Behind His Lens(86)

But after hours pass, my confidence dwindles. I must have jogged the entire park three times before I finally decide I’m not meant to find her. Either I missed her running by, or she didn’t come out to the trail at all. It’s possible that our paths didn’t cross, but it doesn’t feel right. My gut tells me she’s not here.

Why isn’t she? It’s Saturday morning.

Various reasons start fleeting through my head, sending a panic racing through me. Without another thought, I jog toward the perimeter of the park and hail a cab.

“Greenwich Village,” I shout at the driver as I jump into the back seat and toss forward a hundred dollar bill so he’ll take the quickest route. My eyes score the streets as my thumb taps against my thigh incessantly. I’m trying to calm my nerves, but nothing helps. I keep picturing scenarios that send a shock of sadness through me. Hope for the best, plan for the worst.

Charley, please let me in. I plead to the universe as the cab driver rounds the city streets.

Was I a fool to push her away? Was she beginning to open up to me? I couldn’t tell. I felt like I’d given her everything but, she wasn’t ready. I can’t save her and she can’t save me. We can’t be bandages for one another…But I never thought of her as band-aid. If anything, being around her felt like ripping a band-aid off: fast, sharp, exhilarating, painful, and alive.

She’s so sad, but I made her smile. I forced her to live. And now what? Did I push her too far?

Fuck.

The moment the cab pulls up to her apartment, I throw open the door and jump out. By the grace of God, or whatever other deity I’d prayed to on the way over, one of her house mates happens to be walking out right as I pull up. I yell at him to hold the door and jog down the hall to her room.

One piece of solid red oak stands between Charley and me. I bang on that barrier until the entire house, or maybe the entire street, can hear me.

“Charley! Let me in,” I yell through the crack in the door hinge, but there’s no movement from within.

“You don’t have to deal with everything on your own. I want to be with you— whatever part of you that you’ll give me!” My voice echoes through the old house, hopefully reaching the one person who needs to hear it the most.

I bang louder, hearing the wood splinter in the door frame. Am I insane enough to break it down? God, what if she’s just not f*cking home?

No. Naomi said she’s been worse than usual. She’s in there.

“Charley!” I yell once more before deciding I have to go to Mrs. Jenkins. If she truly cares about Charley, then she’ll come check on her.

I bolt up the stairs, but I guess my pounding didn’t go completely unnoticed because the old woman is already coming out of her second floor apartment.

“What is it, young man?” she huffs indignantly.

“I need to get into Charley’s apartment. I think there might be something wrong.”

She tisks, shaking her head. “I don’t make it a regular habit of breaking into my tenants apartments when they aren’t expecting me.”

Damnit, woman!

“You know Charley. You know how she gets. If she doesn’t want to see me then you can lock the door behind me and I’ll never come back, but I think there’s something wrong.”

It takes some convincing, and I’m pretty sure she thinks I’m Charley’s estranged boyfriend, but who am I kidding? I’m actually not far from it.

“Young man. You seem respectable enough, so I’ll do this because I really like Charley. But I pray that poor girl isn’t just taking a shower or napping. Or God forbid, you’re some kind of stalker.”

I open my mouth to assure her, but she’s already heading down the stairs and I don’t care at this point. I don’t care if standing in Central Park for four hours waiting for her to run by makes me crazy. I just can’t let another person in my life slip through my fingers and become one more regret.

My mouth goes dry as Mrs. Jenkins slides her key into the lock. I can’t swallow or breathe; I can’t process anything as that door slides open. My eyes cast down to the doormat that looks like an abstract painting threw up on it, then up toward the empty bottle of tequila that had wedged itself behind the door. It clinks across the floor as Mrs. Jenkins pushes the door completely open and my heart breaks.

She’s lying there, in a heap on the ground. Her face is ghostly pale and tears glisten across her cheeks as they stream down in a constant wave. She’s alive, but completely immobile. Her blue eyes are cloudy and focused out toward the wall above the door. I rush in, pulling off my jacket and leaning down to feel her pulse. It’s there, she’s breathing, but her expression is dead and she doesn’t seem to realize we’ve broken into her apartment.