Chapter 9 #2
I grip my chest as I struggle to digest his honesty, with a physical heart-aching pain.
I grew up fearing the inability to do what I wanted to do, but this has been the toughest refusal of my senses to date.
What do I really want to do? I want to scoop his face into my palms and see what his smile tastes like.
I want to hold his hand as we walk down the street.
I want to tuck his fucking annoying hair behind his ears.
The guy I have fallen for is perfect, but untouchable—and I hate it. I can’t accept it.
In the back room amongst the store of beer bottles, my palms grip my face as I scream into them, pressing my fingers into my closed lids to contain the tears of frustration welling beneath.
The day is awful as we work passive-aggressively side by side, blaming each other for our frustrations.
Even standing beside him at the bar is unbearable, so I offer to play cards with the regulars.
It is the longest shift I have ever worked with Joey, and he struggles to converse with customers, who often comment on his quietness.
By the time the shift ends, there’s barely anything to do, since we’ve been so productive throughout the day.
He’s still stomping around, and he says his first words to me since this morning.
“See you tomorrow.” He lifts his headphones over his ears before leaving.
The day’s tension breaks with a stray tear teetering on my lower lid, threatening to jump.
I wish I didn’t feel this way. The plan I set was straightforward—to keep my head down and complete my Independence Interval—but I want to be saved now, want a hero to turn up and take this torment away from me.
I wish my fathers were here, even for a phone call, to hear their voices.
Roscoe could make a joke to cheer me up.
Malcolm would know the words to console me. And Rex—he would have a plan.
I plant the mop in the bucket when the front door bangs open, with Joey’s voice muffled from the porch.
“Give us a minute, Smith. Please.”
I flick the tear from my eye as he marches through, with his hair wet from a spring shower, stray strands sticking to his face.
He must have run back to the bar, as his shoulders rise and fall with laboured breath.
His wet boots slap against my clean floor, and he removes his headphones and lifts his MP3 player from his pocket, pinched between his fingers.
“This thing has thousands of songs—days of continuous music, played randomly,” he says. “And if this isn’t the universe trying to tell me something, then I don’t know anything anymore.”
I brace myself, unsure of his intentions before the bar’s cameras, but he gently places his headphones over my ears.
With shaky fingers, he presses the back button and then play.
There’s a second of static, then, on maximum volume, piano chords play in my ears.
I recognise the melodic intro and the deep, bewitching voice of Elvis singing, “Can’t Help Falling in Love. ”
I hold my breath, hearing the lyrics and seeing Joey’s face.
Any doubt about his intentions coils away like cigarette smoke, disappearing into the atmosphere.
He stands before me with the intensity of his feelings woven into the worried creases of his forehead.
He uses the sleeve of his denim jacket to wipe the raindrops from his face, and his pupils are so wide, they eclipse the brown of his eyes, searching for my reaction.
The moment is painted beneath the soulful melody as our gazes lock in a powerful embrace, which speaks volumes without words.
The longer we stare, the more entwined we become, as if our already close souls finally connect, like old twisting roots of separate trees, conjoining to support each other.
He holds out his hand in perfect timing with the lyrics, softly miming along with the song.
With his palm outstretched before me, I have a choice in a world where I’m told I have no choices.
To stay on track, or to go rogue? I hover my touch, hesitating for a second—and only a second—before my fingers slip between his, interlocking our hands together.
His rough calluses catch against my skin, but his grip is soft as we hold hands.
There’s a thrill as we connect in plain view of the security cameras.
A current runs through me, exhilarating my soul with a pleasurable warmth, while the tiny gesture showers me with a happiness I haven’t felt in years.
Like the running river and the starry night sky, Joey takes me from the city for a moment, and I’m home.
We’re so close that I can feel the heat of his body, the exhale of his breath as he mimes the last few words of the song.
I pull off the headphones and chuckle as he softly sings, and with no fear, I gently brush his hair back, tucking it behind his ear and tracing my fingertips across his jawline.
