Walker
I haven’t heard from her for five days. José passes on a message from her that she’s had to go to LA for something to do with school, a conference or something, but I wonder if that’s a lie, if she’s really meeting up with Zac.
I don’t know how we got from the night of her birthday to here, and I wrack my brains, playing over that last conversation in my room. I was mad about the roses, but only because I was already worked up about the future. The roses were just the icing on the cake. Zac’s got everything, can give her everything, and the plain fact is, I can’t. So maybe she is with him in LA. Isn’t that what I want? For her to be happy? And doesn’t it make things easier if she’s decided to break things off with me?
But that doesn’t mean I can stop thinking about her. Or about the night of her birthday. She’s imprinted into my memory, a bruise that refuses to fade but that just keeps getting darker.
“You get back to sleep last night?” José asks, walking into the room.
I shake my head and listen to him settle the breakfast tray on the table.
The nightmares have been getting worse. Maybe there’s a link to Didi being gone. Maybe not. In the daytime my head’s all over the place, thoughts landing like flies, bothering me until I shake them off and they flit away, only to land in the same place a few seconds later. Mainly they’re thoughts about Didi—more memories than thoughts, really . . . the curve of her body pressed against mine, the sunshine sound of her laugh, the softer sound of her moaning when I made her come. I try not to dwell on that last one, but it occupies a lot of my waking moments until I interrupt it by thinking back over every conversation we’ve ever had.
But at night my thoughts aren’t about Didi. They return to that day. The day of the incident. The nightmares jolt me out of sleep and then I’m awake for the rest of the night, heart racing like I’ve taken a handful of amphetamines, the images on the backs of my eyelids flickering past like Dodds’s paintings come to life.
“You want me to talk to the doc and get you some different meds prescribed?” José asks.
I shake my head. José still thinks I’m taking the cocktail of colorful pills he pours into my hand each morning and night.
“You want me to shave you?”
I shake my head. I barely have the energy to get out of bed. I hear José sigh loudly and leave the room, and I lie down and close my eyes, trying to switch off the plasma screen on the back of my eyelids.
“Yo, Lieutenant.”
I don’t stir. It’s Sanchez. If I pretend I’m sleeping maybe he’ll go away.
“You got to get out of bed, bro. This moping around like a girl who’s been ditched at the altar? It’s not working for you.” He walks into the room and settles himself on the end of the bed. “You know, this one time Valentina didn’t speak to me for nearly a month. I can’t even remember why—I think maybe I forgot our anniversary or something—but my point is that she got over it. You just got to talk it out.” He pats my leg. “And then make love to her. Like, plenty of times. Like maybe three times at least, before next Sunday.”
I ignore him. I don’t want to talk things out. I want things to be over.
He exhales loudly.
I’m glad he’s going to lose that damn sweepstake.
“If you keep it up, I’m going to have to invite Angela to pay you a visit, see if she can raise your spirits.” He chuckles. “I’m sure she’d love the opportunity to do that.”
My eyes flash open. I scowl in his direction.
Sanchez stands up. “So you going to get up? Triathlon’s in two days. We still got a chance of winning this thing.”
I stare resolutely toward the ceiling.
“Or, you know,” says Sanchez in a sing-song voice, “there’s always Angela.”
I swing my legs off the bed.
“Atta boy!”