Readjustment (Restitution #2)

4

Adam Dawson

Milo Davonte wasn’t the saint Jessica Houston made him out to be.

Our search turned up nothing, but his rap sheet was long and interesting. Multiple drug offenses, a manslaughter charge (thrown out on a technicality), and ties to the Riverbank Prophets. Either Ms. Houston was the world’s biggest idiot, or she knew more than she let on.

After checking with MisPer, we decided it wouldn’t hurt to put a BOLO out on Milo. The rest of the day was spent requesting warrants for information, logging evidence, and conducting interviews with Keola’s acquaintances. By eight thirty, even Caleb was too exhausted to speak in full sentences, and we decided to call it a night.

The day produced an interesting picture about our victim. While people claimed not to dislike Keola, it was apparent he wasn’t exactly likeable, either. His professors at Quincy University said he excelled in academics, but he used it to demean other students who asked questions. Even his brother, Fatu, gave us the impression that Keola was the black sheep in the family. Fatu also worked in law enforcement as a corrections officer at Foreword Penitentiary in Maren County. When pressed further, he said, “He acted like he was too good to put on a uniform. He only came around on the holidays.” Fatu then broke down in grief. “We don’t like, hate him, but there’s just a rift.” Keola’s co-workers at Key Bank didn’t think much of him, either: an arrogant, self-serving man not afraid to step on necks to get to what he wanted.

At ten to nine, I parked my truck under the carport, and as usual, met Caleb walking around the other side of the building carrying a Big Gulp from the Circle K. Tired as he was, he still managed to laugh at our tangled fingers when we reached for the keypad at the same time.

“You’d think we’d have this down by now,” he said.

“You’d think.” The nearness of him, the scent of his cologne, and the tenderness of his smile, were as sweet to me as that first taste of whiskey.

The ice in his cup sloshed as we climbed the stairs and turned down the hall. The light outside 2-F was still flickering, and the building’s cranky HVAC system didn’t have the horses to run against the recent cold snap. “We paused at our respective doors, and our nightly dance, the one we’d been choreographing for the last three weeks, began.

“Wanna come over for a little?” I pulled my keys from my pocket. “I know it’s late, but I’ve got stuff for sandwiches.”

“Uh,” Caleb looked down at his watch, the flickering light, the large oil stain on the carpet; everywhere but at me.

“Maybe we shouldn’t.” He shifted his drink to his other hand and grabbed his keys.

“Oh,” My breath hitched.

“It’s just,” Caleb chewed his lower lip, “it’s late. And with this case…”

“Right,” I nodded, ignoring the crater opening between us. Or the sudden heaviness in my heart.

He tilted his head with an apologetic smile. “And things got a little tense this morning, so…”

My cheeks burned as I turned away. “I was there Caleb.” I jabbed my key in the door.

“Adam…” His voice was nearly a whisper. “Don’t do this. Please. Not tonight.”

I stared at the keys and exhaled to the count of eight. “It’s just…” without you, my life is only pain, and I’m fucking dying. “You’re right. It’s been a long day.”

Caleb’s keys jingled as he lifted them to his door. “Yeah.” The deadbolt clicked free behind me, and a hint of warmth spilled into the chilly hall. “But if you really need me, just—”

“I won’t.” I dove into my apartment and slammed it behind me.

After a quick shower, and forcing myself through a sandwich, I grabbed my fifth of Jack and headed to the living room. My skin prickled in the draft, so I grabbed a Lions hoodie from the laundry basket and slid it on. I should’ve put the clothes away and taken care of the dishes piling in the sink. And after fucking Caleb into the sheets yesterday, I really needed to change them. Instead, I sat in my recliner and pulled up the videos of Josh.

