Page 87 of Paint the Town, Dove
I shot him a thumbs up as I made way for the doors. Polly grabbed my arm before I could leave. “I didn’t mean to keep that from you.”
“I know.”
Her eyes were sad. “You just… deserve to have some fun sometimes.”
“I know that, too.”
“I’ll…” she shook her head, pulling me in for a quick hug, “I’ll see you tomorrow night.”
“Polly,” I called before she disappeared into the crowd. “You’re a good friend.”
She exhaled, pressing her lips together. “And you’re a good person.”
And that parting comment was what kept me going, past the darkened streets of winding avenues, all the way to Ryden’s front steps. And when I saw that his door was unlocked, empty bottles leaking off the kitchen table, I prayed for patience, exercising all thatgoodin order tosavemy person.
***
The bottom of my boots crunched glass as I walked down the corridor to his bedroom.
His bathroom was in disarray, mirror shards scattered all over the vanity. Droplets of blood soaked up the design. It felt too close to our past.
It felt like a time machine.
His door was ajar.
I took a breath, sealing my eyes.Here we go. Then, gently, I pressed it open.
Ryden’s bedroom was dark, the panoramic view of the city highlighting his unmade bed, music sheets scattered overtop the couch and stuffed into Harley’s guitar case. One of his earliest records played on vinyl, soft, blurring out the white noise.
And there, in the centre of the room, stood Ryden.
Like a statue, he stared out his window, overlooking all of New York.
I could see myself in the reflection of the glass. He could see me too. There was no use in speaking as I approached, heart pounding, unable to look away from the cuts across Ryden’s knuckles, his bare back shunning me away from the hopelessness in his eyes.
Closer and closer I stepped, watching the slow movements of his hand, holding his drink – a deep brown liquid - up to his eye.
“So much world,” he whispered, gazing at the city lights through the fog of his glass. “So much world and I’m stuck in mine.”
I swallowed, coming to his side. “By your own choosing.”
He turned to me slowly, eyes bloodshot and swollen. He’d been crying. “I thought you’d be with Abe Turner.”
I frowned, turning to the urban glow. “Get out of your head.”
“My head’s fine,” he defended. “I’m happy.”
“You’re miserable.”
“I’m forgetting.”
“And what good does that do?” I demanded, anger spilling through each word.
“Drinksdon’t taste good.”
“Then why do you drink?”
“I’m forgetting,” he repeated, glancing at me in beats, then back to the city.His home.
