me, like, we probably could have had sex right here on this couch—”
I put my hand up. I didn’t want to hear another word. “Don’t tell me these things. This isn’t just some random girl.”
“Duffy.” Anderson leaned in closer, his eyes ablaze. “I’m trying not to be just some random guy.”
I lowered my hand. “You didn’t—”
“Jesus, no. Of course not.”
“Good.”
He looked at me, waiting for the rest.
“She is a drunk,” I said finally.
The tension drained from him. “I know.”
“And she’s more than that. She’s Carl’s, and she’s being beaten by someone, and her mama just died.”
He didn’t respond.
“Josie’s lost, Anderson.”
Again, nothing.
I reiterated. “She’s not just some girl.”
“I know.”
I paused. A dull pain had slowly replaced the local anesthetic they’d pumped into my head. I gestured to it. “And this is her fault.”
Anderson sat forward, his hands clasped in front of him. His silence indicated that he knew this as well, but, like me, he didn’t know what to do about it. Turning her in would be the end of this; we were juggling a piece of glass that had splintered but not yet shattered. Pointing my finger at her would destroy what little trust she had in me, and to what end? I wasn’t going to press charges. I wasn’t going to stop my crusade on account of it either. If anything, over the past few hours I’d become more determined. I was her sponsor now, and I planned to serve her in good faith.
“It’s late,” I said. “Go home.”
“What about her?” Anderson said softly, almost to himself. He regarded me. “I want to help.” His words went beyond tonight. They knocked on the door to where I’d already moved in, and I couldn’t guarantee it was a safe place to be.
“Let me worry about her. You don’t know what you’re getting into.”
He raised his eyebrows and waited, prompting me to remember that he actually knew more than most. More than me, even; I’d only ever been on the broken end of this sort of arrangement.
“Call me a glutton for punishment,” he said.
“You must be.”
He scrubbed his face, frustrated. “What am I supposed to do with all this practice I have from battling my dad? Throw it away? Taking care of a drunk is one of my few talents.”
“You have a lot more to offer than that.”
“Like what? I barely graduated from high school because of that son of a bitch. I had to get a GED because I was too busy taking care of his shit. I had to”—he motioned to the darkened entrance of the kitchen—“work. And after all that, when I finally got the hell out of there, he was still an addict.” He flung a pained glance at me. “I hate him, and I miss him. How messed-up is that?”
“It’s not.”
“It is, Duf. It’s messed-up. He screwed me over. And, man, if you want to know how badly, how about this: Helping Josie feels like coming home, and I promised myself I’d never go back. But she’s here, and I’m not leaving this time without having something to show for it.”
We sat with this confession hanging in the air until I felt obligated to be the voice of reason. “This may not end any different.”
He sat unnaturally still. “I know what I’m getting into.”
I collapsed further into the wheelchair. “I want to help her too.”
“All right.”
“Okay then.”
We sat in the darkness, mulling over our newfangled commitment to this girl. Paired with Alice’s mission for her and Carl’s absolute need for her, it had to be enough to shift the momentum. The lot of us were an immovable force.
Josie stirred as if she could sense this, unfurling like a stretching cat. Her eyelids fluttered open, and her gaze landed on Anderson. She gave him a suggestive, sleepy smile, her fingers playing on the space next to her. Anderson looked away from the invitation, like this