He scowled, but only for an instant. Then a smile slanted across his face, and he made a very, very, very rude gesture.
Chapter 14
Deputy Bobby (and West) lived in a shake-sided walk-up. It was a four-plex, two up and two down, and it looked old and comfortable and probably in need of a safety inspection. Their second-floor apartment was dark when I rode up to the building, and I decided that was a sign that I should probably go home.
I didn’t, though—and not because Keme would beat me up if I did. (Not entirely because of that, anyway.) I slowed my bike, hopped off, and walked it to the stairs. The blue fixed-gear Deputy Bobby had given me had carried me across town without a problem, tires whispering on the pavement, the town itself reduced to a geometry of shadowy shapes and distant lights. Like signal fires, I thought, that someone had forgotten to put out. Just me out here, alone with the sweet cedars and the brine of the ocean and the storm-spin of my thoughts. And now, as I looked up the dark chute of the stairs, I thought alone was right. Because in the dark, we’re all alone.
The treads creaked under me as I started up. A few of them sagged precipitously. My hand whispered against the rail, a noise that was almost a hiss. When I got to Deputy Bobby’s door, I listened. It was one thing, I realized, to argue in the heat of the moment. Now, standing here, I fought the urge to put out a hand, steady myself, fight the sensation that the world was tilting perilously to one side. Also, a little less poetically, I fought the urge to ralph all over the doormat.
Someone, though—definitely not me—was finally brave enough to knock.
When the door opened, I knew it was Deputy Bobby standing there, even though he was only a shadow. I knew the shape of him. I knew that crisply male scent. I knew what his breathing sounded like. It was what he would sound like, part of me thought dizzily, if I woke in the night.
He turned and walked back into the apartment and left the door open behind him.
After what felt like a long time, I followed him.
It was even darker inside, and I had to move slowly. I’d been in their apartment before. Plenty of times, actually. Because we were friends. And I knew the shape of the rooms, the layout. But tonight, in the dark, everything was transformed. Unfamiliar shadows loomed on every side, turning the space into a labyrinth. The rational part of my mind knew it was simply the preparations for the move—boxes stacked along the walls, making the rooms shrink, and displaced furniture, and other shadows I couldn’t unravel. I caught a glimpse of the kitchen. Cabinet doors stood open to reveal empty shelves. The little water bowl marked Kylie (their dog) was missing.
My sneaker came down on something that crinkled. I almost kept moving. And then I stopped, crouched, felt across the bare boards until I swept up the papers. The only light in the apartment filtered in from outside—a pallid, lunar glow. I angled the papers toward the window, and I could make out the words.
West, it began in Deputy Bobby’s now familiar handwriting. His letters always tilted a little to the right. He made fat o’s and squashed a’s. The letters were tightly together, joined, controlled.
I knew I should stop reading.
West, I need to tell you something, and I’m sorry that I didn’t do this sooner because I know I’ve made it worse by waiting. I’m sorry that I’ve been a coward. I care so much about you, and you mean so much to me. And more than anything, I want you to be happy.
The letter continued; I didn’t. In part, because of the rawness of the emotion on the page. In part, because I couldn’t blink fast enough to clear my eyes. I folded the letter as neatly as I could and clutched it in one hand. I thought, maybe, he would want it later.
Bobby sat on the sofa, where not so long ago, I’d put him to bed after he’d had a little too much to drink. He had his elbows on his knees, his face in his hands. Across his back, the light that passed between the blinds threw skeletal stripes.
I eased down onto the sofa next to him. The old, familiar terror was cranking its engine inside me. I couldn’t seem to take a deep breath. Black spots danced in my vision. That I would make a mistake. That I would do something wrong. Even though the rational part of me knew this moment wasn’t about me. Even though that rational part knew that Bobby had other things he was focused on—not my bumbling attempts to comfort him. My time in Hastings Rock might have made it easier to confront murderers, but when it came to relationships, I was apparently still the same old Dash.
The rational part of me knew that this was the primitive part of my brain, that this was the part that feared rejection, feared being cast out of the tribe, being alone in the dark, without fire or friend. Plenty of therapists had told me so. And I knew to take deep breaths. To sit with the discomfort. To accept. I was probably still going to be in the process of accepting when I blacked out from lack of oxygen.
But this was Bobby. And for him, maybe, I could be more than myself. For a few moments, I could be braver. Better.
Somehow, I managed to say, “Are you okay?”
He was silent. And he was still. And then, head in his hands, he shook out a slow no.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
He shook his head again.
A minute passed. And then another. The apartment was cold, and next to me, Bobby was warm.
His body hitched—a tiny movement. Barely anything at all. Because, of course, even now he was trying to hold all the pieces together.
It was like someone had opened a door in my mind. I knew what to do. Maybe for the first time in my entire life, I knew what to do in a social situation. And the terror rushed back like smoke: choking, blinding.
The coward inside me offered options: I could make an excuse and leave. Bobby would probably be grateful, that treacherous little voice inside me said. He’d probably want me to leave. Or I could sit here and do nothing. That would be enough, to provide companionship, to let him know he wasn’t alone. He’d be grateful.
But I’d know. For the rest of my life, I’d know that I could have done more. And I would regret that, for Bobby, I hadn’t been brave enough.
I scooted closer. I slipped my arm around Bobby. His body hitched again, and then he tensed, like he might push me away, stand, leave. I tightened my arm around him. I’m here, I said, even though I didn’t speak. I’m here.
Slowly, by degrees, the tension in his body slackened. His head came to rest on my shoulder. His cheek was fever hot, even through my shirt.
I’m here, I said again, the best way I could. I’m here. You’re not alone.
Chapter 15
Eventually, I convinced Deputy Bobby to let me drive him back to Hemlock House. It was a war of attrition more than anything else; he didn’t argue—heck, he didn’t even really respond. But with enough cajoling, I got him into the Pilot, and I loaded my bike in the back, and we drove home. I made sure he was settled in his room, and then I started toward mine.
Indira was waiting for me in the hall.
I checked my phone. It was after eleven. “What are you still doing up?”
“How are you?”
“Terrible.”
She nodded and took my arm. “Let’s get you something to eat.”