A steady snow fell as I played them on a loop and waited to feel…something. Disgust. Vitriol. Betrayal. The nauseating pain I’d had the first time I’d caught him with his dick in some other man’s mouth. When that didn’t work, I tried to think of the good times. The warmth of his hand in mine at the altar. My head on his shoulder at Navy Pier as fireworks shattered into sparks in the night sky. There had to be something left. Some swell of devotion to justify holding onto my marriage besides my own cowardice.

I lost track of how much I’d drank, when Josh’s ringtone started blaring.

Fuck. I juggled the phone, caught it, and answered just in time.

“Hello?”

“Hey love.” Josh’s voice was sultry and slow with drink. “Whatcha doing?”

Watching you shove me off a cliff.

“Winding down.,” I said. “What’s up?”

“What’s up?” he teased. “I need a reason to call my husband?”

“No.” I leaned my head back and looked at the ceiling as I struggled to come up with something civil. “I’m working a homicide, though. Need to keep the line open.”

“Oh,” Josh drawled slowly. “Then I’ll get to the point. I’m coming out for a few days. Not sure exactly what day I’m leaving but, I’ll let you know.”

“What?” I jerked upright and the muscles in my neck pulled tight.

“Don’t sound so pleased,” he said. “I feel like we’ve…drifted apart since Thanksgiving.”

“When you freaked out because I wanted to see my parents?”

“I apologized, Adam.” His tone grew serious. “I don’t like how things have been. I’ve tried not to push you because Dr. Maine told me it’s important to make you do the work too, but I need to see you.” He exhaled slowly into my ear. “I miss you, Adam.”

The sudden ache in my throat made it difficult to think.

“Adam?” Josh said. “You there?”

“Uh, yeah.” I swallowed hard. “Sorry. Getting a call. Can we talk tomorrow?”

“Of course,” Josh said. “Love you.”

“Love you too.” I cringed as I hung up; the words were only a habit.

I sank into my chair, squeezed my knees together and let my head fall into my hands. Fat snowflakes were still falling outside the window and coating the balcony. The distant yelling of someone in the parking lot and car doors thumping close provided a soundtrack as I thought back on the call. How could three little words like I love you, or I miss you, be so powerful? They can either give the heart life, or strangle it in a slow, painful death.

This wasn’t about missing me. Or loving me. Or even making me feel guilty for not calling like I said I would. This was about tightening the noose he tied around my neck the day they buried my brother. The moment he put his hand on my shoulder and told me it wasn’t my fault; he laid the groundwork to control me with the constant reminder of things booze couldn’t help me forget. Tree roots poking into the six-foot hole. The smell of cheap carnations on a plain casket because it’s all my parents could afford.

A primal roar tore from me. One that started in the place inside still bleeding for Perry, my parents, and myself. I grabbed the laundry basket, tossed it against the wall, then stared at the wedding photo hanging above the couch. What vows had Josh heard that day? To have and to control? To gaslight and blame? In sickness and in hell ‘til death do us part? I threw a wild punch at the middle of the picture and knocked the frame off its hook.

“Jesus Christ!” I grabbed my fist as blood dripped from my knuckles down to my wrist. I ran to the sink and held my hand under cold water until the worst of the gushing stopped. The air stung the gash between my knuckles. Was this going to need stitches? What would I tell them? I was too drunk to come up with a good answer, so paper towels would have to do until I found a first-aid kit. I pulled some off the holder beside the sink and wrapped my hand in layers as I looked around the living room and took in the carnage of my rage . Clothes were strewn across the ground. Shattered glass littered the floor where the picture toppled. The laundry basket was perched on its side against the balcony door. Drops of blood made a trail to the kitchen which ended with a spatter on the linoleum next to my feet.

Well, at least it didn’t stain the carpet.

With my hand mummified, I cleaned up the tile and debated finishing off the fifth, taking some pills, and going to bed. But tonight, I needed more than that. Drinking and popping Ambien gave me rest, but Caleb gave me life.

