Chapter Thirty-Seven
Thirty-Seven
THE HOTEL ROOM IS BLURRY. Everything is swimming in waves of blue light. Everything except his face.
His cheeks are so red they’re almost purple.
His eyes are savage and bulging like his head is going to fucking explode.
His fingers dig tighter into my arms, squeezing.
His nostrils flare, hot puffs of air blowing into my face.
The smell of ripe alcohol is so strong I want to hold my breath, but I can hardly breathe.
My head throbs against the shitty floral wallpaper. Maybe both of our heads will explode tonight.
“Please, Mr. Campbell,” I whisper again, my voice choked.
The name changes something in him. He starts to tremble. He peels his thick fingers from my arms, and I slide down the wall and crumple into myself, my knees at my chest, my cheek pressed against the matted carpet.
And then I start to cry.
“Oh Jesus,” he says. “What am I doing? Oh Jesus. Oh honey. I’m sorry.
” He pulls at his salt-and-pepper hair. “I’m sorry.
I’m sorry. Oh Jesus, please forgive me.” He looks at his own hands like he doesn’t recognize them.
“Oh god. Oh god.” And then he starts to cry too.
“Caroline. Caroline. Caroline.” He’s wailing, saying her name over and over and over.
Saying it until I think I’ll never hear another word besides Caroline ever again.
“Please,” he chokes out, “can’t you fix it?” He bends down to the floor, trying to get me to look at him. Begging. Pleading.
“No,” I whisper, the smell of old carpet cleaner stinging my nose.
I let my eyes glide past him. I will not look at his face.
I will not. I keep my eyes on my running gear draped over the computer chair in the corner, the bib already attached for tomorrow’s meet.
Charles grabs for my hand, his gold watch scratching my wrist. I flinch, drawing my fingers back under my body. Back into myself.
“Please,” he says, his voice trembling. “I’ll do anything. Anything. I’m sorry that I … that I hurt you … but …” He pushes the edges of his palms into his eyes. And then he lets out another scream. “Please, god. I can’t live like this.”
Except he can. He has no clock over his head.
He will live.
But I know what he means.
He means he won’t survive.
And neither will I.