Chapter 23 #3
I don’t bother signing… I yell, “If he’s so dangerous, give me one good reason why I shouldn’t see him!”
Her lips tighten and she blinks. Nothing more. Unwilling to explain herself. Once again, I say what her ears are only able to hear, but I can feel them burning through me.
“What aren’t you telling me, Andrea?!”
Her face is like stone, only her eyelids flutter.
I’m confused and hurt, but then I realize something is missing. Shadows across the space between us settle just as I catch on. The roses... where are the roses? I narrow my gaze at my ‘once best friend.’
Where are the flowers from Eamon? I sign, feeling the slap of contact from hand to hand as I scrutinize her every tell.
Andrea’s arms cross, she leans back in her chair, and her eyes narrow.
Still silence consumes the space, although my ears begin to ring out in protest over the lack of respect.
Understood. Even if she did have a reason, she’s unwilling to give it to me.
I tightened the strings of the robe, abandoning why I was in the kitchen in the first place.
Then sign one final message before closing myself in my room.
How about you butt out of my life? I turn and stomp loudly toward my bedroom and I do just that… slam the door on this conversation. I crawl in bed, the only light peeking beneath my door from the living space.
I see her shadow shift around the room as if she’s pacing.
Slowly the shadow grows, only light in the far corners, as if she’s positioned right outside my door.
Is she coming to talk to me? Knock? I couldn’t hear her anyways.
Just like that, the shadow narrows, moving farther away until the light source is turned off.
Once I know she is closed in her room for the night, I connect my phone and hearing aids to their chargers.
Finally, I set my alarm. I had an important errand to run before work tomorrow.
Reviewing the address within the envelope again, I discovered that I can make the walk without having to bother with the city’s transit system.
The location was within business… well a P.O.
Box to be exact. A pack and ship store, where people can purchase Bubble Wrap, stamps, and drop off packages.
They even have a wall of shiny, keyed mailboxes just like in our cramped apartment building lobby.
As I scroll through the photos online, I have a vague recollection of accompanying Andrea there once.
I never understood why she wanted to go all the way there, instead of just dropping her letter in the blue mail bin on our street.
To my surprise, I managed to fit the entire collection of snarky, embroidery hoops into one large box. I know the older woman said I could “take my time” delivering them, but she overpaid, and I felt obligated to get them to her asap. I wonder what she plans to do with all of them.
It was a strange exchange; she already had more than enough cash and the address ready for me, as if she knew I’d accept. No “attention to” or name was included on the slip of paper, so I hope an employee could shed some light on who pays for the account.
I have two unread messages on my phone. One from It’s Eamon Actually and the other from The Stalker. Both were slightly different, but they shared the same underlying tone. Are you okay? I was exhausted and not in the mood to explain in detail, so I settle for a thumbs up to my bipolar man… or men.
Although I had some initial trouble falling asleep last night, I felt slightly more energized this morning.
There hasn’t been a single trace of my grumpy roommate so far.
Even though I told myself it was a new day, the sour feeling of last night's interaction carried over.
Our once effortless friendship teetered near toxic, causing the taste of bile to crawl dangerously close to my mouth.
I attempt to tamp down this sick feeling with something besides acidic coffee.
Bread! Some kind of simple carb. With a full mug and slice in hand, I shuffle to a seat by the window, watching with vague curiosity as people bustle about the streets below.
In three large bites I finish the square of whole wheat, hopeful it will keep the queasy feeling at bay.
My friendship with Andrea used to be so easy.
We’ve been as thick as thieves since the first time we met.
A knock on the apartment door startles me from my thoughts, causing coffee to spill onto my hand. “Oww, fuck shit!” I carefully place the mug down on a side table and rush to the sink to run cold water over the scalded area.
The persistent visitor on the other side knocks again.
“Be right there!” I grab a tea towel, run it under the faucet before ringing it out and wrapping my hand.
Hand still throbbing, I peer through the peephole to find a middle-aged man in uniform on the other side. He appears to be an officer with the Boston PD. Were Andrea and I too loud last night? But we barely spoke! Did the neighbor just below us really call the cops over my stomping?