There was a moment of hesitation after I stepped outside my door. Leave him alone, I begged myself. What you’re doing isn’t fair to him. But he was all I had left. I opened my eyes just in time to see a man lingering in the doorway of Caleb’s apartment. With buzzed, dark hair, and a facial structure like Zander, he’d be a shoo-in to model for Abercrombie. I couldn’t see Caleb, but I could hear him thank the guy for coming over, and that he had a good time. Abercrombie boy’s face was red when he returned the sentiment, then slunk into the hall with a satisfied grin.

My vision tunneled on the stranger, my ears pounded, and whatever shred of common sense I had left burned away. The pain in my hand disappeared in the sudden inferno of jealousy and anger.

“Hey!” I blocked Mr. Muscles off with my busted hand on the wall. “Who the fuck are you?”

“I could ask you the same thing.” He raised his brows. “Excuse me.” Muscle man stepped to the right, but I met his stride.

I pointed at Caleb’s door with the bottle of Jack. “You fuck him?”

“What?”

“I said,” I grabbed the collar of his jacket and the fifth of Jack bumped his face, “did you fuck him?!”

“Hey!” Caleb’s voice distracted me enough for the guy to push me away and I stumbled into the wall.

The stranger turned to Caleb. “Who the fuck is this guy?” He pointed over his shoulder.

“My partner,” Caleb said stiffly.

“You want me to stay?” he asked, giving me a dubious glare out of the corner of his eye.

“No.” Caleb shook his head. “It’s alright, Ben. Thanks again.”

Ben stalked past me, checking my shoulder. I turned to watch him take the stairs, and when I turned back around, Caleb’s eyes shone with fury.

“What the heck is your problem?” he demanded.

“I…” I shook my head and took a wobbly step back.

“Whoa.” Caleb grabbed my hoodie then glanced down at the blood-stained towel on my hand. He let go of my shirt and lifted my wrist, and some—only some—anger drained away. “What’s going on, Adam?”

I hadn’t noticed I was crying until a tear slid off my chin. “I…I don’t know.” I shoved his hands away. “I have to go.” I whipped around and headed for the roof.

I crashed through the door and steadied myself with the handrail on the way up. I punched in the access code and stepped into the cold. The snow had tapered some, but a bitter breeze ripped through my hoodie. It felt good, and the cloud of my panic dissipated. I swiped my cheeks and took a deep breath. The skunky scent wafting towards my nose told me I wasn’t alone, and the silhouette looking out over the roof’s railing was none other than Zander Course.

The door clicked behind me, but if Zander heard it, he didn’t give any indication.

“You do anything but smoke and study?” Careful not to slip, I walked to the barrier and stared at the nothingness beyond the streetlights.

Zander was mid-toke, but still managed to flip me off with his free hand. He was dressed in a dark puffy coat that bore a designer label, and grey joggers clung to the meaty muscles of his quads. Moonlight gleamed off his peaky-blinder hair that he had touched up every two weeks. He was a graduate student of psychology at Quincy University on a full-ride academic scholarship, and Caleb aside, the closest thing I had to a friend.

“I date,” Zander said.

“Picking people off Tinder and Grindr isn’t dating.”

“Okay, Boomer.” He rolled his eyes. “Isn’t it past your bedtime?”

“Again,” I pointed at my chest, “only thirty-four. I earned these fucking grey hairs.”

“Okay Boom—”

“I swear to fuck, Zander.” I growled with narrowed eyes, then chuckled softy. “Alright, I walked into that one.”

I rested my forearms on the railing and my sigh crystallized in midair. An old Probe was rolling out of the lot, bass rattling its panels as it turned onto the main road. “How’s the semester going?”

“It’s—shit!” Zander plucked the arm of my hoodie. “You’re going to fucking freeze, Adam!”

“I’m fine.” I eyed the logo on his coat. “I’d rather freeze than be caught wearing Tommy Hilfiger.”

Zander gave me a dirty look and ran his hands over the sleeve.

“Seriously, the 90s called and want their jacket back.”

