Gray - By Pete Wentz Page 0,42

is the exact same thing. That may scare some people away, might force them to always be moving forward, never looking back, not for a second. But not me. I’m a believer. In my heart, I know that nothing is ever finished. I can’t close the door on anything. Right now, I need to follow my heart; I need to have a little faith. So, against my brain’s advice, I wolf down some eggs, slurp up my coffee, and leave the diner with a newfound sense of purpose. A mission. I walk Clark with a full head of steam, burning seconds with each step. But then I realize that it’s still too early to accomplish much of anything, so I go back to my brother’s car, fall asleep in the backseat. I awake to somber, light purple skies and the sound of early rising commuters. For a second, I think about what my parents will think when they discover John Miller and one empty twin-size in my bedroom. Then I think about John Miller, and what he’ll do when my parents find him there. But only for a second. Then I’m off to Her place.

I cut through Cabrini, hoping to avoid the early morning traffic. I’m not actually sure why . . . it’s barely 6:00 a.m., and I’m in no hurry to get to Her apartment. The city is beautiful now, the Near North Side still slumbering in its affluence, the coffee shops and charcuteries still shuttered tight. I’m watching Chicago awaken. A ghost with no real place to go. But I’m getting antsy, so enough of the ethereal shit. I drive to Her building, slanted and slightly crumbling, the kind of decay rich people pay good money for. I park the car and sit for a few minutes, studying Her window for any sign of life. The same curtains are starting to glow in the early morning sun. I’m suddenly nervous, my throat dry. I study myself in the rearview mirror, just a collection of lines around my mouth and dark circles beneath my eyes. I look like I slept in the backseat of a Toyota.

In a dreamlike daze, I drift across the street, take up position outside Her door. I don’t want to buzz up to Her place, for reasons I probably don’t want to admit to myself. Catching Her in the act and all of that. Delivery drivers unload boxes from their trucks, businessmen hustle to the El train. No one notices me. Her door swings open, but it’s just another guy in a suit and power tie. He eyes me suspiciously as he goes on his way, arrogantly slinging a backpack over his single-breasted jacket. Prick. Nothing happens for a long while, and I shift my weight from one foot to the other, my hands jabbed deep in my pockets. What am I doing here? Maybe this is a terrible mistake. Maybe I am going crazy again. Another motion at the door, but it’s just an old lady, stern and buttoned-up in her sadness. She looks like a principal or something.

An hour goes by, I think. People leave the building. None of them are Her. I stand there, sweating in my early morning mania. By now, everyone is awake at my parents’ house. They know that I’m missing, have probably called my cell, have heard it ringing upstairs in the bedroom. They are probably worried about me. I am thinking that maybe I should find a pay phone, should let them know that I’m alive and only slightly insane. But then, the door of the building swings open, and I turn and she walks right into me. Textbooks fall to the street. In slow motion Her eyes look up, meet mine. Her face goes blank. The smile exploded across those wonderful lips. She buries Herself in my chest, wraps Her arms around my shoulders. She’s shaking like a child, so small in my arms. It’s everything I could’ve imagined it would be. Actually, that’s a lie. It’s even more.

“You came for me” is all she says. It’s all she has to.

There are no apologies. No explanations. None are necessary, not now, probably not ever. The tears well up in Her big eyes. Somewhere deep inside me, something comes alive again. We go up to Her apartment, kissing on the stairwell. We go into Her bedroom. I go inside Her and stay there all day. The world spins along outside, the sun rises and sets, the