bruises and pretending not to see, for not lifting a finger to try to save me. “Why?” I wanted to beat on their chests and demand. “Why do you not tell him to stop hurting me? Maybe he’d listen to you.”
And then I saw your mother’s face at Easter, after I mistook a pack of napkins for your fist and let out that terrible scream, and I realized why she didn’t.
Just like me, your mother has been laboring under the delusion that I could save you.
I tried. God knows I tried. I thought if I was nice enough, agreeable enough, competent enough, I could return you to the man you were when we met, the one who took out the trash for the wheelchair-bound man in the apartment under us or who helped put down wood floors in the church nursery. But that was the fake Marcus, the sweet and helpful Marcus, the guy you are when you know people are watching. No one can save you, and I’ve paid with bruises and broken bones to come to that understanding.
You wrap a hand around my head and yank me forward so fast I screw up my eyes, expecting an explosion of pain, my nose connecting with your forehead. But nothing happens. I crack open an eye, and your face is an inch from mine.
Your fingers press into the base of my skull, not painful but uncomfortable, a hint of what’s to come. “Now you and I go to your shithole room upstairs. We have a pleasurable—me—and tearful—you—reunion. After that, after we are thoroughly spent—again, mostly me—we take a nap. You will wait for me to doze off, and then you will slip out of bed, write a sad note begging for forgiveness from me and God, and shoot yourself in the head with this.”
In one swift move, you snatch the gun from my waistband. I blink, and it’s gone.
“A Sig. Nice choice.” You check the safety, eject the magazine, look up with a laugh. “You didn’t even load it? Jesus, Em, have I taught you nothing?”
My heart pumps hard and fast, beating against my ribs. If you pat me down, if you reach a hand into my bag, I’m done. I arrange my expression into something scared and defeated, and I do a good-enough job of it that you look pleased. After all, I’ve had plenty of practice.
You heave a disappointed sigh, your breath hot on my cheeks, and slide the gun into your waistband. “I’m going to have to confiscate this thing, as I’m guessing you don’t have a permit. I’m sure you understand.”
Oh yes, I do. I understand perfectly. I understand that no matter what happens next, I will not go into that hotel room. As soon as I cross that threshold, I’m dead.
“Let’s go.” You tilt your head across the pavement, gesturing in the direction of the stairwell. I don’t budge, and you lift your brows. “The sooner we get upstairs, the sooner we can get this over with.”
Despite your words, my heart thrills with excitement. You haven’t reached for the bag hanging at my hip. I’m not even sure you’ve noticed it.
You shove me across the broken glass toward the stairs, and my thoughts are a jumble of desperate Hail Mary pleas. I search the lot for people, scanning the windows for anyone, for a hooker or her pimp or Terry, her face pressed to the glass. But the folks here can sense danger like a dog sniffing out a bomb, and they know when to barricade the doors and stay away from the windows. If anyone is up there peeking out of theirs, watching you force me across the lot, they’re not going to help.
You make me go first, pushing me into the stairwell, and I begin the slow climb. You stay close to my heels, and I drag my feet on purpose. The gun bounces in the bag at my hip, but I won’t win in a shoot-out. I need a distraction, a junkie with a needle in his arm, a bum crouched in a corner, his pants around his ankles. I just need a second, just one, to catch you off guard.
We’re almost to the second-story landing when it happens. The giant brown pile I passed on the way down, one that was definitely not left there by a dog.
You crook an arm, press your elbow over your nose at the unholy smell. “Jesus, how do you stand living here?”