Page 39 of Gray Area

Iam leaving for class the following Thursday and walk by my landlord, Tim, talking to a guy with a plumbing company emblem on his shirt and a notepad. I overhear the plumbing guy say, “You can’t get the numbers any lower, Tim. The pipes are shot; it all needs to be replaced.”

This is the third person I’ve seen here this week from a plumbing company. It seems Tim is finally going to work on the building. That will be great. But Tim snatches the paper from the worker’s hand and starts kicking the wall of the building before he goes inside and slams the door. Apparently, he isn’t happy with the quote.

I get to class and sit down while everyone files in, and though I try not to, I actively look for Declan out of the corner of my eye.But time ticks by. Professor Edwards comes in to start class and still no Declan.

First, I’m disappointed, like why hadn’t he told me he wouldn’t be here? And then I am worried, because what if something has happened and that’s why he hasn’t emailed me? But do I have the right to be either of those things? I mean, what are we? We are classmates, right? But we also hung out a couple of times and that had nothing to do with class. So we are friends. And friends can worry about friends. He’s also a nice guy who has helped me a few times, like taking care of me when I was sick and fixing my doorknob.

But it isn’t like we are in a relationship or anything—it is just a person being nice to their friend. He doesn’t owe me an explanation, or a heads-up. It isn’t like he has my phone number to let me know. No, I shouldn’t read anything into it, not like Bailey who won’t stop harping on it. I’m not used to anyone being nice to me, so it would be easy for me to read into things that are not there.

I realize that I’m spiraling and totally distracted. I work really hard to focus on class and even participate a bit in the discussion, hoping to make the class go by. But it doesn’t really work and instead time seems to go backward. I just want to get out of here, because all I can think about is Declan.

After class I pack up my things and head outside quickly, weaving through my classmates, eager to just get out of the room. I am pretty early, so I sit in the bus hut outside and wait. It is cold but the bite that was around last week is gone. I take in a few big breaths and acknowledge my feelings surrounding Declan’s absence and try to blow them out. A social worker when I was a kid tried to teach me the technique, and though I never mastered it, I always tried, hoping it would work one day. It’s okay to have feelings, she’d said. You should acknowledge them and walk through them, feel them, and then let them go. I havesince found it is better not to feel anything at all, but every now and then a pesky emotion finds its way in and I try the technique.

It doesn’t work this time just like it never worked any of the other times. But it doesn’t matter because the bus comes, so I can go home and distract myself with something else.

I stare out the window and let my mind drift, and it brings me back to the same thing I have been evaluating for the last three hours—Declan. If I am being honest, he’s been the thing on my mind the most over the last few weeks. I think about how he has treated me, cared for me, helped me, fixed my door for me, taken me for hot chocolate, and driven me home. He’s even told me about himself to try and get me to open up.

All the thoughts have me asking myself the burning question within me. Am I wrong for thinking it is going somewhere? Am I mistaken that he is into me as more than friends? Does he think about me like I think about him, like I fantasize about him?

I am so wrapped up in my thoughts that when the bus pulls to my stop I don’t notice. And then I don’t realize I have missed it until we are two stops away.

“Shit,” I mutter, grabbing my stuff and rushing off the bus, as if me hustling off the bus is going to make any difference at this point. I get off and look around, trying to orient myself to where I am. I walk to the nearest cross street and realize I’m not too far away from my street, and if I cut through the side alleys I can probably be home in about ten minutes. Anger at myself bubbles up inside of me. This is what going through my feelings and getting caught up in them does. It causes me to get off track, literally.

I start walking through the alleys and hasten my pace as I notice how dark and dirty they are. I have cut through these back ways many times during the day, but the night always brings acertain level of terror with it. The night transforms the alleys into something I feel like I have seen in nightmares or horror movies.

I am walking at just under a jog, keeping my eyes focused on the next opening between alleys, noting I only have one more alleyway and then I’ll be on my street. I get to the break and look both ways automatically and do a double take when I see a shape appear out of the shadows of a building. It startles me, but I don’t wait long enough to look again, instead just beelining across the empty dark street to my next destination.

I make it to the next alleyway and hear footsteps behind me, making my heart rate jack up. I don’t dare look back, instead just keeping my steady pace hustling to the next opening and my street. I hear the footsteps get faster and I feel panic, fear, almost enough to freeze me, but I fight against it and push forward. I hate being scared and hate my response to it even more—I cry. I feel the panicked tears prick my eyes as I push myself to the edge of the alley.

But when I get to the end of it, I realize that it isn’t my street. I stop and look around, and the realization that I have one more alleyway to go freezes me for a moment. Stupidly, I turn and see that the shadow getting closer is a man making his way to me. He is weaving, and he grins the most sadistic sneer when he sees me glance back.

I turn and run, hearing him do the same. I hope he is drunk enough to slow him down, but I hear his footsteps racing, and I panic, trying to run faster.

“Hey,” I hear nearly behind me and feel a tug on my backpack. I am pulled a little but I jerk to the side and am able to get him off me. But the man is undeterred. He comes back at me with a vengeance and pulls hard on my backpack, nearly sending me to the ground. I slide my arms out of the straps somehow and keep running, fully sprinting now, tears running down my cheeks. My whole world is in the backpack, but I am in survival mode at thismoment. I run, seeing my street get closer, and I dare a look back and see the man still running, having been slowed a bit. I can probably make it, but then when I turn back I slam into a wall.

Or at least I think it is a wall. But as arms clamp tight around me, terror floods my veins, turning me ice cold.

“Vivian,” a voice commands, and I sag with relief to realize that it is Declan. “What’s wrong?”

“Someone is chasing me,” I sputter out as I hyperventilate.

Declan pushes me to the stoop of my building and disappears into the darkness of the alley.

“What the fuck do you want?” I hear the vagrant taunt. “You can have her after I—”

Suddenly there is no more speaking. Instead the night around me is filled with crunching sounds and moans. I’m panicking now for a different reason, afraid that crazy asshole has done something to Declan. Declan’s a big guy, but who knows if the drunk has a gun or a knife. Moans echo from the alley. Is that Declan moaning in pain?

I’m about to go and see when a shadow heads my way. I’m too terrified to move, but instant relief floods me when I see Declan coming out of the dark with my backpack in his hand.

I’m still crying and shaking as he comes toward me. I wrap my arms around myself to try and still the tremors.

“Are you okay?” I get out around my ragged breathing as Declan stalks to me. My eyes rake over him, and once he steps into the moonlight, I see he has bruising on his face, to the side of his eye. I gasp, my eyes widening, and instinctively I reach up and touch his face. “You’re hurt.”

Declan stands still as I cup his face, just staring at me, but finally he says gruffly, “That’s not from him.” Declan puts a hand to the small of my back. “Let’s get you inside,” he says as he directs me to the entryway.

I go along mutely, feeling my heart hammer in my chest, and the tears pour, though they are slowing. I get my key out of my jacket pocket when we get to my door, but I can’t get the key to the lock. The shaking makes all my attempts just slightly off.

Declan takes the key from me, his touch light and delicate, and unlocks the door, swinging it open for me. I walk in, go straight to the futon, and just sit. The tears have stopped but I’m still shaking. Why am I still shaking?

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