was closer, did nothing about it.
* * * * *
A couple of hours went by and still Jay had not woken up. Emerson checked his vitals.
“I’m giving him another ten minutes,” he told Sarah. “If he doesn’t come around by then, we should call the professionals.”
“Maybe it’s something he took.” She’d picked a hole in her sweater.
“Sarah—” He stopped, not wanting to have this conversation in front of Jay. He knew that unconscious patients could hear, on some level. “You have another room in here?”
She led him into her bedroom, which was typically Sarah-messy, furnished with some of the things he remembered from her room across the hall and some new ones. The new ones were easier to focus on; they didn’t remind him of her old room and what they used to do there. He shut the door. Sarah perched on the edge of the bed, fingers interlaced between her thighs, head down, as if she expected a scolding.
“I’m sorry he hurt you.” When Sarah looked up, her eyes were damp with tears, plucking a deep and familiar chord within him.
His resolve against her—and infidelity—began to buckle. He though
t about what Jay had said. That it had always been about Emerson. He wondered if it was true or just more of his bullshit.
“It’s not too bad.” He handed her a tissue.
She hopped up without taking it. “Let me get some ice—”
“No. We don’t have very long.”
She sunk back onto the bed and started fidgeting again.
“You’re going to ruin that sweater.”
“Too late,” she sighed. “I’m sorry.”
He took a deep breath, as if he could draw her resignation into his body and strengthen and focus it for her. “You...you did flush the cocaine in Boston, didn’t you?”
She looked at him with horror. “Of course I did. You don’t believe him, do you?”
“No, but why would Dee Dee say—?”
“Dee Dee’s full of shit.” Her eyes narrowed. “She’s probably still pissed at me about having the coke and the break-in and everything. And that I didn’t care enough about Jay. She probably just saw a chance to get back at me.”
“By siccing a drugged out, desperate—”
“I could get some money,” Sarah interrupted. “I could get my mother to wire it. In the scheme of everything, it’s not that much, I could ask—”
“Sarah.”
She stopped. Their eyes met in a test of wills. She ought to know his position on codependency, so he didn’t bother repeating himself.
“It’s not about the drugs, Em,” she said softly. “It’s not about feeling sorry for him. This is my responsibility. I flushed the stuff. I owe him the money for it.”
“No, you don’t.” He rubbed the back of his neck, thinking. “Okay, it’s a technicality. But morally—”
A groan came from the other room. Emerson and Sarah froze, staring at each other. Then turned as a unit toward the door.
“If I give him what he wants he’ll leave me alone,” Sarah whispered.
It hurt remembering how many times Emerson had heard that before and not just from Sarah. “Sure, that’ll work for today,” he said. “But the next time? When he shows up again and asks you to help him out of a jam, are we going to be having this same conversation?”
Her mouth parted in dull surprise. As she looked at him her eyes cleared and focused, and she smiled, ever so slightly. “If he shows up again,” her voice was cool, resolute, “he can take a flying leap.”
For the first time, Emerson believed she meant it.
The groan grew louder and was followed by a clunk, like a boot hitting the floor. Sarah and Emerson rushed into the living room in time to see Jay rolling his head in pain, various limbs sprawled off the edges of the sofa.
“Ohhh, shit.” Jay pressed a hand over the eye that Sarah had clocked. “Man. Wha’ happened?”
“You’ll survive,” Sarah muttered.
Through Jay’s spider fingers Emerson saw a bruise that would rival the first one.
“Feel like a tank ran me over.”
Emerson gave Sarah an admiring glance. “She did.”
Jay lolled his swollen mess of a head toward Sarah. “Ohh, baby. Never knew you cared.”
Sarah ignored him. “I’ll make tea,” she told Emerson, and disappeared into the kitchen.
“What’s your name?” Emerson clicked on the lamp next to the sofa.
Jay winced. “Turn that fucking thing off. You know my name, man. It’s tattooed on your girlfriend’s ass.”
Emerson grabbed a handful of Jay’s shirtfront and yanked, like he’d been grabbed on the stairs. “Just drop the act and tell me your goddamned name.”
“It’s Jay, you pussy-whipped porno-writing albino freak.”
He let go. Jay’s head clunked against the arm of the sofa. “Just seeing how bad off you are.” And if he was fit to get behind the wheel. He couldn’t handle another death on his conscience, especially if he could have prevented it.
“Pretty fucking bad.” Rubbing the back of his head, Jay called to Sarah. “Baby, got anything stiff to put in that tea?”
The water was running and Emerson doubted Sarah could hear him. “I don’t think that’s going to help you any,” he said. “Besides, you shouldn’t be drinking and driving.”
Jay blinked, trying to focus. “We going somewhere?”
“We’re not going anywhere. You’re going home. Or God knows what else she’ll do to you.” He held up his bandaged hand and lowered his voice. “See this? A razor blade. Just this morning, in the shower.”
