“You worried? About sharing the apartment alone? With Sloane?” Michael asks.
A few months ago, I would have laughed at him for making the suggestion. A few months ago, I probably would have punched his arm hard enough to leave a bruise and told him to stop being so fucking ridiculous. But now…I turn and face my friend, fighting for the right words. “I’m not…I don’t…” I take a deep breath. “It’s not about the apartment. I’m worried about sharing a bed with her.”
Michael doesn’t laugh, which is the only thing that saves him from a fist to the face. He pouts, nodding at me. “So, you’re worried about the sleep thing? Because you want to share a bed with her?”
God, why is this so hard to admit to another person? “Yes.”
Michael carries on nodding, his eyes serious as he thinks this over. “Well,” he tells me, “it hardly seems fair that you should have to worry about that your whole life. Does it?” Maybe Michael has foreseen the same future for Sloane and myself that I just did, lying in the dark in that room, hating myself. “I guess the question you ought to ask yourself, boss, is…do you think she’s worth facing that particular problem? Is she forever? Because you can only keep one of those elements in your life forever—the girl, or the monster that plagues your dreams. The choice is yours.”
The candor of his response makes me a little edgy—we don’t talk about this sort of stuff—but I’m at a crossroads here. And what he’s saying actually makes sense. It’s all well and good being a man about things and showing the world a hard exterior, but sometimes being a man means admitting you need a little help. And…and I think I’ve reached that point. Even thinking that makes me uneasy, but the girl…Sloane is worth it. She has to be. “Michael, I need a ride.”
He doesn’t question this. He doesn’t say a word. He steps out of his apartment and closes the door behind him, straightening his tie. I already know the answer to the question, but since we’re having our own version of a DNM, I have to say I’m interested in what Michael thinks to the question he posed me a moment ago. “Just for argument’s sake…” Michael hits the call button for the elevator. We wait in silence a moment, and then I man up and ask the rest of the question. “Do you think she’s forever?”
Michael stares straight ahead, waiting for the doors to the elevator to open. “Oh, I knew you were her forever as soon as I saw the way she looked at you, Zee.” He slides his hands into his pockets, clears his throat. And then he turns and looks me straight in the eye and says, “I’m just really glad you’ve figured out she’s yours, man. Because you deserve that. And so does she.”
******
It’s almost midnight by the time Michael drops me off across the city at the entrance to a very familiar park. I didn’t give him directions; he just knew where I wanted to go. Well, not wanted to go, per se. I definitely don’t want to be here. But fuck…the woman is the only option I have open to me at this time of night without an appointment.
“Make sure she’s safe, man?” I ask, as I climb out of the generic hatchback Michael’s procured from “the getting place”, as he calls it. He knows which she I’m referring to perfectly well.
“’Course. I’ll see you later.”
“Right.” I slam the door closed and slap my palm on top of the car, and Michael burns off down the street. That leaves me standing in front of a building I quite honestly never thought I’d set foot inside of again. Pippa Newan’s apartment building is the kind with a night guard and concierge—a smart move if you’re a shrink that treats aggressive criminals all day long. However, if you’re buzzed into the building and say you’re visiting a friend, there’s not a great deal anyone can do to keep you out. I pull the Girl Scout trick; I press the first button and drag my finger down the thirty or so call buttons that are lit up on the intercom panel. It only takes a moment for the door to buzz open.
The guard and the concierge don’t even question me as I head straight for the elevator. I’ve often found if you exude confidence and look like you know where you’re going, you don’t get hassled. I guess in this particular case, it also helps that I look like I could bench their combined body weight. My insides are humming as I ride the elevator up to Newan’s floor. I don’t know if it’s excitement or dread cycling through me, but whatever it is, I feel like I’m gonna throw up. Fucking ridiculous.
When I reach Newan’s door, I make myself pause. Is this a great idea? The last time Sloane came here, the bitch turned her over to the DEA. Admittedly, she didn’t believe anything bad was going to happen to her friend; she did it because she wanted Sloane to hand me over. There’s little stopping her from making that phone call again. So no, I suppose it’s a seriously terrible fucking idea, but I have to risk it. Sloane is worth it. It feels like there’s a lot riding on this. I ball up my fist and thump it hard against the solid wood door.
I wait.
Nothing.
Maybe she isn’t home. I’m reaching into my pocket for my lock-picking tools—nothing says surprise! like a convicted felon waiting for you in the dark—when there’s a soft scraping on the other side of the door. There’s a spyhole in the door, but I don’t cover it up. I step back so the good doctor can get a good look at who’s on her doorstep.