His eyes flutter closed, and I inhale the scent of his strawberry bubblegum breath as he leans his forehead against mine.
We stay like that for a while, lost in the moment, savouring every second, not wanting it to end. I calculated the risk and still took it. This moment is mine, my choice—and I couldn’t be happier.
My body feels genuinely rested when I wake after a dreamless sleep, which is good, because I need it for today.
In a few hours, a guarded truck will roll up before this apartment to take Sasha away.
I have haggled the morning off from Krick, while Joey agreed to cover for me.
It’s not that she needs help with anything, but I can’t miss her leaving.
Time flows with cruel speed as I help pack her life into a single box, but before she seals it, I stop her.
“Wait. I’ve got something for you.”
I rush back to my room, returning with a small parcel wrapped in the brown kraft paper they protect liquor bottles with on deliveries. She smirks as I hand it to her and unfolds the paper.
“They’re from me and Joey. Something to remember us by.”
She reveals a small stack of DVDs—Cocktail, Coyote Ugly, and St. Elmo’s Fire—chuckling as she cottons on to their relevance.
“Let’s hope I never have to make a goddamn drink again.
I’m going to live the life of a kept woman.
” There’s a tightness to her jaw, and I wonder if there’s a tone of sarcasm or relief in the latter, but I won’t press.
Like a house of cards, she has structured her bravery to save face, but I know how little it would take to make her fall.
She carries her box to the kitchen, where we plan to have one last hot drink together, but not before giving a knock and a shout at Kelly and Tanya’s door.
“Byyyyeeee, you two! Was nice not knowing you all these years.”
Both of us laugh as they give no reaction, and from the fridge, I pull a small snack pack I prepared her in a brown paper bag—something for the road.
From here to Eden is a lengthy drive, but I assure her it’s shorter than a shift at the bar.
There’s not much to say that hasn’t already been said as we sit cupping our hot drinks at the rickety dining table, when the repetitive tapping of her foot sends ripples through my mug of tea.
I reach out and hold her hand. “Hey, hey. Don’t spiral. You’ve got this.” And I’m half encouraging myself to maintain composure. “If you can manage four years here under Krick and with these cruel winters, then Eden will be a breeze! And at the end of the day, at least you’ll have his dog.”
She sits back in her chair. “Well, I don’t know how I feel.”
“About Forest?”
“No, no. About you.” And she readjusts her hand over mine.
“Me? What do you mean?”
“What do I mean?” She raises a single brow. “I mean … I want to see you in Eden when your time comes, and that would be more for me… But … I also hope I will never see you again. I hope somehow you and Joey get out of here and escape to wherever. Live happily ever after.”
She smiles, and my jaw drops at the sentiment. She caught me off guard, since I hadn’t even thought that far ahead. In my mind, the plan still stands, and I am going to Eden—going to see her again. But since Joey and I have happened … now I don’t know?
My fingers press into my temples as I lean on the table. “Well, that sucks. I guess things have moved so fast this week that Eden hasn’t crossed my mind.”
“I bet it hasn’t,” she says with a wink. “If I were you, I’d be working double time on getting your butts out of this shit show.”
“Well, in that case … I hope I never see you again,” I say with my bottom lip dimpling.
A rattling knock on the door reverberates throughout the apartment. It’s time.
I open it to find Donnie, as miserable as ever, filling the frame.
“Is Sasha ready?”
“I’m ready, Donnie! Let me get my things!” she shouts from the kitchen.
I help, carrying her box while she grabs her purse.
He sees me with the package, but doesn’t offer to help; instead, he turns and heads down the stairs.
What I wouldn’t give to lay a punch on that fat bottom lip of his…
Parked on the road before the cigar store is a truck with two rangers waiting, preparing for the handover.
The sergeant takes the box from me and places it in the truck before confirming Sasha’s data with Donnie.