been crying. She looked at him in confused amazement.
“What happened? Why aren't you on Long Island?” She looked confused.
“Put your clothes on. We're going home.”
“Where?” He looked like a madman. He was wearing a charcoal-gray suit, a white shirt, and a tie. His shoes were shined. He looked immaculate, but his eyes were wild. “Are you drunk?”
“Nope. Cold stone sober. Get dressed. We're leaving.”
“Where are we going?” She didn't move, as Adam looked around the apartment. It was awful, worse than he had expected. It had never dawned on him that she lived in a place that looked like that.
There were two tiny unmade roll-away beds in the bedroom, and sleeping bags in the living room on two tattered couches. Both lampshades on the room's only lamps were broken. Nothing matched, everything was dirty, the window shades were broken and torn, there was a bare lightbulb hanging from a frayed wire in the middle of the room, and the carpet was filthy. The springs of the two couches they'd bought at Goodwill were sagging to the floor, and there was an orange crate as a coffee table. He couldn't imagine living like this, or her coming out of a place like that looking even halfway decent. There was dirty laundry all over the bathroom floor, and dirty dishes everywhere. The hallway when he'd come up had smelled of cats and urine. It made his heart ache just seeing her standing there in her nightgown. It was an old frayed flannel nightie that made her look like a little girl.
“How much do you pay for this place?” he asked her bluntly. He didn't want to say “shithole,” but it was.
“My share is a hundred and seventy-five dollars,” she said, looking embarrassed. She had never let him come up before, and he hadn't asked, and now he felt guilty about that too. The woman slept in his bed nearly every night and he said he loved her, and when she left him, she came back to this. This was worse than Cinderella cleaning up her stepmother's house, scrubbing floors on her knees. It was a total nightmare, and the rest of the time she was getting her ass pinched at Pier 92. He had had no idea how she lived. “It's all I can afford,” she said apologetically, as he fought back tears.
“Come on, Maggie,” he said softly, putting his arms around her and kissing her finally, “let's go home.”
“What are we going to do? Don't you have to go to your parent's house?” She thought maybe he hadn't left yet, and had come to see her on his way out of town. In her dreams, he would ask her to come to his parents' with him. But she didn't realize the full extent of how miserable that would have been.
“I already went. I left. I walked out. I came home to be with you. I can't put up with that shit anymore.” She smiled at him as he said it. She was proud of him, and he knew it. At least someone was. And he was too. It was the ballsiest thing he had ever done. Thanks to her. She had opened his eyes, and when he looked and listened, he couldn't take it anymore. She had reminded him that he had a choice.
“Are we going out for lunch?” she asked, running a hand through her hair. She looked a total mess, and hadn't expected to see him till that night.
“No, I'm making you Thanksgiving dinner at my place. Let's go.” He sat down on one of the couches, and it sagged right to the floor. Everything looked so filthy, he hated to sit down. He couldn't even imagine living there. It never occurred to him that people lived like that. Let alone that she did. It made his heart ache for her. It took her twenty minutes to dress. She just put on jeans, a sweater, a Levi's jacket, and boots, washed her face, and combed her hair. She said she'd shower and put on makeup at his place, and she had decent clothes there. She hated to leave them in the apartment, because her roommates always took them and never gave them back, even her shoes. It was inconceivable to him now, having seen the place, that she ever looked as good as she did for him. You had to be a magician to come out of a hole like that and look, act, and feel like a human