Punk 57(45)

I continue driving, glancing at the map on my GPS and taking a right on Birch and then a left on Girard.

248 Girard. I’ve known his address by heart since I was eleven. At first I thought, with us being only a half hour away from each other, of course we’d see each other eventually. When we got our licenses and had more freedom.

But by the time that day came, we had lives, friends, and obligations, and it seemed to be enough to know we could see each other anytime we wanted to.

If we wanted to.

I pass the houses and read the numbers written on the columns, walls, and gates at their entrances. 212, 224, 236, and then…

I see it. On the left with a hedge of trees and two small rock columns featuring a walk-through gate and a drive-through gate, which is currently open. It’s a three-story, Tudor-style house, balancing the wood and rock beautifully, and I pull to a stop on the other side of the road to stare at it for a minute.

It’s quaint and picturesque but not as massive or pretentious as so many of the homes I saw on the way here.

But it does have a fountain in the front.

He grew up here. This is where my letters have been coming.

No wonder he complains so much, I laugh to myself. It’s a great house, but it isn’t him at all. Misha, who got suspended for fighting twice, plays the guitar, and thinks that beef jerky and Monster energy drinks make for a healthy breakfast lives in a house that looks like it could have a butler.

I feel my lungs growing heavy and thick, and I take out the extra inhaler I keep in a secret compartment in the console. Spring is here, and my allergies are going haywire.

I take two puffs, slowly feeling my lungs start to open up again.

I check my phone, seeing the time is nearly ten. I can’t sit here all day, can I? I look up, noticing a couple of women jogging toward me on the sidewalk, and I hear a kid yelling from somewhere in the neighborhood. I tap my foot against the pedal, suddenly torn.

I said I wasn’t going to get out of the car, but... Being this close, possibly only feet away from him, I miss him so much. I need to know what’s going on.

If I go up to that door, our relationship is over as I know it. Maybe it will go on in some other way, when I find out what’s wrong with him, but it won’t be the same once I see his face. Things will change, and I will have broken what worked. It will be awkward, and he won’t have been prepared for me just to show up like this. What if we both just sit there, twiddling our thumbs and not saying anything, because I’m the crazy stalker who hunted him down, and now he feels weird?

“Screw it,” I snap, realizing I’m talking to myself, but I don’t care.

I rely on him. I have a right to. We’ve had that commitment for seven years. If he doesn’t want me to show up, then he damn-well should’ve written back and told me it was over. I have a right to know what’s going on.

Pushing open my door, I hop out of my Jeep and slam it shut. With weak legs and shallow breaths, I jog across the street, pushing my fear out of my head.

Don’t think. Just go. He’s driving me crazy, and I need it to end. I just need to know.

Walking up the driveway, I dart my eyes around, looking at the windows to see if anyone sees me approaching. I smooth my hair back, readjusting my ponytail as I step up to the door.

I should’ve dressed right. I should be wearing make-up. What if he’s home and sees me and starts laughing? I’m a mess.

No, Misha knows me. He’s the only one who knows the real me. He won’t care what I look like.

I pull the collar of my shirt away from my body and dip my nose in, sniffing. I shower twice a day—at night because I usually get sweaty at cheer and swim and in the morning after my workouts—but I didn’t have one yet today.

Smells fine, I guess. Although my sister did say once that you can’t smell yourself.

I bring up my hand and rap on the door several times. Then I see a doorbell to the right. Dammit, I should’ve rung that.

It doesn’t matter. I fold my arms over my chest, hugging myself, and shift on my feet as I bow my head and close my eyes.

Misha, Misha, Misha, where are you?

I hear the door open, and my heart skips a beat.

“Yes?” someone says.

I blink up and immediately relax a little, taking in a little more air. It’s a man, much older than Misha would be, with graying dark hair and green eyes. His dad?

He’s wearing a dark blue robe, tied over a full set of pajamas, and embarrassment warms my cheeks. It’s a Saturday morning. Maybe he just woke up.

“Uh, hi,” I finally say, unfolding and then folding my arms again. “Is, uh…Misha here? By any chance?”

I see his back straighten a little, as if on guard. “No, I’m sorry, he isn’t,” he replies quietly.

He isn’t. So he lives here. This is his house. I don’t know why having that confirmed fills me with dread and excitement at the same time.

And this guy must be his father.

“Do you know when he’ll be back?” I ask as politely as I can. “I’m a friend of his.”

His chest rises with a heavy breath and his gaze falls. I notice his cheeks look sunken, and he has bags under his eyes, as if he’s sick or tired or something.

“If you’re a friend, I’m sure you can call him and find out,” he says.

I falter. Yeah, if I were his friend, why wouldn’t I have his cell number?