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He wants to stay. He’s not happy with this life we’re living. But he doesn’t get a say.
After a quick piss, I splash some water on my face and get dressed.
I stand over her, listening to her soft, rhythmic breathing as I watch her like some kind of creep. I need to leave. If she wakes, it will be that much harder to go.
Quietly, gently I touch my lips to her hair and try to memorize her vanilla and jasmine scent.
I unlock the door, but before I go, I glance over my shoulder. Her hair partially obscures her face. My chest tightens. My feet grow roots. But she deserves better than me.
Her dreams are laid out before her while mine are nothing but cold, gray ash.
I close the door with a soft click. I try never to look back. There are too many mistakes staring back at me, so I walk away, my head down, even if it’s the last thing I want to do.
“Goodbye, Emily,” I say aloud. “Sweet dreams.”
Then I climb into my truck, fire it up, and drive back into hell.
FIVE
JACK
“What the fuck!”
I jump off the sofa and scream at the TV.
After Washington scored on Stanford on the opening drive, Owens throws a goddamn interception, and Washington is in place to make it fourteen-zip. I’m ready to forward spiral a six-pack of Yuengling straight through the center of the massive flat screen even though it’s the only thing of value I own.
I’ve been on a tear these past few weeks. Everything pisses me off, including myself. I haven’t set foot in O’Brien’s. I’m not sure if I’m afraid I’ll see Emily again. Or that I won’t. Besides, even if I wanted to see her, she’s probably moved on by now. Found herself a job. Moved out of the motel. Maybe even climbed onto another Greyhound and got the fuck out of here. That would be the smart thing to do.
Thinking about her—about that night—has made me a bigger bastard than usual. That’s what I get for allowing myself a taste of normal. Not that she was all that normal. My lips twitch, despite my self-imposed misery. She was so much more than normal.
Three weeks and I still can’t take a shower without thinking of her. I’ve got a bulging bicep and a near-permanent cramp in my right hand. I’m surprised my dick isn’t calloused.
ESPN cuts to a commercial break. I mute the TV and drag my sorry ass into the kitchen to grab a bag of chips and nuke something for dinner. I’m digging around in the freezer when I hear a loud crash, followed by the sound of something tumbling down the stairs outside my apartment.
I ignore whatever’s going on. One, it’s none of my business, and two, I don’t give a fuck. I hear another thud, followed by a low, feminine voice. “No, no, no!” The voice is muffled but seems to come from right outside my door. “Hang on. Stop! I’m going to drop you if you don’t stop.”
I’m about to place my frozen dinner in the microwave when a loud bang comes from the landing, followed by a shriek.
“Jesus Christ.” I storm from the kitchen and yank open my front door, ready to unload on whoever is outside my door creating all the commotion.
What I find is a woman on her knees with her back to me. A one-eyed, three-legged, orange cat claws at her shoulder as she struggles to scoop soil, daisies, and pieces of a broken clay pot off the floor with one hand while holding the cat with the other. A beat-up suitcase leans against the open door to my neighbors’ apartment.
My neighbors’ empty apartment.
I gape at the cause of the disturbance. Red hair. Yellow dress.
No fucking way.
“I’m sorry for all the ruckus,” she says, focused on the impossible task of collecting dirt with one hand. “I swear I’m not usually this clumsy and loud, but Mr. Winky doesn’t like being held. We’re still getting used to one another.”
Mr. Winky?I had a teammate who called his dick Mr. Winky.
I can’t find words, so I stand there, gawking like the one-eyed cat’s got my tongue.
She looks up, and I look down into familiar green eyes.
“Emily?” I choke out. This isn’t happening. How did she land outside my door of all places?
