“What do you want, Jacob?”
“Nothing, little K,” he says, the corner of his mouth curling into a sneer. “I was just walking past this here quaint neighborhood bar. And saw you nursing a drink and thought you might like to shout your dear ol’ uncle a drink, for good old times’ sake.”
“What good old times?”
“Aw, don’t be like that. I’m sure my brother wouldn’t like it. I’m sure he’d want us to be looking out for each other. Just like he looked out for us. Wait, no, that’s not right. It wasn’t us he looked out for, it was just you, wasn’t it?”
“Go away, Jacob, we have nothing to say to each other.” I drop two 100 dollar bills on the counter, avoiding the broken glass. The bartender takes one and puts it in the till, putting the other, his tip, into his pocket before grabbing a rag to clean my mess.
“Hey, hey, where are you going?” Jacob blocks me, as I try to make my way towards the door.
“Get away from me, Jacob,” I growl, pulling the hoodie tighter around my face, as I notice a crowd starting to eye us, curious about the scene that’s inevitably coming.
“You think you’re so good, don’t you?” he spits at me, his voice ugly, his face pinched with bitterness and resentment. “Sitting up there in your skyscraper and penthouse. Well, don’t get too used to it. All of it was supposed to be mine. And it will be again one day.”
“It was never yours and it never will be. I won’t let it. If it’s the last thing I do, to honor ….’s memory. It’s time you finally understand that and move on with your life. Instead of trying to steal mine.” I push past him and out the door. There’s the sound of tires burning on the asphalt and coming to a sudden stop.
I step out onto the road, open the car door and climb inside.
“Where now, sir?” Henry asks
I’m too drunk to stop myself.
“Home, Henry. Take me home.”
***
It’s pitch black in the apartment when I step off the elevator. It takes a while for my eyes to adjust.
The blinds are open and there’s almost no way to tell where the building ends and the sky starts. As if I just kept walking, I’d soon by strolling over the clouds hanging over Manhattan.
I drop my keys and phone on the kitchen bench and the clatter they make echoes loudly in the otherwise silent apartment.
I wander past the dining room. The table is set, two places. One wine glass is still untouched, the other carries a burgundy taint, and the mark of lips around its rim.
I look past the dining room table and into the living area. There’s a blanket hung over the back of the couch. But nothing else.
Where is she?
Something catches in my throat at the thought that maybe she couldn’t carry through with her threat of waiting and she’s left. Gone home. Out of my life. My fingers run along the kitchen marble bench, trying to connect with the image of her touching the very same spot just a few hours ago.
I should’ve come home earlier. I’m a dickhead.
A soft murmur startles me and I realize it’s coming from the bedroom.
The moonlight streaming through the windows illuminates a path through my home.
There’s the soft sound again.
A moan. No, a whimper? No, more like a restless murmur.
I come to my bedroom and there she is.
Curled up on my bed, her form covered by the sheet, weaving and dipping, up and down every one of her curves. I tip toe closer to her, taking note of the gentle rise and fall of her chest.
She is beautiful.
It’s a single thought. Clear and true in my mind.
Her hair is strewn all over my pillow. It’s like a mane of cocoa and copper, brown and red tinged strands cascading down her back.
Her cheek looks like it’s made of porcelain, and in my uninhibited state, I can’t help myself. I reach out to touch her. The side of my finger caressing the sweet, plump curve of her soft cheek.
Her eyes suddenly fly open.
And she screams.
HER
For the second time in two days, I wake up screaming.
But this time, someone is there.
He’s standing a few feet away from the bed, his silhouette is dark against the backdrop of the lights of New York city.
I flip my body up, sitting straight, pulling the blankets up to my chin.
“What are you?” I demand of the intruder.
His silence fuels the adrenaline rushing through my veins and I scream at him again. “Who are you and what the fuck are you doing here?”
“I live here,” he says, and his voice is hard, gruff. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust, before I realize it is him. He is here. And there’s a strange feeling as if something has caressed my cheek. “What are you still doing here?” He turns the tables on me.
“I live here too!” I throw back at him, though I don’t know why, it makes no sense. I guess he’s caught me off guard and I’m feeling so defensive.
“No, you don’t. Leave.” He moves away from the window and his face is thrown into complete darkness.
“No. I won’t, you leave.” Again, with the crazy.
“You are crazy.” It seems he senses it too.
But it’s too late to go back now. And my mouth seems to have developed a mind of its own.
“Excuse me, I’m not crazy. You’re the crazy one, hiding from your own home just because someone wants to thank you. Do you do that whenever someone says thank you? Like when you hold a door open for a stranger? ‘Oh, why thank you, Mr. Mystery Man. Ahh! No! Please don’t thank me, arghh! I’m going to run away now!'” I rant as I wave my arms around maniacally, as if sprinting away.
I can’t see his face, his hoodie is on, of course, so I can’t see his expression. I can just see him standing completely still. Watching me.
Making me feel like a complete idiot.