I fall silent, bracing myself for an interrogation —How could you sink my sole source of income? How do you expect to pay me back for this loss?— or, at the very least, some minor berating. Instead, Tommy merely turns his weathered stare my way and asks the one question I am wholly unprepared for. One that knocks the wind right out of my lungs.
“Do you want to stay here tonight?”
I blink, confused by the question. Confused by the kindness. Kindness I surely don’t deserve. “Uh…”
“Couch ain’t much more than a blanket over springs, but it’s yours if you want it.”
“My apartment isn’t far.”
“I know, kid.” He pauses. “That’s not why I offered. Seems to me, after the day you’ve had… I don’t know. Just figured you might not want to be alone, that’s all.”
My eyes begin to sting. I blink rapidly, burying the rising emotion behind my lids. If I cry in front of Tommy, we’ll both be even more uncomfortable. Which is hard to picture, seeing as we’re already awkwardly near to having a Hallmark movie moment.
I clear my throat roughly. “Thanks for the offer, but I’m fine.”
“Good.” Rising to his feet, he reaches down and clasps me by the shoulder. “Go home, get a good night’s sleep, and for God’s sake, take a shower. You smell like day-old bait. We’ll sort the rest out tomorrow.”
I stand, feeling shaky with emotion. I’m exhausted. My voice is choked, tight with unspoken gratitude. “Thank you, Tommy.”
He’s already walking out of the kitchen, toward his bedroom. His voice carries back to me from halfway down the hall. “These old bones of mine are beat. Heading to bed. You can stay as long as you like, just lock up when you leave, will you? And flip off the lights. You’ve cost me enough money today — no need to run the electric bill any higher.”
A faint smile twitches my lips upward at the corners as I drain the dregs of my whiskey.
* * *
It’s a balmy night, the skies clear and quiet in the aftermath of this afternoon’s storm. I walk quickly, consumed by my own thoughts. It doesn’t take me long to get back to my apartment. Tommy’s neighborhood — a stretch of unpretentious houses tucked between a golf course fairway and a chunk of conservation land — is a ten minute walk from the inner harbor.
The weatherbeaten three-story walkup awaiting me at the edge of the docks isn’t much to look at, with its sagging front porch and peeling paint, but the price was right and the landlord asked blessedly few questions when I found myself in need of an apartment last fall.
The bedroom is small; the bathroom even smaller. The tiles are mildewed, the grout yellowed with age. I peel off my damp clothes, step into the stall shower, and flip on the overhead faucet. I spend far too long beneath the spray, lingering long after the water has run cold. Pressing my forehead against the tiled wall, I wish I could wash every thought in my head straight down the drain, along with every emotion clanging inside the echo-chamber of my chest cavity.
If only.
My mind is as jumbled as my heart. Over and over, my thoughts return to Jo. I keep seeing her face. The look on it when she was loaded into that ambulance — such stark vulnerability, such sharp sadness. I was glad the door shut between us, if only so she wouldn’t see my heart being physically ripped from my chest in that moment.
One of the paramedics, assuming I was her boyfriend, asked if I wanted to ride with her to the hospital. And I did. Of course I did. But instead, I just stood there like an idiot, throat clogged with emotions I couldn’t begin to untangle, and watched her ride out of my life.
Somehow, it was even more painful this time around.
She’s better off without you,I remind myself.She deserves more than this life you’re living, in a shitty apartment with no future ahead of you.
The sudden buzz of my cellphone startles me out of my unpleasant thoughts. I grab it off my nightstand and examine the words blaring across the screen. A bolt of alarm shoots through me when I see my mother’s name in insistent capital letters.
“Ma? What’s going on? Are you okay? It’s late.”
“What’s going on?What’s going on?How can you so calmly ask me what is going on?” She gives me no time to answer these questions — merely bursts into a breathless tirade of Spanish that’s difficult to follow. I catch a few key words —Josephine, hospital, emergency contact— before she switches back to our universal tongue. “Mijo, I’m the one who should be asking what is going on! I’m the one who answered the phone twenty minutes ago and learned what happened to you and Josephine in the storm today from a doctor at Beverly Hospital!”
Shit.
“Oh,” I mutter.
“Oh?” She looses another stream of angry Spanish. “They say the Coast Guard was called in to rescue you both! They say she nearly died out there! And you didn’t think to call me?”
I blow out a sharp breath and sit up on my bed. “I’m sorry. You must still be listed as Jo’s most recent guardian. I had no idea the hospital would contact you.”
“And if they hadn’t? Would you have even told me what happened? Or do you think, just because you are no longer living under my roof, you do not owe your mother any explanation when terrible things go on in your life?”
“Of course I would’ve called you, Ma. Don’t be so dramatic.”