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For what seems forever, we just stand there staring at one another.
“You gonna stop pointing that thing at me, Martin?” she says. “Or are you going to make me remove it from you by force? And your fingers are bleeding.”
I shift my focus to the gun like I forgot that it existed, along with my cut fingertips. Lowering the gun, I try and plant a grin on my face. But the effort is futile, and we both know it.
“What are you doing out of work?” I say.
“It’s five-fifteen,” she says. “I’m here at my normal time.”
I glance at my watch.
“Oh, I guess I sort of lost track of time,” I say.
She steps into the room.
“I can see that,” she says, staring at the far wall and all the destruction I’ve caused. She also glances at the destroyed light fixture, and then turns, and sees the bottle of whiskey on the dresser, along with my cell phone.
“Martin,” she says in the same tone of voice my mother would use when I did something I should not have, “what have you done?”
“I can explain,” I say.
“You did exactly what I asked you not to do, didn’t you?” she says, crossing her arms over her ample chest. “You engaged with this crazy person.”
I purse my lips and peer down at the tops of my boots.
“Sort of,” I say. Then focusing back on her blue/green eyes. “But I did have all the locks changed.”
“So, what’s all this?” she says. “Why are you destroying your own bedroom?”
“Like I said,” I say. “I can explain. But not here. Let’s go grab a drink at The Road House.”
Mary glances at the whiskey bottle set on top of the dresser.
“Looks like you’ve already had a couple of drinks,” she says. “More than a couple.”
“It’s been that kind of a day,” I say. Again, trying to feign a grin. “But I did start on a new story.”
“You told me,” she says. “A story inspired by this deranged Jennifer. How healthy of you, Martin. Are you trying your hardest to be put back in the psych ward?”
“Oh, now that hurts,” I say.
“But it’s something that’s got to be addressed,” she says extending her right arm and pointing at the busted wall. “I mean, look at this place. Who does this? What kind of state do you have to be in to take a wrecking bar to your own home? What on God’s earth were you looking for?”
Heading into the bathroom, I wash my hands in the sink and watch the bloody water circle the drain. I dry them and realize the cuts are so tiny they don’t even need bandages. Back in the bedroom, I pick my dust-covered leather coat up from off the bed, shake it out, and slip into it. I’m still wearing my pistol, but it’s now concealed. I’m guessing the cop hasn’t noticed I’m about to carry it with me because for certain she’d disarm me considering the condition of the bedroom and the fact that I’ve been drinking whiskey. Whiskey has always been known to make me a little crazy.
“Come on,” I say, grabbing my phone, my keys, and heading out of the bedroom. “It will all make more sense to you when I tell you what’s up.”
“I can hardly wait,” she says.
“Wait for me in the driveway,” I say as I’m headed down the stairs. “I’ll grab the truck.”
Opening the kitchen door, I head out onto the lawn and walk the slight incline up to the barn. While walking, my cell phone chimes and vibrates in my pocket once more. It dawns on me I never returned Matthew’s and Jenny’s texts. That’s something I should do right away. But I never returned Jennifer’s rather desperate text either. Do I return that one? Or for once, do I take the cop’s advice and no longer engage?
Note to self: do what the cop says for God’s sakes. If only I had the strength to do the right thing. Entering the barn, I hop behind the wheel of the pickup and start her up. While the engine is idling, I retrieve my phone from the interior pocket of my leather coat. I go to texts. Jennifer has sent me yet another new message. I feel my chest grow tight and my stomach constrict.
“What now?” I whisper.
Opening her text, I read, Martin my love why have you not written back? Why must you torture me? Is there another woman in your life? Should I be jealous? Should I be worried? I love you Martin. I want you to write my book and dedicate it to me with all your love. Please write me back. My mother is in great pain and I fear she might be dying. I’m lonely and afraid Martin my precious.
“Wow, is this woman a whack job or what?” I say aloud.
Glancing into the rearview to make certain the cop isn’t keeping a watchful eye on me,
I’m sorry to hear about your mother, I text. I don’t think it’s a good idea if we text anymore. Someone attacked me today inside the Millbrook parking garage. A part of me thinks you had something to do with it.
Then I shift to Matthew’s and Jenny’s text regarding my dinner with them tomorrow evening.
Looking forward to it, I text. Let me know if I should bring anything.
I place the cell phone into the console cup holder. Shifting the transmission into drive, I begin to back out. When the pickup has fully exited the barn, I hit the brakes and shift into drive. The phone chimes and vibrates again. Before tapping the gas, I once more retrieve the phone and, with one eye on Mary who is standing in the driveway in her jeans, cowboy boots, and leather jacket, her dark shoulder-length hair looking full and clean, I glance at the digital screen.
The text is not from my two new young friends, but instead, Jennifer.
I would never hurt you. But you are breaking my heart. That’s something I cannot allow Martin. As much as I love you your silence will only do you harm. You need to communicate with me. You need to love me as much as I love you or it will be bad.
Now my heart is really pounding.
Is that a threat? I text.
Don’t test me Martin, she immediately texts back.
Shoving the phone back into the cup holder, I tap the gas and pull up alongside the cop. She opens the door.
“Get in,” I say, coldly.
“She climbs in and closes the door.
“Nice attitude,” she says, buckling her seatbelt. “Is it me, or do you look like you just saw a ghost.”
“First we’ll order our drinks,” I say. “Then I tell you the truth.”
“The whole truth?” she says.
“And nothing but the fucking truth.”