Gray - By Pete Wentz Page 0,40

but our hearts never do. . . . I could deny it to myself all I wanted, but I loved Her. I needed Her. And she needed to know that I did. In that instant, I could tell where this night was heading; we insomniacs know when sleep’s not in the cards.

In that instant, a desperation had come over me; a panic. I didn’t know what to do but I knew I had to do it now, so I sat up in my bed, ran my fingers through my hair, and decided to do something irrational. And now I am hopping around in the dark, pulling my jeans on, trying not to make a sound or break my neck. John Miller is snoring biblically at this point, as if he’s got locusts in his throat, and as I slip out of the bedroom, he sputters and snorts, comes close to surfacing, but doesn’t wake up. If he did, I would’ve smothered him with a pillow. Such is my mania.

Before I know it, I am sitting in my brother’s car, trying to figure out how to make the garage door open without waking them up. Did you know that with enough force you can make even a mechanical garage door open? Neither did I, until I found myself squatting and sweating, working my fingers under the lip of the thing, then gritting my teeth and lifting. I grunt and swear under my breath, nearly kill myself, and have to rest the door on my shoulder. But, eventually, I get it up, push it over my head, and it didn’t make a sound as it swung open. I step out into the driveway, pale blue in the moonlight, and look up at my parents’ bedroom window to make sure they’re still sleeping. I’m not really sure why I’m doing any of this . . . I am twenty-five years old, I can come and go as I please. But something about tonight lends itself to secrecy. I start the car as quietly as I can, wincing as the engine wakes from its sleep. It hasn’t moved since my brother went away to college, and it takes a few seconds to shake the cobwebs. Then I drive out and onto the street, slowly, no headlights on, and I’m off. At the very least, I know now I can break into my parents’ garage if the situation warrants it.

The streets of the North Shore are deserted, dead. The neat brick houses are sleeping, their shutters closed tight. Even the lampposts have dozed off. I drive around for a bit, past Avoca Park, where I used to play Youth Soccer, down to the Baha’i temple, its dome illuminated for no one in particular. I don’t know where I’m going, so I just keep driving, my bones buzzing and my head fuzzy, that kind of feeling you only get when you’re awake while the rest of the world is asleep. An uninterrupted stream of classic rock is on the radio, the DJs playing long songs like “Layla” so they can go for smoke breaks. I am driving with the windows down, and the night feels damp on my face. I’m the only one breathing it in right now, the only one alive. I glance down at the clock on the dashboard. Jesus, it’s three thirty in the morning. It’s Monday now. Off in the distance, I see a truck stopping at each house, tossing newspapers out of the passenger door. I throw the car in park and turn the radio down, listen to hear the thump of the Monday edition landing on each driveway. It’s a sound most people don’t ever get to hear, but if you’ve heard it once—if you’ve been wandering the streets while the businessmen sleep—then you never forget it.

I decide to drive into the city. Maybe I will call Her and wake Her up. I reach into my pocket and realize I’ve left my cell phone sitting next to my bed. Oh, well. It will have to be a surprise then. I don’t know what time she wakes up for class, or even if she has class, but I’m pretty sure it’s not going to be for a few hours now. I’ve got time to kill and nowhere to kill it. I steer the car back toward Sheridan, take it over the harbor, pass the Baha’i again, its dome still lit. I follow the road as it twists through the campus of