Chapter twelve:

 

 

Mr. Fancy Asshole lives in a fancy part of town—of course he does. I can tell because as we drive the size of the houses get bigger, and the cars get nicer, and there’s less graffiti on everything.

The driver continues to ask me for directions, and I continue to tell him which way, watching really carefully so I don’t lose Mr. Fancy Asshole’s cab and I can give the right directions.

His cab eventually pulls over, and I tell my driver to pull over too. He’s watching me with narrowed eyes in the rear-view mirror and he’s not smiling anymore, and I think I’ve done something wrong and I wonder what, but don’t care enough to ask. So instead I say,

“How much, buddy?”

He tells me the amount for the cab ride (which is really expensive, but she’s worth it), and he still doesn’t smile. I want to tell him to brighten the fuck up, but I don’t because manners, of course.

‘You can always be polite, even if others aren’t,’ my mom used to say to me. And I wonder if she ever had to deal with people like this, because I bet she’d struggle to be polite if she did.

So I pay my driver and I climb out, and his cab sits there for a minute and doesn’t pull away like Mr. Fancy Asshole’s does. He just stays there, engine running, staring through the glass at me. And then I realize why. He’s watching me, watching Mr. Fancy Asshole, and I think, He needs to mind his own fucking business.

I walk away, ignoring the cab driver’s stare, and I follow my guy because my guy will lead me to Carrie, and Carrie will lead me to happiness. I follow, and then I know he’s not heading home, because he only walks for a minute or two up the road before he checks both ways to make sure no one is watching him (though he doesn’t see me, asshole!) and then he climbs the six steps to the large brownstone house.

And shit, it’s a really nice house. And I know it’s Carrie’s. I can feel it in my bones. My dick twitches at the thought of her being so close. I stare at the house and there’s no peeling paint or dirty windows here. The curtains, what I can see of them, look heavy and rich, and I wonder what it looks like on the inside.

He fishes in his pocket for a key, and when he finds it he uses it to unlock the door. And then he’s inside, and I didn’t see if this was actually Carrie’s house because he used a key and he didn’t knock like I thought he would. And if he would have, she would have come to the door, and I would know for certain.

So now I’m not sure what to do, because I had a plan and it’s screwed now. I wanted her to answer the door so I knew one hundred percent that it was her home, and then I could come back when I was more prepared. But now what?

I can’t just knock on some random house door. Especially with Mr. Fancy Asshole inside.

Our meeting has to be perfect.

I’ve thought it all over and decided exactly what I’m going to do. How it’s going to play out.

Once I know where she lives, I’ll order flowers. NO! I’ll order her favorite flowers, and I’ll get some wine too. Some expensive wine, because she likes expensive things now, apparently. And then I’ll knock on her door with my wine and my flowers, and I’ll make sure Mr. Fancy Asshole is there, but I’ll also make sure that he’s only just arrived because I don’t think I’ll be able to control myself if I turn up and they’re in the middle of fucking and her hair is disheveled and her cheeks are flushed and her eyes have that sexy look in them like she’s just come.

Can you imagine if I knocked on the door and she answered it wrapped in her bathrobe? The knot at the waist not tight enough, so I can see that she’s not wearing underwear. The pink bloom of her flashing at me as she realizes all too late and pulls it closed, full of apologies and embarrassment, and…

‘Ethan, you’re here!’ she’d say, and throw her arms around me.

I can’t do that to her.

To me.

To us.

So the timing has to be perfect.

He has to have just arrived, and it’s important that he’s there, because I want to see the look on his face when she tells him to fuck off.

But now I don’t know what to do because he’s gone inside and I don’t know if it’s her house, because maybe he’s fucking lots of women and not just Carrie. And the cab driver is still watching me and making me feel really uncomfortable even though I haven’t done anything wrong.

So I keep on walking, hands in my pockets, chin to my chest, and I walk around the block. I know how to walk without being noticed. How to see without being seen. I lived that way for a long time, after all. But it’s not her fault, and I’ll tell her that when I see her. Of course I will.

By the time I make it back around again, it’s started to rain. The crack of thunder sounds out in the distance. And wouldn’t you believe that I forgot to bring my coat today?

Ain’t that always the way? I want to laugh.

But at least the cab driver has gone, and I breathe a sigh of relief at that small fact.

I sit on the steps of a house across the road but a couple of doors down, so I’m not in plain sight. It has a repossessed sign outside it, and when I look through the windows, all of the furniture is gone. And I think, that’s what happens when you buy a house you can’t afford.

I wonder what she’s like now, and why she likes houses like these.

Is it because the windows are clean, Carrie?

I want to ask her.

I can’t wait to ask her.

Is it because the paint isn’t peeling?

Is it because these houses represent everything you never had growing up?

I can understand that. My counselor-slash-therapist-slash-Mr. fucking Jeffrey says that people like to belong. That they strive to fit in somewhere, because life can be all lonely and shit when you’re on your own.

‘Do you ever get lonely, Ethan?’ he’d asked me.

And I’d shaken my head no, certainly not. Because who could ever be lonely when you’re locked up for twenty-three hours a day with hundreds of other unstable people.

‘Let’s just call them people, Ethan. Because before everything else, that’s what they are. And after they’ve served their time, that’s what they will be again. So let’s give them some humanity.’

He said this with a straight face, like I was stupid. He didn’t understand that those people weren’t like me. They were different; they were sick. They deserved to be there, not like me. I’m a good boy. My mom used to say so all the time.

‘You’re a good boy, Ethan. Stay away from her, she’s trouble.’

And Mom was right, Carrie was trouble.

But it wasn’t her fault.

It was life.

It was the shitty hand that she had been dealt.

It was her perverted father and her alcoholic mother.

It was never having enough money for lice shampoo and no soap to clean the windows.

Carrie was a victim of circumstance, just like me.

But she needs to know that she’s better than all of this fancy shit. That she does belong, she belongs with me. She doesn’t need things and places and money to be something. She already is something.

She’s a something by just living and breathing.

She’s not a fake and a fraud like all of these people. Or maybe she is, just a little bit—I’m not naïve—but I bet it’s all just a ruse to fit in, because she’s got to fit in somewhere while she waits for me.

We’re pieces of the same jigsaw, and we fit together. We always did.

God, I feel awful. All these years waiting for me. I think about the things she’s gone through. The people she’s had to deal with to get by while she waited for me.

Well no more, baby, no more. I’m here now, and it’s going to be all right.

The door opens up, and Mr. Fancy Asshole comes out. His suit jacket is undone and his hair is a mess, but he straightens it quickly like he’s an expert at doing it. And it dawns on me that he probably is. That she doesn’t realize that he’s using her, while she’s using him. And that makes me mad because she deserves better than that.

He heads down the steps quickly, a small skip in his step now that his balls are empty. He opens up his black umbrella and it makes me even angrier because I know he’s just fucked her. My Carrie. And I bet she’s inside now feeling cheap and worthless. And she’s not cheap and worthless, but he’s just made her feel that way. Because that’s what men like him do; they treat women like her like they’re objects to be used and thrown away. Well I won’t do that to her. We’ll use each other but we’ll never throw each other away.

So it’s okay. Really, it is. Because that’ll be the last time he does that to her.