What the hell was in my tap water this morning? Too much iron? I was attracting crazy shit today.
Guido might be ridiculously good-looking, but compared to the man in the suit…I blew out a breath of hot air. There was no comparison. The man in the suit had made me feel something, which made me feel uncomfortable. Vulnerable. Therefore judged. I felt nothing when I looked at Guido. He was attractive to the eye only. No big surprise there, though. I rarely felt anything for anyone. How had one of my foster people described me? Emotionally dead.
Guido hauled the framed jersey outside, followed by Violet, who held the door open. Scarlett stopped when she came to me. It seemed like she wanted to say something, but she hesitated. Violet called her name, and after biting her lip for a second, she thanked me for my help and left. I could’ve sworn she said something like “see you soon,” though.
After they’d gone, I waited for Caspar to put me out, but after a minute or so, he took the seat next to me, a cup of coffee in his hand. “Have you read this?” He tapped on the edge of the newspaper probably staining my forehead.
Sighing, I sat up and glanced at the headline. Huh. A murderer in New York City. How about that? Maybe he’ll do me a favor and visit me next. I was full of sarcasm today, but since it was getting me nowhere, I decided to bite my tongue.
“Fausti,” he said. “Do you recognize the name?”
I was about to ask what the name Fausti had to do with the headline, but I kept quiet. I didn’t have the energy for small talk. My world was imploding all around me, and I was waiting for one small spark to set me on fire, since it seemed gasoline ran through my veins instead of blood. Random chitchat felt like watching in slow motion as it edged its way toward me. I felt like running to save my life, but the problem was, I had nowhere to run to.
“They think it’s someone in the mob committing the murders. Or one mob targeting another.” Caspar sighed. “Not that the sweet girl who just left has anything to do with this. She’s a famous ballerina, but her husband’s people rule that world. It made me think.”
“Don’t strain yourself,” I said.
Caspar laughed. For the most part, he got my sense of humor. “You know this isn’t personal,” he said, his voice sincere. He pushed the cup closer to me.
When I looked in the cup, it held four ten-dollar bills. I stared at them, not sure what to say.
“Consider it commission for taking the Fausti order.” He became silent for a minute or two and then cleared his throat. “I can’t depend on you, Mari. Arev, she is sick. You know this. I have to be with her now. The chemo…” He didn’t finish the thought. “My son is coming to take over the business for me soon. I can’t hand him a business with a flaky worker. It would not be fair.”
Standing, I tapped Caspar on the head, not having the energy to feed him poor excuses. True, I had been late today because of the mysterious guy in the suit, and that damn steak, but for the past couple of months I’d been attending community college. My school schedule didn’t always match up to my work schedule.
I wanted to make something of myself, but I was too chicken to tell anyone. If I failed, I’d hide it in my metaphorical closet full of skeletons. Which was exactly what I was going to do—leave the secret there. There was no way that I could keep going.
What was the point?
Hitting rock bottom didn’t always make you go up like people claimed. Sometimes it weighed you down and buried you under ashes. Hopelessness was a burden that refused to let me move.
After collecting my bag, I stood at the door, coffee cup in hand. I was so in the negative that not even this small ray of kindness could put me in the positive. “I hope Arev gets better,” I said and then left, the door chiming behind me.
No, no, no, no! I flung my backpack to the ground, breathing heavy. My heart felt like it was about to burst.
Shit! The locks to the crummy apartment I rented had been changed.
Apartment stretched the description, though. It had a cot in the kitchen, which consisted of a rusty stove and an even rustier fridge, and a bathroom that was probably built when indoor plumbing was first a thing. It wasn’t much, but it was mine.
Mine meant that I wouldn’t be out on the street all night. Mine meant that I wouldn’t be bouncing from one all-night establishment to another, hoping my money wouldn’t run out before the sun came up, coffee cup after coffee cup to keep me rooted instead of roaming. Mine meant that I was safe, for the most part. This wasn’t the best part of town, but I kept my head down, my backpack close, and the shitty shoes on my feet while I kept forward, minding my business. And now?
Out. On. The. Street.
Whoever said the devil strikes in threes, they fucking meant it. I was convinced the guy from the five-star restaurant (not the guy in the suit, but the other one) was the devil himself and had kicked off this day straight from hell.
Reality took a nice swipe at me then and made my problems entirely too real. I couldn’t breathe. The heat of the day felt like it swarmed around me, alive with a buzzing sound. My oxygen was low to nonexistent. My vision faded in and out. Sweat poured out of me and soaked my clothes. My stupid baseball jersey and the ratty jeans and the too-tight shoes were going to stink even worse after this.
Could shoes that were too tight make you dizzy? Cut off the oxygen to your brain? Or was New York on fire?
“Crazy thoughts, Mari,” I said. “Stop thinking insane thoughts.”
When I looked down, I had somehow slipped to the floor in front of my apartment, all of my energy gone. Gone. Gone. Gone.
I was sick of always being only one step ahead of the devil that chased me. I was sick of fighting for one more day only to be touched by this hell. What felt like so many years and so much running…and what good had it done? Nothing. It had caught up to me anyway.
Opening my bag, I dug around, looking for my journal.
No, no, no!
My fingers frantically pulled and set aside, knowing that I’d never leave it behind. Butterfly clip, a new pack of colors, a coloring book, gum, a pen. It had to be here. It was gone, though! Another thing of mine gone! My sacred place to keep all of my dreams and wishes and things to be thankful for was gone!
It was stupid, I knew, but it was something to hold on to…it was mine. Like the mediocre job and the too-tight shoes and the ratty place currently keeping me upright.
Think, Mari! When did you have it last? I mentally pulled it forward, trying to remember the last time I wrote in it. This morning. Before I left for Home Run. Shit! I’d left it next to Vera in the “apartment.”
It was like fate knew my life was going to implode today and was saying, Leave your book of good behind, kid. Less painful when you have to watch your dreams burn to ashes with the rest of your life.
I had no idea why I was so attached to the stupid thing. The same went for Vera. It wasn’t like I ever had anything good in my life to call mine, for good, but once upon a time, I felt like I could. The possibility for something better was there. It was the chance that something great could happen to me, or I could make it for myself, if only I could get two steps ahead.
The day the idea took root, it had all felt so kismet.
During one of my evening shifts at Home Run, the happiness guru appeared on the television, claiming that she’d written in her journal for years. She wrote down all she was thankful for, even if she didn’t have it yet. She claimed that being thankful for a life you didn’t have prepared you for a life you would have. She had compared it to having enough faith to build train tracks before the train even had the route.