Somebody to Love (Tyler Jamison #1) - April Wilson Page 0,76

They’ll come back.”

I have abandonment issues. That’s what happens when, at the ripe old age of five, you’ve been shuffled around from one home to another, never staying in one place long. Never getting attached and always getting handed off to someone else. Back and forth from my birth mother to foster homes, over and over, until finally the courts said enough. That’s when I ended up with Martin and Ruth Alexander… my forever home. My family.

My throat closes up on me, making it difficult to swallow. Even to breathe. Tears sting my eyes as I fist the bedding and let out a frustrated growl.

Stop it!

“Think it through rationally, Ian,” my therapist would say.

He had to go to work. He has responsibilities. It’s not the end of the world. He’s not leaving you. Get a grip.

He was just being considerate and didn’t want to wake you. Maybe it’s that simple, and you’re making a mountain out of a fucking mole hill. It wouldn’t be the first time.

Yeah, I have abandonment issues. Years of on-and-off therapy have helped a lot, but it’s no magic bullet. My demons still come back to haunt me.

I need to get out of here. So I climb out of bed, shower and get dressed, and then I grab my camera case, which doubles as a backpack, and hit the streets.

Photography is my therapy now. It helps me reframe my life, reframe the world I see. It helps me put my life into perspective when I see what others are going through. It helps remind me not to be a selfish bastard and be grateful for the things—and the people—I have in my life.

As I’m walking toward Millennium Park, I text my sister.

How’s it going? How’s the new bodyguard? – me

A few minutes later, I get a reply.

He sucks even more than the previous one. My sugars are all over the place, and the voices are worse than usual. Mom and Dad are hovering worse than ever. I hate my life. Can I come live with you? – Layla

Shit. I was afraid this would happen. I think Miguel was right—Layla needs a medically-trained bodyguard. I should talk to Mom and Dad about that. I just want my sister to be happy. I want her to live as close to a normal life as possible, without putting her at risk.

Mom and Dad would freak if you moved out. They’re not ready for that. – me

Half an hour later, I’m at Millennium Park, standing in front of the world-renowned metal sculpture lovingly referred to as ‘The Bean.’ The shiny, polished, stainless-steel sculpture reflects the Chicago cityscape behind me, along with an expansive skyline. Dark clouds are rolling in from the lake to the East, perfectly matching my mood.

My phone chimes with an incoming message.

I’m off to class now. Talk later. Luv u! – Layla

Be careful. Looks like a storm is rolling in. – me

You’re such a worrywart! – Layla

I walk around the park for a while, taking pictures. But what interests me more is the real Chicago, not the tourists and not the famous landmarks. I’m more interested in the dark underbelly of the city, which is inhabited by the homeless, the mentally ill, drug abusers, and those simply down-on-their-luck. I might have ended up one of them if it weren’t for the Alexanders. There but for the grace of God go I.

I walk a few blocks more until my stomach threatens to abandon me if I don’t feed it. I head to one of my favorite lunch spots. It’s a small hole-in-the-wall Mexican restaurant run by a very close-knit family. As I approach the restaurant, I notice a familiar face sitting on the sidewalk right outside the door.

“Hey, Jerry,” I say as I approach the door.

Jerry looks up, gazing at me with tired, weary eyes. He’s a grizzled old guy, a military veteran of the first Gulf war. He suffers from PTSD, and he refuses to get help. I’ve offered to try to get him into a shelter, but he’s not interested. The least I can do is put food in his belly.

I open the restaurant door. “Come on in, Jerry. I’ll buy you some lunch.”

He eyes me warily, but after a few moments of contemplation, he heaves himself up to his boot-clad feet and walks into the restaurant.

I join Jerry at the counter. “Whatever my friend wants,” I say to the kid behind the cash register.

Jerry glances at me, then turns to the kid. “Ten tacos and