Chapter 11
When I was sure you'd follow through
My world was turned to blue
I just ran. I ran away from him, across the roof and down the stairs, down three more flights until I reached his floor. I ran, never stopping to catch my breath, into his apartment, through the living room, past his wide-eyed roommates and into his bedroom. I scrambled around and grabbed my possessions and shoved them into my duffle bag. There was no time to double-check to make sure that I had everything—and honestly, I really didn't care. I needed to get out. Panting now, I fled from his room and back through the living room and out the door of his apartment, not bothering to close it behind me. I honestly expected to find him standing there in the hallway, with that same guilty awestruck look on his face—but he wasn't there. Frantically I descended the remaining five flights of stairs, taking the steps two at a time, until I somewhat triumphantly stumbled into the lobby and out through the automatic sliding glass doors to the sidewalk. But I couldn't stop there—I kept running, gasping for breath, as my feet struck loudly and painfully against the concrete and the humid summer air whipped in my face. Eventually I saw a bench about a block away—probably a bus stop—and made it my destination, pushing forward, breathless. I dropped my bag when I reached it and collapsed into the hard uncomfortable plastic of the bench. A man across the street was staring at me, but averted his gaze as he saw that I had noticed.
I was still breathing heavily—god, it felt like I might never catch my breath. I wasn't sure what it was. The fact that I'm forty-six years old and somewhat out of shape probably had a lot to do with it. That, or the smoking. If I hadn't been so motivated, I probably never would have made it here as fast as I did. And where was here, anyway? A street sign showed that I was at the intersection of 7th Avenue and Bridge Street. I had come only four blocks, but it was all my heart and lungs could take. Inside my bag I found my cell phone, so I dialed 411 and asked for a local cab service. The taxi would be here in about fifteen minutes, they told me. Fifteen minutes. What would I do? I suspected that fifteen minutes would be more than enough time for my racing thoughts to send me hurling into an emotional breakdown, so instead I reached back into my bag and felt around for the familiar rectangular package. Finally I found it and drew out a cigarette, and then dug around some more until I located my lighter. I flicked it, bringing the flame to my cigarette and slowly inhaling from the other end. Then again, and again. I was beginning to feel calmer already. The feeling ended quickly.
"You shouldn't smoke."
My body shook involuntarily at the sound of his voice. I didn't want to look at him, but I did anyway, and there he was: bloodshot eyes, tear-stained cheeks, and a hand on his slender hip as he appeared to be only slightly out of breath, a far cry from what my physical state had been just moments earlier. The difference of age between us had never before seemed as glaringly obvious as it did in that moment. He looked concerned. I was surprised not to feel anything.
"I'll do whatever I feel like doing." My voice sounded cold and unnatural. Having said that, I took another sharp inhalation from the shrinking cigarette, watching him the whole time, as if I expected him to fall apart. He didn't, of course, so I redirected my attention to the street, wishing the cab would just get here already. I could feel his eyes on me still, but I refused to look up.
"I'm sorry," he said, his voice shaking slightly. He waited for a response and I didn't say anything. There was nothing more to say. Then he became indignant. "Do you really think I wanted you to stop speaking to my mom for four years? Do you honestly believe that I intended for that to happen?"
"I don't know," I said truthfully, still staring at the street. I said it so softly that I wasn't even sure if he heard. "Did you intend to kiss me that afternoon in the recording studio?" I turned to look at him. "Did you intend to get involved with me?" Before he could respond, I went on. "Because I didn't. I didn't intend for any of this. I wish I could take it all back, but it happened, Carey. And now it's over."
"You're the one who came back," he said suddenly, as if it had just occurred to him. "You can't say you didn't intend for this, or that you didn't want this, because you're the one…"
"You're the one who lied," I nearly screamed, and my voice strained. "You lied and you left me and coming back to you was a mistake. So just—just let me go, okay? Let me go home and back to my life there… where you don't exist."
As if on cue, the cab pulled up to the curb. I could tell that he was desperate now. "Molly, wait—"
"NO." To my surprise, his mouth snapped shut and I could see tears brimming in his eyes. I dropped my cigarette to the ground and crushed it with the sole of my shoe, still watching him, but he wasn't even looking at me anymore. With the strap of my duffle bag thrown over my shoulder, I climbed into the cab and slammed the door shut. His reflection was visible in the rear-view mirror, but he was getting smaller… shrinking and shrinking, until I could no longer see him at all.
(It's so fair)
It was then that I started to cry. Naturally I tried to fight it, and choked back the tears until I was breathing in violent, shaky gasps. Get a hold of yourself. I needed to calm down. It's not like this was the worst thing to ever happen to me, right? It never would have worked. I was leaving tomorrow anyway. If anything, it was easier this way. And at least I still had Irene. God, how had I been so stupid? It was so obvious. The whole time, she thought I was avoiding her solely because of her miserable management skills before I quit. And then, when we finally did talk, I was so sure that we were both avoiding the topic of Carey—but it was just me. No wonder she had been the first to speak his name; she had no idea that I was experiencing such inner torment. This also explained why she hadn't hesitated to tell me his whereabouts—and why she was so surprised that I didn't already know. How could Carey do this to me? How could he tear me apart from my best friend?
I sighed and slumped back into the worn seat. Only a few more minutes. Only a few more minutes until I would arrive at Rachel's, and collapse on her couch and fall into a deep sleep and not have to face my torturous thoughts again until tomorrow morning. Only a few more minutes.