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“Lock your door. I’ll stand here until I hear you lock it, Lucy.”
Lucy. In the dark corridor outside my new apartment, Lucy feels so wrong.
“Scarlett,” I correct softly. “My real name is Scarlett.”
His lips part like he’s trying the name out in his head. He motions to the door again. “Lock your door, Scarlett.”
“I will. And thank you again for coming to my rescue.”
He nods slowly as I close the door, immediately I press my eyeball to the peephole. He’s there. I watch through the peephole as I twist the lock and add the chain. He stays one moment longer before turning and heading down the stairs.
With my back to my front door, I look around my tiny, practically empty dark apartment. Head still aching, and my phone now ringing loudly from my purse, I stalk through the narrow hallway toward the bedroom, quickly sweeping the curtain back.
There in the faint streetlight is Cohen, white puffs of breath in a wake behind him as he heads down the street, disappearing from my sight in twenty seconds. I can’t believe he’s walking home.
I let the curtain go and it blocks the glow of the street light. My phone continues to ring from the spot on the floor near the front door, but I’m tired. I’m so incredibly tired. Instead of retrieving it to check and risk being thrown into another anxiety attack or even intensify my migraine, I kick off my shoes, take two steps, and faceplant into my bed.
Tomorrow is yet another day on the other side.The after. Tomorrow is another day to try to not let Pete get to me. To not check his messages. To stay strong and be positive.
To move forward.
I realize as I’m dozing off, the nap didn’t ease my anxiety. Maybe it helped take the edge off my migraine, but it didn’t squelch my anxiousness and panic.
But Cohen did.
He chased away the thoughts threatening to overwhelm me by simply helping me and wanting nothing in return. I’m in no place to have more than strangers in my life right now, but I can’t deny the fact, I’m more curious about Cohen than ever before.
six
cohen
I haven’t returned a sweet smile in… years.
I run my curled knuckles down my chest, attempting to push out the feeling lingering there. Everything behind my ribs feels full and uncomfortable. Up and down I drag my fist, eager for the sensation to go away.
For so long I thought I wanted to regain feeling, then at some point in the years of listless misery, I started to believe I just… couldn’t. That losingher,irrevocably broke me and I’d never be right again. And I learned to be okay with that because it’s what I deserve.
The sound of that lock engaging. The metallic slide of the chain. Those noises, those two minor fucking noises.
I rub my chest again, but alas, the feeling remains. Because it’s not something extinguished with pressure or a massage or an antacid.
It’s an undeniable twist, an awakening; part of me came alive knowing she was safe last night. And that I had some part in that.
In truth, part of me awoke when I heard her laugh. Because nothing has sounded so sweet in years, nothing at all. My favorite Al Green album on vinyl, the sound of a crowded baseball stadium after a grand slam, the slow drip of coffee percolating—not even so much as a flutter or twitch anywhere inside me.
But her laugh. Soft and sweet. Her laugh slid down my spine like the jets of water from a hot shower, reminding me,there is good left, there is happiness out there.
I swing my legs out of bed, enjoying the cruel nip of the cold on my bare skin.
I pad across the small space to the open closet, collecting the things I need for the day. Filling my bag, I get dressed in sweats and make my way through the quiet, sleeping house until I’m outside. Last night I made sure to book an Uber for this morning so I could get to Crave early and grab my car.
The driver is waiting in a compact blue car, waving against the rolled up window. I duck into the backseat, taking care to close the door as quietly as possible. The family is still asleep.
“Morning! Early riser, huh?” He grins at me in the rearview as fresh brewed coffee comingles with the smell of his car’s heater. “Where to?”
“Lower Haight, before the Painted Ladies,” I reply, settling into the seat with my bag at my feet. I could say Crave & Cure, but in truth, I’m not sure too many people realize what goes on inside of the brightly painted building. It’s easier to give him the exact address.
“Alrighty,” he chirps, tapping his GPS until the location is pulled up. I tip my head back against the seat and close my eyes, trying to focus on the swim. How I’ll drag myself along the bottom, holding air in my lungs until I almost can’t, surfacing just in time to choke and gasp, my head and eyes throbbing. A familiar tingle spreads through my limbs, the dull anticipation of pain rolling through me.
