Page 66 of The Fire Walker
Dee
Iwas disgusted withmyself.
I’d never done something so spiteful in my entire life, and I wished I could take it back. I was the nice guy. I was a protector. I wasn’t some kind of sadist. Jessie had humiliated me and smashed my heart to pieces, but what I did was worse. To top things off, I didn’t have the guts to apologize. Looked like we didn’t deserve oneanother.
When the New York skyline finally appeared in the distance, it was a relief. Jessie punched her address into the GPS that I hadn’t bothered to turn on since I rented the car, so I didn’t have to ask her for directions. When we inevitably sat in traffic, I thought about what I was going to do next. I planned to find somewhere to crash for the night, return the car, and get on the next flight outta Dodge. Where to? I wasn’t a hundred percent sure. Maybe I should just book a flight back to Melbourne and be done withAmerica.
When I finally pulled up in front of an old warehouse, which had been converted into apartments, in a small pocket of Brooklyn, I cut the engine and sat waiting. Should I say goodbye? Should I say anything? It was probably past the time forapologies.
But Jessie didn’t move. “Come up,” she said. “I have a computer you can use to book a flight. At least let me do that foryou.”
So she’d figured out my plan. Wasn’t halfobvious.
I left my stuff locked in the back out of sight and followed her inside and up the stairs. There was no lift, so we trudged up three flights to herapartment.
Despite myself, I wondered what her place was like. If she had a roommate or lived alone in a four-by-two shoebox. I’d thought about it before, back in LA, wondering what CDs she had, if she had any books, what photos she had on the wall. When she unlocked the door and walked in, dumping her bag just inside, the sound echoed into the darkness, and I knew it was a cavern. It had that musty smell from being locked up for the past week, so I knew she lived alone. Reluctantly, I stepped inside, my gaze on the floor. I’d come thisfar.
The sound of keys dropping into glass echoed around the darkapartment.
“I have a parking permit to put on the dash,” she said. “To stop the car from gettingtowed.”
I grunted, not able to formulate a response. I jumped when I felt her fingers circle around mine, prying the car keys out of myhand.
“I’ll be back. The laptop is on the coffee table.” Before she went, she flipped the screen open, bringing it to life. “Allyours.”
Her gaze didn’t meet mine, but she shouldn’t have bothered. I didn’t really want to look at her, either. The front door closed, and I was alone in her space. It smelled likeher.
The apartment was a sizeable studio. A one-room cavern that used to be a warehouse, but it was more like a studio palace. I knew enough about New York to know that it was expensive. And interns didn’t getpaid.
At one end, there was a kitchen, and at the other end was her bed. I tried not to look there, but it was impossible. One of those square bookshelves separated the living area from the sleeping, and it was crammed full of books, records, and CDs. Under the window was a beat-up stereo covered in various band stickers, all of them punk. The rest of the apartment was furnished with stuff that looked like it was picked up from the side of the road. A brown leather couch that had seen better days sat in the middle, clothes were crammed on racks along the wall of the ‘bedroom,’ and a worn Turkish rug covered most of the polished concretefloors.
Banks of windows took up one whole side and were covered with heavy, gray blackout curtains, and the wall above was made from exposed brickwork that had been sandblasted and rendered. It was very…hipster. I guess that was Brooklyn’sMO.
I looked at the clunky laptop and the obviously secondhand furniture, and it didn’t add up. She couldn’t earn that much working at a cafe surely. I didn’t have any secrets, but Jessie obviously did. All this time she’d spent trying to crawl back, trying to mend things, and she still wasn’t truthful? I don’t know why I was so worked up about it. Maybe she just liked the vintage thrift store look. Maybe she was a closet hipster. Who the hellcared.
I ran a finger along the books on the shelf, seeing that most of them were music related. A Rolling Stones bio, that Nikki Sixx book, big heavy hardbacks about The Clash and the Sex Pistols. A book about Seattle grunge. Then there was a bunch of classics like Jane Austin and Franz Kafka, then what looked like an unopened copy of Twilight. After our road trip to hell, I still didn’t know who shewas.
The front door opened and closed, but I didn’t turn around from the bookcase. I didn’t know what the hell it looked like, me going through her stuff, but at least I wasn’t rifling through her underwear drawer. That would’ve beencreepy.
I listened to her move across the apartment and sweep the curtains open all the way, letting in the harsh sunlight. “Have you foundanything?”
I knew she was referring to the laptop. “Haven’t lookedyet.”
I didn’t want to turn around because I would have to look ather.
To my annoyance, she stood right next to me and pulled out a CD, handing it to me. “That was the first one I brought. I was about fourteen, Iguess.”
I looked down at the CD and read the title.The Clash, Combat Rock. “Stop,” Iwhispered.
“Stop what?” she asked, her voicethin.
“Stop trying to fixit.”
Her breathing hitched, and it was all I could do not to comfort her. This whole thing was fucked up. The only thing I could think of asking her right then was the one thing I didn’t want toknow.
“Why did you really leaveme?”
She was silent for so long I didn’t think she was going to answer. I was more than ready to walk out when she said, “I wasafraid.”
