Push(87)

Part of me doesn’t want him to go. Part of me wants to say thank you and tell him that what he did was the craziest and most amazing thing anyone has ever done for me. But the rest of me is angry that he risked so much to get Michael out of my life.
“Can I pay you back for the new window?” I ask as he is walking out the door.
“No f*cking way,” he says. And then the door closes quietly behind him.
* * *

By the next morning I feel better. After David left last night, I tried hard not to think about the whole situation. I tried to distract myself by making a decent dinner, ironing some work clothes, and paying some bills. It worked until I went to sleep. It was then that thoughts of David’s idiocy rocketed around in my head. What a fool he was to use his own cell phone to make those calls. I’m left hoping that Evan’s confession will be enough to keep the police from digging further into Michael’s death. Even though David wasn’t involved in Evan’s eventual attack, he could still go to jail for merely discussing the idea with Ricky. It terrifies me to know that the only thing stopping Ricky from taking the details of David’s offer straight to the police is a threat from David. I hope it’s a big enough reason for Ricky to keep his f*cking mouth shut.
I spend Tuesday morning at work trying once again to distract myself. But no matter how deeply I immerse myself in my design work, my thoughts continue to drip back to David and last night. I won’t see him all day, and I’m left wondering if I’ll wake up tomorrow morning with him in my bed, smelling of whisky and smoke and money.
Just before I leave my desk for lunch, Matt peeks his head around the corner of my cubicle. He was in meetings all morning, so it’s the first time I’ve seen him all day.
“Hey, Emma,” he says, looking guarded. “Sorry to interrupt, but I just wanted to ask you if everything is okay. Did you and David manage to figure everything out last night?”
“Yeah, we’re okay,” I say, trying to muster a small smile. He doesn’t look convinced.
“Okay, well, I know it’s none of my business, but I just got a text from David asking me to check in on you and make sure you’re all right. It made me wonder why he just didn’t text you directly.”
I sigh and roll my eyes. “He thinks I’m still mad at him. Which I am. But don’t worry about it. I’m not nearly as angry as I was yesterday, and it’s not for the same reason. I asked him to give me some space for a day or two.”
“Okay. Hey, at least he’s doing what you asked,” he says with understanding. “I’ll text him to let him know you’re all right.”
“No, don’t,” I say. “I’ll text him myself. I didn’t think he’d be worried.”
Matt nods and puts his hands into his pockets. “So, does that mean I’ll see you at the game tonight?”
“Nah,” I say. “I don’t think so.”
“Can I at least convince you to join me and Brent for lunch in the cafeteria?”
“Sure,” I say, standing up to grab my purse. “I’ll be down in a second. Let me text David first.” Matt heads down the hallway, calling for Brent as he passes his cubicle.
I flip open my phone.


Hi.


His reply is instantaneous.


Hi back.


Wanted to let u know I’m ok. Matt said u asked.


Douche bag wasn’t supposed to say anything to u.


Well he did.


Glad u r ok.


Yep.


Will you come tonight?


I don’t think so.


Do you hate me?


His words hit me hard. I think he made a really f*cking bad choice, but I don’t hate him for it.


It’s lying I hate. Not u. Don’t do it again.


I won’t.


Good.


Two minutes pass with no reply, so I flip my phone closed and head to the cafeteria. On my way it buzzes with a new message.


I would do it again, though, if it meant u were safe.


I know. Because u r insane.


Like an outta control circus freak.


I smile at his duplication of my own texted words of reassurance from yesterday afternoon. When I read it, I know that we are going to be all right. I know because each of us consists of half lunacy and half absurdity—and neither one of us is fit to be with anyone else.


Two of the same.


After I press send, I enter the cafeteria to let Matt know that everything is just fine.
* * *

At the end of the work day, I head home and make myself dinner. I finish washing the dishes and watch some television. I put my feet up on the coffee table and lay back into the sofa. In one hand, I have the remote. And in the other, a big glass of white wine. It is sweet and crisp and the perfect Tuesday night companion. I am watching an old episode of The Big Bang Theory and laughing at Sheldon as he swims around in a ball pit organizing the colored balls into molecules. Then there is a knock on my apartment door.



chapter Thirty-Seven

Emma—Age 18

I sit in the pew behind Michael looking at how all the small, dark hairs on the nape of his neck are standing on end. His back and shoulders are rigid, and he keeps lifting his white handkerchief to swipe at his face. He is not crying. He is sweating. The minister looks over at Michael from his place on the pulpit every time the handkerchief rises up to meet Michael’s brow. I can’t help but think of how much the motion suggests surrender, raising the white flag. It isn’t surrender, though; of that I am sure. It is nothing more than a repulsive, greasy man trying to wipe the slate clean. Trying to wipe away his rotten conscience. Trying to erase my mother. He knows that he’s the reason she’s up there in that casket. We all know it. And yet no one is saying a word. We are all just sitting here, half listening to the minister and thinking to ourselves about how my mother would have never gotten into that car to drive to the airport if Michael hadn’t made her. If Michael had done what he was supposed to do. If he had put his own vile self into that Cadillac instead of sending her. He should be the one in the casket. Not my mother.