Chapter 17
17
I drove down Broadway in silence, still going over the last words David and I had said and not knowing what to do next. The questions, Could we go back to the conversation we were having? and, You said you wanted to get back together? kept writing and rewriting themselves in my mind.
I was just going to let me say them out loud in front of David while he was still in my car, with me, before we got to our destination. Because I felt, otherwise, I’d probably never get to see or talk to him ever again—even if we lived in the same building. I was feeling that tragic .
He’d just told the cops he had no reason to stay at my place on Wednesday night. He may have been interested in rekindling our relationship in the past. But I doubted he’d be interested now. Perhaps I’d even misunderstood the whole thing about him having been interested before. And, also, why would I care? Wasn’t I supposed to be invested in my relationship with Victor? And even if I wasn’t, since when had I wanted to be back with David?
I hadn’t said a word of what I wanted to voice to David when my phone rang.
Victor’s name displayed on my car’s infotainment screen and—for the first time since my parents had given me the new car—I missed my old, dumb 2008 Toyota Corolla. Good luck trying to sync your smartphone to that.
“Aren’t you going to pick it up?” David asked as my phone continued vibrating and the car’s screen persisted in showing Victor’s name.
“Not while I’m driving.”
“You know he deserves an explanation, right?” David said.
An explanation about what? I’m not proud to admit that it took me a good minute to realize David was referring to that morning’s article and the fact that I was now publicly fucking my ex .
“I feel bad for him,” David continued. “Don’t you feel bad for him?”
“Oh my god! Seriously! You really want to talk about Victor right now?” I was, perhaps, yelling a bit.
“Only because for the first time in months, we’re actually talking and you’re not shutting me completely off!”
“Okay, I can’t!” I really couldn’t have that argument with David and drive safely at the same time even if I was only going at 20 mph. So as a car miraculously left a spot on Broadway, I pulled over to park there.
“What do you want to talk about?” I turned to face David and left my car to finish parking itself. My phone had thankfully stopped ringing by then. “I’m very aware that we must be the most LA couple ever as this is the second argument we’ve had inside the car today.”
“Let’s get out of the car then.” He opened the passenger door and got out. I followed suit. “Also, did you just refer to us as a couple?” he added while we stood side by side on a misty Broadway sidewalk.
“Can I actually park here?” I deflected, only partially. I really didn’t want another parking ticket.
“You can, but feed the meter,” David said, diligently reading the parking signal posted on the street. You could always rely on him for bureaucratic matters. “Two-hour limit.”
“Should I pay for the full two hours?” I asked. It’s not that I’m stingy or anything, but I hate overpaying for parking.
“Do you feel this is a half-an-hour-, hour-, or two-hour-long conversation?”
“Let me pay for the full two hours.”
Once I dealt with the Los Angeles Bureau of Parking Management, we walked aimlessly on Broadway in the direction opposite our respective homes at the Eastern Columbia. It was as if he also didn’t want to get home and continue with that life where we pretended not to know each other—a pretense I had forced us to follow.
“Okay, I can’t believe I’m doing this,” I started. “But you really don’t have to worry about Victor.”
“How do you know he’s not hurt or jealous?”
“He could be, but I seriously doubt it.”
“Is that what you think about all your boyfriends? That we don’t care?”
“Oh my god. Enough with the melodrama and the accusations! This is why I have been avoiding this conversation for months! Can we please stop mixing things.” I may have been yelling. Again . “Let’s talk about Victor if you really need to. I don’t think I’m quite done with the Gloria Kingsley thing. And then we can move to us .”
“Is there an us?”
“You tell me.” We both stopped walking.
We looked at each other in a way we hadn’t really in months, perhaps even years. We let our eyes do the talking for a moment, the same way we’ve been doing those past few months of limited words and unlimited lust. But I hadn’t recalled David staring at me with that raw, sexy smirk since we were both barely out of college and had just started fooling around.
For the second time in two days, I thought he was about to kiss me. And for the second time in as many days, I was certain I was going to do it.
This could have really happened here, and no story editor would have batted an eyelash or complained about it taking place too early in the heroine’s journey. It was the perfect time for a little release and some making out that would leave the reader and me wanting more.
