Page 161 of Something Tattered
I scurried after him. "Where are you going?"
"Well, it ain't to Chicago."
"Joel, just stop okay?"
But he didn't stop. He kept on walking and didn't pause until he reached the front door. And even then, he stopped only long enough to yank the door open and stride through it. Desperately, I followed him outside. It was still drizzling. But this time, I didn't care. "Come on," I pleaded. "Don't be like this."
Without pausing, he turned and started headingnotto his car – thank God – but to the guest house. Relief coursed through me. Maybe he just wanted some privacy, or to discuss this where Aunt Gina wouldn't overhear us.
The grass was slick, and I was wearing no shoes, but I couldn’t bring myself to care. His strides were long, and I was practically running to keep up. When he entered the side door to the garage, I followed after him, even as he silently strode to the stairway and started walking up it.
Maybe I should've stopped and given him some time to cool off, but something in my heart told me that time was running short. So I followed him up into the living area, and then watched with growing despair as he pulled out his duffel bag and began throwing things into it.
"What are you doing?" I asked.
"What does it look like? I'm getting my shit and going."
"You can't," I said. "Not like this."
"Why? It isn't 'nice' enough for you?" He paused and gave me his full attention. "Lemme tell you something." His gaze traveled rudely down the length of me. "Nice is overrated."
I flinched at the obvious insult. He didn't mean that. He couldn’t. I said, "Joel, come on. Don’t be like this."
He zipped up his bag and slung it over his shoulder. "Thanks for the good time," he said, heading toward the door.
The comment sliced through me.Good time?
Surely, I meant more to him than that?
I did. I knew it. And he meant more to me than he obviously realized.
I followed him down the stairs and once again out into the yard. He turned and started heading for his car.
With growing desperation, I lunged for his arm. It was slick with rain and colder than I expected. I gripped it like a lifeline and squeezed it tight until he had to either stop moving or drag me behind him.
To my infinite relief, he actually stopped. Turning to face me, he said, "What?"
Looking for any way to stall him, I blurted out, "What about the rest of your stuff?"
"Keep it."
"But your paintings–"
"That tattered shit?" He made a sound of derision. "Keep 'em, burn 'em, whatever. I don't care."
I gave him a pleading look. "ButIdo." I was still gripping his arm. Was I squeezing it too tight? Probably. But I couldn’t bring myself to let go. I looked deep into his eyes and said the only thing I could. "I love you. You know I do."
"Yeah? Well sucks to be you."
The response was so cold, it gave me a shiver. "You don't mean that." I was crying now. "Come on. Don't go like this. Let's just talk it over, please?"
Finally, I saw a hint of uncertainty flicker in his eyes. Unfortunately, it was at this exact moment when I heard the rumble of a vehicle coming toward us.
I turned and saw the worst possible thing coming down the long driveway – a commercial truck emblazed with big blue letters along the side. And what did those letters spell out?
Full-Service Movers.
Chapter 71
