neck hurt. It was a strange excuse, and I was furious with myself for not being more useful. It was my dream, after all. Why couldn’t I make it so that my neck didn’t hurt? And then the next thing I know, I’m awake—for real, awake—and lo and behold, it’s because my neck hurt, thanks to the goddamn chair I was sleeping in.
I squinted at the digital alarm clock on Carl’s bedside table. It was almost two in the morning, and I’d slept for an hour and a half. Sighing, I looked back at the mini blinds to count slats again. I’d work out an average, since no two passes produced the same total. I started from the top and had made it to fifteen when they bowed out toward me, clinking together with a quiet noise. I sat straighter, wide-awake now, just as they settled back in line with the window. The silence that followed went on and on, and gradually the tension in my shoulders let out. I was hearing things. Dreaming it.
Then there the blinds went again, clanking softly. I struggled to my feet and ripped the lift cord with such force I half expected Carl to wake up with the racket. But he didn’t stir.
I’m not sure what I hoped to see. A repeat of yesterday morning, I guess. But there was nothing outside. Not even the feral cat that would occasionally lurk around in search of a rodent. Not a squirrel, not an owl, not a cricket.
My adrenaline drained into disappointment. I let the blinds drop back down and turned the tilt wand so the wind wouldn’t keep blowing them like sails. As I adjusted the slats to the perfect angle, an unhurried realization came to me: I hadn’t left the window open. I’d unlocked it, yes, but I’d closed it tight.
I turned toward my bed.
Sure enough, there she was, strewn across my mattress, with my pillow sandwiching her face, with her long black hair spread about like a halo, with one arm hanging partway off, fingers dangling from her drooping wrist. Eyelids fluttering, lips parted, chest rising and falling in a timely manner.
The sight gave me a hitch in my rib.
I shuffled forward and then turned in a tight circle, because I wasn’t sure what to do with myself. I was thrilled to get my wish, but now what? I thought of waking Carl so he could share in the joy, but he slept as peacefully as she. I stepped closer and brushed a stray strand of hair off her forehead, careful not to touch the spreading bruise around her eye. At this vicinity, I could smell the tang of alcohol seeping from her skin. She didn’t stir at my touch, and it occurred to me that she’d passed out here.
Centennial had officially become a flophouse.
It stood to reason. I’d left her in a state, and she’d arrived accordingly.
I moved her hand back onto the bed, across her stomach, and pulled up the covers she’d kicked down by her feet. As I tucked them under her chin, she sucked in a greedy breath and turned, her eyes flickering open for a millisecond. I froze, with my hands hovering over her like a blessing, and waited for her to relax again. But instead, in a drunken way, she fought to stay with it, and somehow her green eyes were on me—shining copper in the dark.
“Go back to sleep,” I whispered. “You’re safe.”
There, a corner of a smile—so small I wouldn’t have seen it if I weren’t so close. But it was there, genuine and easy. “You . . . you came for me.” Her lids, too heavy now, closed again, and that tiny smile dropped away into nothing. Into sleep.
I didn’t move. I couldn’t; my legs were shaking.
I never regretted not having children, or, better said: I never regretted not inflicting myself on a child. Children need too much love, and despite what everyone likes to say, love is not free. Love hurts. It’s action, sacrifice, hard, costly, and I was . . . I am . . . a selfish man.
Josie lying here drunk was proof of that.
She twitched and repositioned her head