what to do with her—not that I ever have. And the worst part is that I don't think she wants me to do anything with her. It feels like I'm losing her more and more every day that goes by that I'm not with her. It's terrifying. I've never been so close to having her and losing her all at the same time.
It's been nearly a week since I left the house. I didn't know what else to do. She didn't want me there. She doesn't seem to want me anywhere, so I left. She didn't exactly say she wants out, but that was the gist of the idea. And now she's here at James's—my refuge—and I can't decide if I want to scream at her or if I want to kiss her; not that that's anything new.
She asks if we can talk and I want to talk to her. It's just bad timing. I'm about to head out on shift and if the conversation goes bad, then the entire shift is going to be awful. And maybe I'm a baby because I can't handle it if she tells me she wants out. Just maybe.
"Here's fine," I say. We have an audience—a bunch of nosey bastards making no attempt to give us any privacy—but whatever. I just want to get this over with. If she's going to leave me, I'd rather it be quick. And if I'm being honest with myself, she looks like she wants to leave me; or the house at least. She wants to run, I can see it. Midway through my frustration at our very private conversation being made public by a bad venue, she starts rambling.
"I love you," she screams at a level I swear I thought only dogs could hear. My mouth falls open. She looks very uncomfortable; her eyes shut tight, fists at her sides. This doesn't look like my Colleen. This is that other Colleen that I don't care for very much. My Colleen isn't afraid of anything; but this woman is terrified. The fear is practically rolling off her in waves, sweat beads forming on her forehead.
Did she just say she loves me?
I'm about to ask her to repeat what she said—just in case I might be hallucinating—when my radio goes off. Very faintly in the background, I can hear Vicky's voice directing me to a burglary in progress. This gives new meaning to the phrase "bad timing." I can't stand here and hash it out with Colleen, and I can't respond to the call before clearing a few things up. For a split second, I'm tempted to ignore the dispatch; but I can't. I would never be able to live with myself if someone got hurt because I was dealing with my own personal crap.
Colleen's talking and I can't hear half of what she's saying, but what I am hearing isn't very fucking good. I hear "I love you" and then I hear "friend" and then "I love you" again. I shake my head in frustration and ask Vicky to repeat the message as I plug my finger in my ear and hold the radio close to the other one. I think Colleen will get the hint, but she doesn't. Now she's rattling off about something or other. I can't tell if she's telling me she loves, if she's telling me she doesn't want me, or if she's accusing me of something because the last thing I hear is a very loud "you!" coming from her.
Like I said. Bad timing.
"Patrick," Vicky says, agitated. "I said there's a burglary at the corner of Dorchester and Broadway. I know you're not on shift yet, but you're around the corner."
I choose not to think about what Colleen's telling me because I have to respond to this call. At a time like this right now, I wish I were an accountant or something so a work emergency didn't constitute life and death. Unfortunately, that's not the world I live and work in.
I have to answer this call.
I shut Colleen out in an effort to regain my composure and I tell Vicky that James and I will take care of it.
"James! We got a 10-26 over on Dorchester," I shout and clip the radio to my belt. James races down the stairs—as evidenced by the sounds of a stampede that he's making; and we rush for the front door. He tells me not to worry about the car that we'll be faster on foot. Colleen