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Ethan
It’s like I said: maybe we’re just a bunch of helpless, mindless pinballs set loose in a machine the size of the planet. Collisions happen. Ones we never saw coming. Ones that send us spinning out of control.
That’s not what I’m thinking about when I follow Victor, staying far enough back that he doesn’t notice me. I’m thinking about the stray cats I used to feed as a kid. If one of them wouldn’t eat, I’d ask around the neighbors for a new treat to try. And eventually, I’d find something that brought even the most skittish stray right up to my hand. That’s how it felt to watch Victor eat his gelato. It was a perfect memory and I wish I hadn’t ruined it.
It’s getting dark, and I’m soaked through. Victor hasn’t stopped walking up and down random streets, hands in his pockets, his wet button-down clinging to his narrow ribs.
When the front door of one of the apartments along the road opens, letting out a spill of warm light, I don’t think anything of it. Someone comes out, locks the door with a jingle of keys, turns around to grab a bicycle leaning against the side of the house.
Victor stops dead, like he got turned into a statue. So I stop, too. A motion-activated light on the front of the building flicks on, bright pricks of rain falling through its yellow beam, and illuminates the stranger’s face.
Just like too many times in the past two weeks, I recognize someone I’ve seen on TV, in sports magazines, on major news sites. A stocky man with receding hair and a square jaw—Victor’s old coach, Clint Simmons. It makes sense, knowing his swim team is in town, but something about the way he appears with no warning out of the dark feels strangely shocking.
Clint looks rather shocked himself. I can’t hear what he says, but he offers his hand to Victor with an uncertain smile. From what I remember reading, they parted on very poor terms. But unlike Victor, some people move on.
Victor takes a step back, hands hanging stiffly at his sides.
I move close enough to hear over the steady hiss of rain. “I’ve missed you,” Clint says. He sounds emotional, like he might start crying. Victor was like a second son to him. “I’ve wanted to see you for years, to put the past behind us.”
When Victor doesn’t move, he sighs and picks up his satchel. “You know where I’m staying now. Think it over; you’re always welcome.”
As he pushes his bike past Victor, he gives his bicep a gentle squeeze before getting on and riding away.
Victor stands in the middle of the street for an absurdly long time, just staring at the house, until a moped comes down the hill and almost hits him. The driver screeches to a stop, wobbling dangerously, and unleashes a torrent of furious Italian directly into Victor’s face. I hold my breath, waiting for the explosion, but Victor just listens in silence before turning and walking unsteadily toward the center of the city.
I stop and wait under an awning as he goes into a small liquor store and emerges with a bottle of vodka. It’s like deja vu. He leans against the building and chugs it until he’s forced to double over, coughing. Sliding onto his ass on the wet concrete, he just sits there, taking deep pulls from the bottle.
Here I am, shivering in the dark, watching a fully-grown man melt down because he can’t face his own guilt. And as angry as I am, I’m also desperate to go to him. I want to be his shelter from the rain. I want to make him look into my eyes and remember that I’m the only one who’s allowed to hurt him.
You’re so bad for me, and I don’t know what’s going to happen if I can’t get free of you.
Just as I force myself to leave, an old soft-top Volkswagen pulls up to one of the nearby houses and a man climbs out, holding a newspaper over his head like an umbrella. Victor scrambles to his feet and calls out to him. They stand next to the car arguing for so long that I’m about to intervene.
Finally, they step into the shelter of the man’s entry and pull out their phones to perform some kind of transaction. Shaking his head in disbelief, the man hands Victor his keys, grabs a handful of junk from the backseat, and goes inside.
It appears that he just bought a random car off the fucking street. Every time I think nothing can surprise me anymore, he comes up with something even more insane. Money really can accomplish anything.
He leans against the dark green vehicle and finishes off his vodka before fumbling the driver’s side door open and starting the engine.
The headlights blind me as I break into a run, smacking my hands against the hood before he can start rolling. He jumps, staring at me like I’m some kind of mythological creature, then sticks his head out the window. “Move.”
“No.”
He taps the accelerator, but I dig my feet in and stare him down. It’s a dangerous game to play with someone this drunk, but some part of me knows he isn’t going to hurt me. “Come with me and sleep this off. In the morning, we’ll give the man back his car. And someday, you’ll thank me for this.”
He throws the empty bottle at me, missing by a mile. “Fuckingmove,” he screams, his voice cracking. He’s never raised his voice before.
We lock eyes, both of us frozen with shock as the bottle explodes on the pavement. He slides down in his seat, eyes wide, like he thinks I’m going to pull him out of the car and beat the shit out of him.
When I grab the handle of the driver’s door, he tries to hold it closed. I reach through the open window and wrap my fingers firmly around his wrist. “Victor. Hey.”
For the first time, it’s like he actually sees who I am. With a whimpering sound in his throat, he lets go of the door. I open it and crouch down on the wet street, looking up at him. I don’t know what to say, so I just say his name again. My tongue likes to say his name.
“I’m leaving,” he says hoarsely, slurring his words. Looking around, he points in a random direction that I think is meant to indicateaway from Naples. “I need to go.” His eyes are begging me to understand.
When I shift my weight, he stiffens, grips his seat like I’m going to drag him away. He looks like a puppet that’s having its strings cut one at a time but still trying desperately to function.
If I don’t take him back, they have every right to end my contract. Hell, they have the right to send police after me. But when I think about what might happen to my mother if I got arrested, I think about what she would do if she were in my place right now. What she would tell me to do.
Groaning, I stand up and tap his shoulder. “Scoot over. I’m driving.”
