I sit at my desk and stare out the window. People are talking, coming and going, and things are happening, but my mind is a million miles away.
On her.
Always on her.
Six weeks is a long time. Too long.
It’s not getting better; it’s getting worse. There’s a noose tightening around my neck that I can’t shake. The only time I’m happy is when I’m talking to Eddie, but I haven’t been able to reach him for a week now, and I’m getting worried. Why is his phone going straight to voice mail?
I glance at my watch. I might call the hostel to see when he’s working next. I’ll call Howard, the manager.
I google the number and dial as I begin to pace back and forth. “Hello, Barcelona Backpackers.”
“Hello, can I speak to Howard, please?”
“Just a minute.” I hear the line go through to an extension.
“Hello, Howard speaking.”
“Howard,” I reply, “it’s Christo.”
“Hey.” He laughs. “How are you, man?”
“Good, good. How are you?”
“Same shit, different day. All fine here.”
“Listen, sorry to bother you. I’m trying to get ahold of Eddie, but his phone isn’t even ringing.”
“Oh yeah . . . it got stolen.”
“Oh.” My heart sinks. I know how upset he’d be. “I wondered what happened. I’ve been calling and texting him, but no reply.”
“No point texting,” he replies casually.
“What do you mean?”
“Well . . . he can’t read.”
“What?” I frown.
“He can’t read or write. You know that.”
“That’s ridiculous,” I snap. “Of course he can.”
“Christo . . . you know he’s homeless, right?”
“What?” I whisper. “Are you serious?”
“Yeah,” he replies casually. “No shit. He’s an orphan.”
I begin to hear my heartbeat in my ears.
“His parents are both . . . dead?” I gasp.
“His father took off before he was born, and his mother died in a car accident when he was eight, or something. No surviving grandparents or aunts or uncles. He was in the foster care system for a while but got put with assholes and ended up running away.”
I drop to the chair at the desk, shocked to a horrified silence.
“But where does he sleep?” I whisper through a lump in my throat.
“In a deserted house around the corner from the hostel.”
I stand. “Where is it?”
“It’s almost directly behind the hostel. It’s boarded up. You can’t miss it.”
I stay on the line, shocked to silence.
Dear god.
“Don’t tell him I called, okay?” I ask.
“Yeah, okay.”
“When is he working next?”
“Tomorrow night.”
“Thanks.” I hang up and stare at the wall in horror.
What the fuck?
Barcelona
The Uber pulls to the curb. “Just let me out here,” I tell the driver.
I’ve never gotten on a plane so quickly. I don’t know what I’m doing here, but I had to come.
I have to see him.
I walk around the corner and see the old deserted house.
I’m brimming with emotion; how can such a beautiful kid have such a horrible life and never tell me a word about it? I thought we were best friends.
I don’t understand.
I see a flicker of movement, and I duck in to hide behind a bush. I watch as Eddie walks out of the house and up the street as if he doesn’t have a care in the world. So brave and stoic.
Poor fucking kid.
I wait until he disappears around the corner, and I make my way up to the deserted house. It’s dilapidated and barely standing. Two stories with a staircase running up the outside. The front doors and windows are boarded up, so I walk around the back and see an old broken door.
KEEP OUT
DANGEROUS CHEMICALS.
I tentatively push the door open, and it lets out a deep, loud creak. I peer in.
Darkness.
“Hello . . . ,” I call.
Silence.
“Is anyone there?”
Silence.
I turn on the flashlight on my phone and push the door back and walk in. The floors are broken, and it’s dark and musty. Holes are punched through the walls, and graffiti covers everything.
My stomach twists.
I shine the flashlight around. Where does he sleep?
I need to see.
I search all the rooms. It’s worse than I thought.
Much worse.
My vision blurs, and I wipe my eyes so that I can see. I get to a room in the back, and I peer in, and my heart breaks.
A lone mattress is on the floor with a sleeping bag.
I walk over and look around. All the postcards I sent to him are carefully pinned to the wall like trophies. A laminated photo of Hayden strategically pinned in the center.
“Eddie,” I whisper through tears. “My poor, poor Eddie.”
I imagine him sleeping here in the musty dark.
All alone.
Nobody to care for him and make him feel safe.
I screw up my face. The reality of his situation is so raw and real.
Devastatingly sad.
I unpin the photo of Hayden; she’s smiling and looks so happy and carefree; my heart constricts, and I sob out loud.
He misses her too.
“Who’s there?” Eddie’s voice barks.
I try to pull myself together and wipe my eyes. “It’s me,” I call.
“Who?”
“Christo.”
He pushes open the door, and his face falls, and I can’t help it: my face screws up in tears.
“Don’t . . . ,” he spits. “What are you doing here?”
“I came back for you.”
He frowns.
“And I promise you on my life,” I whisper through tears, “you’ll never be alone again.”