Chapter 4 #2
He thought about it. His mouth opened. He produced three sounds that weren't words. He produced one word that wasn't an English word. He smiled.
I went back to Kit.
"I asked him."
"And?"
"He gave me the address in Klingon."
"Sabrina."
"What do I do?"
"Let him sober up. Cut him off and give him a glass of water every twenty minutes. We'll figure it out at close."
I did that.
I cut him glasses of water. He drank some of them.
He kept on about my boyfriend Baby for the rest of the shift.
He asked if Baby was tall. He asked if Baby was nice to me.
He asked if Baby liked dogs. Dogs. He told me Baby had better appreciate me.
He told me, very serious, that if Baby ever made me cry he would personally deal with him. He would definitely deal with him.
I poured him another water. I didn't answer.
By close, he hadn't sobered up so much as moved into a second phase, which was sleepy-drunk, with his cheek on the bar and his eyes shut.
Kit was already gone. His cousin had come for him because his car was in the shop.
He'd waved at me on his way out, said good luck, and smiled like he saw it coming.
I shook Beau's shoulder.
"Mr. Cross."
He jerked his head up. His hand went into his jacket pocket like a man who'd been mugged in his sleep and came out with his wallet. He started counting bills onto the bar with great solemnity.
"For the drinks."
"That's nice of you, Mr. Cross."
"My—my mother—saiid pay for your drinks."
"Your mother sounds great. Where do you live?"
He looked up with a stunning, sudden seriousness—eyes focused for the first time all night.
I thought, Here it comes! Finally, an address. I'll get an Uber. I'll tip the Uber. I'll go home and forget this man exists. Here it comes!
"In your heart."
I closed my eyes.
Inhale. Exhale.
I opened them.
"Mr. Cross."
He smiled. The smile was sloppy. But for some odd reason I didn't hate it.
I wanted to smack him. I genuinely did. I was very close to smacking him. Instead I patted his shoulder. I looked around at the closing bar—chairs going up on tables, lights going up—and at the man asleep against my counter.
He breathed against the glass.
I picked up the wallet still slumped open on the bar—credit cards, cash, no driver's license I could find in the half-light. I patted his pockets. His phone was dead. I pressed the side button. Nothing.
I had no choice.
Sabrina, breathe in calm and clarity. Breathe out worry and fatigue. You can do this.
I put his arm over my shoulder and got him up off the stool. He swayed. He giggled—wholesome and wrong, like a child mid-bath.
"Walk," I said.
"Walking."
"Walk in a straight line, please."
"What is—straight?"
"Mr. Cross. Please."
He giggled. He tried to lean down to kiss the top of my head. I shoved his face away with my hand.
"Mr. Cross, stop that."
"Sabrina…pretty Sabrina."
"Walk."
"Is that why you keep me at-at-at arm's length? Boyfriend Baby?"
"Walk."
He walked. We made it through the door. I locked the bar behind us. I steered him at the curb and poured him into the passenger seat of my car. He giggled.
"Please, buckle up," I literally requested.
He looked at the seatbelt.
"Mr. Cross, buckle up."
He patted the seatbelt with his hand. The seatbelt didn't respond. I leaned across him and buckled him in myself. He smelled like whiskey, aftershave, and the very faint, clean smell of his soap. I held my breath through it.
I got in. I started the car. I pulled away from the curb.
He started singing.
I couldn't tell what the song was. I'm not sure he could tell what the song was. He sang the first three notes of something, he abandoned it for the next song, and he abandoned that for a third and started over.
He took my right hand off the gear stick.
And kissed it.
I almost ran a red.
"Mr. Cross—”
"Soft," he whispered.
"What?" I hissed.
"Soft. Your hand."
He held it against his chest. He hummed low and tuneless. It traveled from his chest into my palm and up the inside of my forearm—a vibration I couldn't shake off and was no longer sure I was trying to shake off. His chest was warm through his shirt. His ribs moved with the hum.
"Pretty Sabrina."
I tried to pull my hand back. His hand stayed on top of mine, not gripping, just resting.
"I like you a lot."
There was a skip.
Under my ribs was a single missed beat like— No, Sabrina, don't finish that sentence, don't name it, and don't look at it.
Drive the car, drive the car, drive the car.
I pulled my hand free and drove the car.
I gripped the wheel with both hands. I made the next two left turns and one right and pulled into the lot of my building. I parked outside and got out.
I went around to his side. Then opened the door. He was asleep again.
"Mr. Cross."
He opened his eyes.
"Up. Out."
He got out mostly. He leaned heavily on me.
"Can you walk properly?"
"Walking again."
"Quietly please," I requested.
"Yes, quietlyyy"
We made it through the lobby. We made it to the elevator. He started singing in the elevator, and I clamped my hand over his mouth.
"Shhh. You'll wake the entire building."
He giggled into my palm.
"Sorry," he said into my palm.
"Quietly."
"Quietly," he whispered into my palm.
I unlocked my apartment door. I pushed it open. The living room was dark. Pickles's eyes glowed at me from the back of the couch—two pale blue points in the dark. He took one look at the situation in my doorway and walked off, dignity intact, padding off to Bonnie's bed in the back room.
I steered Beau toward the couch.
"Sit, Mr. Cross."
"Sitting."
He sat too hard. The couch took the impact. His body dragged me down. I reached out to catch myself. It went badly; I landed in his lap.
Specifically.
His lap.
A soft whimper escaped my lips.
I jumped up so fast my knee hit the coffee table. I hissed in pain and patted myself down.
I glared at him. But he was already asleep.
His head was back against the couch cushion.
His mouth was slightly open. His hair was a mess.
A man in a suit that probably cost several thousand dollars passed out on my secondhand couch with his shoes still on, and I had just, very briefly, been seated on his crotch, and he had no memory of any of it.
I shouldn't give him a blanket.
Actually, no. What he deserved was punishment. He didn't deserve a blanket. I should leave him here in the cold of my poorly insulated living room and let him wake up with a backache and an existential crisis.
I stood there.
I stared at him.
Cute or not, he was passed out on my couch, and I had work in the morning.
I walked to the hall closet. I pulled the spare blanket Mrs. Park had made me the second Christmas I’d spent in this apartment.
I took it back to the couch. I shook it out.
I draped it over him with what I’d say was unnecessary aggression.
I tucked it around his shoulders, I straightened, and I told the sleeping man on my couch—quietly, because Bonnie was twenty feet away—"If you tell anyone about this, I'll sue you. "
He didn't respond.
I turned out the light.