Only, and I’m sorry to let you down here but think about how disappointed I was , there was no kiss.
“Why is there a guy who looks awfully like the Troubelmakr coming this way and looking at us?” David said. It would seem that at some point, he’d stopped directing his attention solely to me to gaze over my head.
I turned toward where David’s eyes were fixed on the horizon and recognized the same man I’d seen the day before in front of our building. Only this time, I wasn’t feeling a chill but actual fear.
“Is he holding a hammer?” David squinted to get a better view of the Troubelmakr. This may not be the best place to tell you about it, but David is a bit nearsighted. He’d never appreciated my belief that with his black hair and squared jawline, he’d look like a sexier Clark Kent if he ever chose to wear glasses. He never does—hence the squinting.
“A cell phone perhaps,” I contributed, also trying to see more clearly, as I suffered from my own myopia and lack of appropriate eyewear.
“I think you’re right. I don’t like him. Is he stalking us or what? I’m gonna go talk to him,” David said with a decisiveness I hardly knew he possessed. “Wait here.”
“Are you insane?” I protested, grabbing his arm and stopping his movement. “Since when have you started talking like the overprotective hero in a romance novel? Please sound like the reasonable writer that you are. He could be carrying a gun!”
“No, he isn’t,” David said, still set on confronting the man headed in our direction.
“It does look as if he’s coming for us, and he looks not happy,” I protested.
This is what happens when you put two people used to typing all day in the middle of an action segment. Not only have we purposely forgotten our rimmed frames at home because we’re a bit vain, we take our time to analyze everything and argue. And we don’t necessarily react in the most smart or agile way.
“Definitely not a phone,” I said as I got a clearer view of what the Troubelmakr was wielding in his right hand. It didn’t look like a gun but was weapon-adjacent, and he picked up his speed. “Run!” I shouted.
In all honesty, I had only reached that urgent conclusion once I asked myself the one pressing question: What would Tom Cruise do?
David seemed about to protest, but I grabbed his hand and steered us in the direction opposite to the unhinged guy holding an unidentified object. David was forced to follow me. I was not going to let the man I may have been harnessing strong feelings for confront a possibly armed person, no matter how brave and full of bravado he felt.
In case you were garnering any doubts—which, if you have been paying any attention, you shouldn’t—no, of course I am not a runner. When it comes to exercise, I limit myself to a strict diet of yoga of the stretching-but-not-really-the-push-up-heavy kind on Saturday mornings followed by mimosas and avocado toast topped with mushroom bacon.
So scarcely half a block of running and I was already panting and sweating profusely. Did I mention Broadway was even more full than usual of people pretending LA is a walkable city?
I was straining my neck from all the checking behind to see how much closer the Troubelmakr was getting and, at the same time, trying to swerve all the pedestrians on the sidewalk.
“Market!” David said, pulling us in the direction of Central Market.
“Are you crazy?” I protested.
“We can exit through the Hill Street entrance, and we can easily lose anyone inside!”
“It’s hard to lose anyone when we won’t make it past the first line of vendors. Too many people!” I jerked his arm, forcing us to continue running.
We crossed at the intersection of Broadway and Fourth Street, and I had to close my eyes because the traffic light had already turned red for pedestrians. That gained us a renewed distance as our pursuer wasn’t able to cross until the bulk of the car traffic stopped again.
While we were being chased, I remembered Detective Moreno’s admonishing words: Whoever had killed Henry was quite dangerous and we wouldn’t want to get tangled with them. A shiver ran down my spine.
I was still holding David’s hand, or he was still holding mine, even though running with our hands joined made swerving incoming pedestrians harder. But feeling him attached to me gave me some silly sense of reassurance and calmness. Nothing bad could happen if we were together.
And then I lost him.
I panicked. I even stopped in the middle of the street. It was something that, as a native urban dweller, I never do because it goes against all the rules of pedestrian flow etiquette.
People kept bumping into me as I was literally in the middle of the sidewalk, and I was checking to see where David was, aware that our pursuer was closing in on me.