For a moment Jay stared at Emerson’s bandage, gape-mouthed. “Bullshit.”
“I’m serious,” Emerson said. “It was right after I dumped her. You should have seen the look in her eyes. I was lucky it was just my finger.” The water stopped. Emerson lowered his voice. “Anyway, Sarah apologized, but believe me, the last thing she needs is another guy ticking her off. And let’s see what you’ve racked up so far—you treated her like dirt, threatened her, slept with her roommate... I really don’t think you should be pushing your luck.”
* * * * *
Head down, Sarah sagged against the sink. The water had boiled. There were no more dishes to wash. She’d run out of excuses for hiding in the kitchen, although it was tempting to dream up more.
Emerson’s voice drifting in from the living room was a warm bath of reason, even if she couldn’t hear the words.
She imagined the two of them: Jay sneering with wounded male pride, stubbornly certain Sarah would still be hoarding the imagined cocaine or its cash equivalent almost five months after it had become one with the Charles River, Emerson appealing to logic and futility in an attempt to convince him to leave. A little sanctimonious, maybe, but that was his own way of lashing out.
“I don’t care,” she heard Jay posture. “I’m not going anywhere without my stuff.”
He nattered on like a broken record that would skip all night unless Sarah did something. Told him the truth or offered him money or did...something.
It wasn’t Emerson’s problem. It was hers. If she stayed in there, Emerson would think she expected him to fix it for her. If she stayed in there, Jay would never leave.
“Know what I think?” Jay said. The sofa creaked. The second booted foot clunked to the floor. “I think you’re full of shit. I think I’m going to have a word with the lady alone.”
Sarah grabbed a dishtowel and roughly dried her hands as she stormed out. “No,” she said. “I’m going to have a word with you.”
“Baby—”
“Stop calling me that. I’m not your baby.”
Sneering, he threw a dismissive hand toward Emerson. “Well, you’re not his. Porn Boy here probably uses it all up at his typewriter.”
She glared at Jay. This was what it came down to: his castigated ego. How pathetic. How small and desperate. His band was on the verge of signing with a label, or at least that’s what Dee Dee had written in one of those letters she mostly ignored. His good looks and charm and talent in bed—when sober—could squeeze money out of any woman who could spare it. And if that failed him, he could parlay a few grams into a roll of bills with two or three phone calls.
But that would have been too easy for him. That would have denied him the chance to stick it to her one last time. The one who walked away.
None of his women had walked away, especially to someone else. Especially not Sarah, giver of sympathy and aspirin. Cleaner of messes. Codependent doormat.
“You didn’t come here for the coke, did you?” Sarah said.
She didn’t back down on the tough look he gave her. She knew he could shoot daggers out of his damaged eyes all he wanted and they weren’t going to hurt her.
Then he grinned like a charming child caught in a lie. “Well, yeah...sure, but—” The grin softened. His voice cracked. “Baby...Sarah, look at me.” He let his posture relax as he held out his hands. “I’m a mess. I’m in trouble. I need help. I need you.”
She blinked at him. A few moments before, she would have promised him money. She would have told him what really happened to
the coke and offered to make amends. But Emerson had been right; it wouldn’t fix anything.
Some debts were more karmic than material. Some truths did more harm than good.
“I can’t help you,” she said.
The bruised eyes narrowed and boiled. “Fine!” He grabbed his car keys and was about to pound out the door but stopped, giving her one last horrible glare. “This is on your head. Whatever happens to me—it’ll be on your head!”
Chapter 31
Sarah stood in front of her living room window, peering through held-back curtains. Emerson was at her shoulder, close enough so she could sense the heat of his body, the smell of cigarette smoke on his clothing. Together they watched at the edge of a thickening sky while Jay negotiated a U-turn on Lancaster.
Finally his car pointed in the right direction. He floored the accelerator in one last “fuck you” as he sped by. Then he was gone.
Sarah realized she’d been holding her breath.
From the silence behind her, maybe Emerson had been doing the same.
She let the curtains slip from her fingers. But she couldn’t bear to turn around, only to hear Emerson say he probably should be leaving, with no acknowledgment that anything had passed between them. Without him for support, she might not have found the strength to deny Jay the easy way out.
“I bet you could use that tea now,” Emerson said softly.
“Yeah.” She was still looking at the curtains and the sliver of window between them, in which she could see a piece of his reflection: a pattern on a shirt, a lock of pale hair, a slice of his glasses.
The reflection flickered and disappeared. “I’ll get it.”
She heard a sharp intake of breath and turned to see Emerson wincing, a hand on his back.
“Em, what—”
“It’s...just where he slammed me against the handrail. It’s starting to stiffen up.”
He let her pull up his shirt. She winced too, just from looking at the huge bruise that started below his rib cage and disappeared into his jeans. “We’re putting ice on that. Whether you like it or not.”