“Sick burn, asshole. What brings you up here?”

“Thinking about jumping.”

His face sharpened. “Really?”

“No,” I scoffed, “too much of a coward.”

“Jesus.” He elbowed me. “They say my generation is dramatic.”

“At least my generation didn’t eat Tide Pods.”

He clasped his chest. “You wound me.”

After another puff, he blew the smoke over his left shoulder and held out the joint. “Want a hit?”

I considered for a moment. “Couldn’t make things any worse.” I put it to my lips, inhaled, and began to choke.

“Whoa, there.” Zander took the weed back from my fingers and patted my back. “You going to live?”

“Yeah,” I croaked and pounded my chest. “Been fifteen years since I’ve done that. Think I’ll stick to booze.” I lifted the Jack and sipped just enough to coat my throat again.

A gust of wind whistled through the bare trees. The flurries ended up swirling into the building or getting lost in the light of the sodium lamps.

“So, shit’s pretty bad, huh?” Zander snuffed out the joint on the brick barrier.

“What was your first clue?”

“You’re on a roof in twenty-degree weather without a coat. Your hand is busted up.” He pointed at the wound. “And you look at that bottle of Jack Daniels like a genie might pop out of it and fix your life.”

“Not even a genie could fix my life.” I muttered.

“Not with that attitude.” Zander slapped my arm. “Come on. Use your big boy words and talk to me. What’s going on?”

My first instinct was to tell him to fuck off, but what if his being up here was a sign to open up? It was worth a shot.

“I don’t…” I held the fifth between both hands and rolled it on its edge. “I’m just kind of at a crossroads right now, and no matter what decision I make, it’ll cost me something I love.”

“That’s the price of free will.” Zander scooted close enough for his coat to brush my shoulder. “Are you leaning one way or the other?”

“That’s the worst part, actually,” I said. “One minute it seems so simple, and the next I’m back to weighing my options. I’m miserable all the time, but I can’t seem to fucking move on. It’s been a long time coming, and the stakes get higher every day. But I just… can’t .”

“I see.” He stroked his chin. “So, you’ve chosen to not make a choice, even though it’ll make the choice harder down the road.”

“I…” The alcohol made it hard to keep up. The dopey look on his face wasn’t helping. “I’ll be honest. I’m lost.”

Zander laughed quietly. “Then let me talk nerdy to you. There’s a psychological state known as analysis paralysis where someone gets so focused on the possible outcomes that they end up not making a choice in a timely manner. That only adds more pressure, further delaying the outcome and… well, you can see how that becomes a cycle.”

Another gust of wind ripped through my thin clothes, and I ducked my chin into my hoodie. “Let me guess, the only cure is making the decision.”

“Well, yeah,” he said, “and you do that by remembering why you wanted to decide something to begin with. From there, you have to accept that every decision has consequences. Standing still doesn’t change that. It only hurts you more in the end.”

“Is it sad that it’s easier to just…let it hurt?”

“Kind of.” Zander shrugged. “But I get it. Whatever you’re going through sounds like it’s important. I won’t pry, but if you ever want to talk about it, I’m here. In the meantime, the best advice I can give you is to listen to your heart and stop trying to work it out in your head. Just because choosing to eat Fruity pebbles cost you the opportunity to eat Cocoa Puffs doesn’t mean you should go without eating.”

“How stoned are you?” I asked.

“Just a little. But do you understand what I mean?”

“Oddly enough, yeah,” I said. “Not sure I like you reducing my life to cereal, but…”

“I think I’ll use this in one of my intern sessions,” he said.

“So, I’m your guinea pig.”

“You’re not cute enough to be a guinea pig. You’re like a… guinea boar.”

“No wonder you and Caleb get along.” I swatted some snow from the railing at him. “But despite how annoying you are…thanks for listening.”

Zander raised his hand and offered a two-finger salute. “No problem, Boomer.”