Chapter 44 Cord
Cord
Cord called him a terrorist and took the car.
There had been a proverbial gun on the mantel of their relationship for some time.
Both had wanted to ignore it, to keep an explosion at bay.
Their relationship had become (to add yet another metaphor…
or was it a simile?) a poisonous plant that entrapped them both.
But as the world changed—first the Covid lockdown and then the confusing aftermath—both Cord and Giovanni found a very real comfort tangled in the vines of their toxic relationship.
Now Cord had picked up Chekhov’s metaphorical gun, taken aim, and shot.
At the metaphorical plant. He had shot his way free, leaving ruin in his wake and his cellphone in a lockbox, in a safe.
Now what?
The bartender at Snug Tavern poured a fourth gin to go, and Cord nestled the plastic cup between his thighs as he drove.
Fuck Giovanni and fuck the tyrannical “Return to Love Retreat” and fuck NYC Ventures.
None of it had worked—he’d tried it drunk, and he’d tried it sober.
For lack of a better idea, Cord punched his mother’s address into the rental car GPS: 37 Wiley Bottom Road, Savannah, Georgia.
In thirteen hours and forty-four minutes, he’d be back in his mom’s house, the closest thing he had to a home.
Charlotte wouldn’t judge him for drinking gin and scrolling his phone—once he got a new phone.
She would love him joining her in front of the CBS Evening News.
Maybe at the very site of the childhood that had maimed him, he could find a way to stumble forward.
In any case, he could rest. Cord smiled.
He could taste the Triscuits and cheddar already.