Eighteen (18)(69)

He has nothing to say to that. Mateo Alesci is struck speechless as I walk out of his house and cross Broadway. I make my way to my apartment and sure enough, there’s that little yellow tape over the front door.

Fuck them. Jason’s stuff is gone, it’s just my stuff being held hostage. I’m just about to rip the tape off the door when a voice calls out behind me.

“Wanna come inside, Shannon?”

I turn around to see the cop chick across the quad, peeking her head through her screen door. She’s got her blonde hair up in a ponytail and her uniform on.

“Are you going to bust me if I go inside and get my things?” I yell.

“No,” she calls back. “No one really cares. I’m sure they got what they needed last night.”

“Were you a part of it too? Is that why you moved in?”

“Maybe a little bit,” she concedes. “But not the way you think. I knew what the task force was up to, but that’s not why I asked you if you were OK that day.”

“Then why?”

“Why?” She laughs. “Because I care.” She opens her door wider and repeats her offer. “Want to come inside?”

“I really don’t,” I say back. “I just need to sleep. And I might not have much in there, but it’s mine. And I need it right now.”

“I get it. I do. And if you ever want to come talk, feel free. We can be friends.” She smiles at me, then closes her door and disappears inside.

I don’t want any more friends right now, so I open the front door to my apartment and go inside. It’s not trashed like you see in movies. Of course, we really had nothing. And Jason took everything that was his and Olivia’s when he left yesterday. My room has a few things out of place, but the bed is just fine.

I strip out of my clothes, take a shower, dress in shorts and a tank top, and spend the whole day curled up under a blanket in my dark room.

I do not sleep for one moment. My eyes close, but all I see are the mistakes I made.

Maybe this is why people kill themselves?

My whole life can be contained in a backpack. It makes me laugh. I have four days before I’m kicked out of this apartment, I have about—

A sharp knock on my window scares the shit out of me. Mateo stares back from the other side, and then he slides the window open and points his finger at me. “You know what?”

“What?” I growl. I’m so annoyed at him for interrupting my thoughts.

“Fuck you. Fuck you, Shannon. You don’t get to f*cking wallow in pity and call me a bulldozer.”

“Get out.”

“No. I’m not even in, so I’m not getting out. I’m sticking around. How about that? You’re not gonna get rid of me that easy. And you know what else? I paid your f*cking rent. Now what are you gonna do?”

“What?”

“I’ve lived in this neighborhood most of my life. You don’t think I know who owns this building? So you can’t just leave. You’re paid up for six months.”

“What the f*ck are you doing?”

“I’m saving you, bitch.”

I almost crack a smile.

“OK?” he says. “I’m f*cking saving you whether you want it or not.” He holds up a brown paper bag with a receipt stapled to it. “And I brought lasagna. So try to say no to that. I dare you.”

“Mateo—”

“No, dammit. No. I’m good for you. I’m good. For. You. And I totally understand what you’re saying. You need space, you need to make your own way. You need all the things I got when I was your age. But you can still do that and be my girlfriend. It’s not a zero-sum game, Shannon. Life isn’t all or nothing, it’s something in between. So here,” he says, holding the lasagna bag out. “I know you’re hungry, so I brought you dinner. You don’t have to come over, you don’t have to let me in, hell, you don’t even have to talk to me. But I’m still here. I’m always gonna be here.” He balances the bag on the window sill. “I’ll just be across the street.”

And then he turns away and walks through my gate, slamming it behind him.

I sit there for a few moments, stunned. But then the smell of lasagna wafts in and my stomach grumbles so loud, and so forcefully, I get up and grab the bag. When I do, I look out onto the patio and see a candle on the little table.

What the f*ck?

I take the bag and go out into the living room, staring at the little flickering flame through the slider. What did he do now?

I walk through the door and smile.

It’s set up like an Italian restaurant. Red-checked tablecloth, menu, silverware, plate, and next to the candle is a little mechanical pencil. I sit down, rip the receipt off the bag, and unfold it to reveal a full sheet of paper. Two actually. I hold it near the dim candlelight so I can read it.

It’s a list of f*cking trig problems. With a puzzle on the back side that I am supposed to solve. The second sheet is a blank piece of paper that says, Show your work.

“Jesus Christ,” I say. But I say it with a smile.

I work the problems as I eat, and by the time I’m done, I have the message.

I like you, it says. Keep going.

He said that to me back when we first met. It was a way to let me know that what we were doing was real and I shouldn’t be scared.