instead of amphetamines.”
“Was that supposed to be funny?”
“Yeah.”
“It was.”
I’d mourned Strat’s death. He’d died from only a slight overdose of uppers. His heart couldn’t take it. I’d thought about that too deeply, reading too much into a heart that couldn’t stand the exertion. I sought out details about his demise to avoid the sadness. I told myself he was a jerk, that he didn’t matter, that he was in my distant past. But it did matter. A haze followed me, because he was indeed my past. I’d owned that life, that past, those stories that built me, and it all went and died while I wasn’t looking.
“He cared about you,” Drew said, glancing at me before he put his eyes back on the freeway. “We went to meet you on Santa Monica and Vine. And that neighborhood…” He shook his head. “Of all the corners to pick. We didn’t know if you’d been dragged into an alley and murdered.”
I shot out a laugh at how close to the truth he was. “I’m sorry I flaked.”
“You didn’t flake. We went to your house—”
I sat ramrod straight, eyes wide, adrenaline flooding my veins. “You did not.”
“Did. We got a lawyer to find out where you lived, and we got ten different kinds of runaround. Then a guy with a gun and a badge opened the door. He flashed an order of protection and made threats. We stopped coming around.”
“They never told me.”
Of course they hadn’t told me. I was indisposed and powerless.
“I’m sorry,” I said, looking at my open hands as if I was trying to set the past free. “I just couldn’t take it anymore. I…”
Deep breath.
This is important.
“I just needed to start over.”
“I was an asshole to you,” he said.
“You were fine. It was me. I was in over my head.”
“We figured you weren’t dead, so we just… well, we didn’t forget. I let it go, but I didn’t forget. Figured it was the way I’d talked to you the last time I saw you. Strat was pissed off. He was the one you called, and he insisted you sounded upset. I told him Cin didn’t get upset. Cin is together. She never lets her feelings get the better of her. But he swore up and down. He paid a detective to watch the house until the day he died.”
“Eight months after I flaked.”
“You didn’t flake.”
“How do you know?”
“I know you. If you needed to get away from us, I get it. That’s not flaking.”
I made a breath of a laugh. He knew me. Sure. I always did what I said. If I said “meet me at Santa Monica and Vine,” then I was going to get off the bus at Santa Monica and Vine with my smallest Louis Vuitton suitcase.
The rain pounded the windows, marbleizing them to opacity. The windshield wipers did nothing to break the stream. I gripped the edge of the leather seat because the red lights ahead of us got too big too fast.
Drew snapped the right blinker on to get off the freeway. It was miles too soon, but it was the only safe option.
He would have been a good father.
I covered my face with my hands. Did I steal that from him?
Note to self: “Not feeling” stuff doesn’t mean you’re not feeling it. Being unemotional and cold doesn’t mean you don’t have a pot full of emotions waiting to boil over. It means the heat hasn’t been turned up enough, and the pot just hasn’t been there long enough. It means the pot hasn’t reached capacity.
But it will.
And your heart will beat so fast and hard you’ll want to die. Your eyes will flush with tears, and your throat will close like a valve’s been turned. Regret will fill you on a cellular level until the very tips of your fingers tingle with self-loathing.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
He parked the car and shut it off. “You didn’t make the rain. Just give it ten minutes.”
“No. I’m sorry I didn’t flake. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you what happened. I’m sorry I left you there. I’m just sorry for everything.”
“Margie? What’s happening?”
He put his arms around me,
“Was that supposed to be funny?”
“Yeah.”
“It was.”
I’d mourned Strat’s death. He’d died from only a slight overdose of uppers. His heart couldn’t take it. I’d thought about that too deeply, reading too much into a heart that couldn’t stand the exertion. I sought out details about his demise to avoid the sadness. I told myself he was a jerk, that he didn’t matter, that he was in my distant past. But it did matter. A haze followed me, because he was indeed my past. I’d owned that life, that past, those stories that built me, and it all went and died while I wasn’t looking.
“He cared about you,” Drew said, glancing at me before he put his eyes back on the freeway. “We went to meet you on Santa Monica and Vine. And that neighborhood…” He shook his head. “Of all the corners to pick. We didn’t know if you’d been dragged into an alley and murdered.”
I shot out a laugh at how close to the truth he was. “I’m sorry I flaked.”
“You didn’t flake. We went to your house—”
I sat ramrod straight, eyes wide, adrenaline flooding my veins. “You did not.”
“Did. We got a lawyer to find out where you lived, and we got ten different kinds of runaround. Then a guy with a gun and a badge opened the door. He flashed an order of protection and made threats. We stopped coming around.”
“They never told me.”
Of course they hadn’t told me. I was indisposed and powerless.
“I’m sorry,” I said, looking at my open hands as if I was trying to set the past free. “I just couldn’t take it anymore. I…”
Deep breath.
This is important.
“I just needed to start over.”
“I was an asshole to you,” he said.
“You were fine. It was me. I was in over my head.”
“We figured you weren’t dead, so we just… well, we didn’t forget. I let it go, but I didn’t forget. Figured it was the way I’d talked to you the last time I saw you. Strat was pissed off. He was the one you called, and he insisted you sounded upset. I told him Cin didn’t get upset. Cin is together. She never lets her feelings get the better of her. But he swore up and down. He paid a detective to watch the house until the day he died.”
“Eight months after I flaked.”
“You didn’t flake.”
“How do you know?”
“I know you. If you needed to get away from us, I get it. That’s not flaking.”
I made a breath of a laugh. He knew me. Sure. I always did what I said. If I said “meet me at Santa Monica and Vine,” then I was going to get off the bus at Santa Monica and Vine with my smallest Louis Vuitton suitcase.
The rain pounded the windows, marbleizing them to opacity. The windshield wipers did nothing to break the stream. I gripped the edge of the leather seat because the red lights ahead of us got too big too fast.
Drew snapped the right blinker on to get off the freeway. It was miles too soon, but it was the only safe option.
He would have been a good father.
I covered my face with my hands. Did I steal that from him?
Note to self: “Not feeling” stuff doesn’t mean you’re not feeling it. Being unemotional and cold doesn’t mean you don’t have a pot full of emotions waiting to boil over. It means the heat hasn’t been turned up enough, and the pot just hasn’t been there long enough. It means the pot hasn’t reached capacity.
But it will.
And your heart will beat so fast and hard you’ll want to die. Your eyes will flush with tears, and your throat will close like a valve’s been turned. Regret will fill you on a cellular level until the very tips of your fingers tingle with self-loathing.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
He parked the car and shut it off. “You didn’t make the rain. Just give it ten minutes.”
“No. I’m sorry I didn’t flake. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you what happened. I’m sorry I left you there. I’m just sorry for everything.”
“Margie? What’s happening?”
He put his arms around me,
Similar Books
