Page 73 of I Stop Somewhere Waiting For You

The morning after we killed Tommy, I should have been taking my girl to go see Daph in the hospital. Instead, I was on the phone with Amber asking her to move into the Cathedral. She became a kept woman in exchange for her presence in my life. It was the only way, the one thing I knew would make Jonsie quit me and stay gone. And it worked.

I will never forget the broken look on her face when I came around the corner. The way it gutted her to see that bitch wrap around me, eyeing her with that smug look on her face, acting as though she’d just fucked me. I wanted to puke. In that moment, something broke inside me, and I’ve never been the same ever since.

The truth is I didn’t fuck Amber that day. I’d been waiting for Jones to show, knowing it was only a matter of time before she was over my ghosting game and came looking. Once Finn gave me the heads-up she was there, I told Amber to make it look good or she’d be out on her ass. I never explained why, but she was more than happy to do it knowing full well I deaded shit with her for Jones in the first place. Amber loves an excuse to flaunt her shit like she’s superior, so it didn’t take much convincing.

In the four years since then, I have fucked Amber once—if you can even call it that. It was about a year after everything went down and I was wallowing in a Jameson self-pity party of one. I couldn’t even stay hard. Everything about it was wrong. It made me sick.

These days, when I need to fuck something, I use escorts through a high-end agency out of NYC. I pay good money to have my specific needs met. Only blondes. Only from behind, so I can’t see their face. Whatever name I call them, though it’s always some variation of the same one, they shut the fuck up and go with it. And when it’s over, they leave… immediately.

I’m aware how fucking twisted that is, but it’s the only way I can get off anymore.

Her words echo in my mind about Amber being wifey waiting upstairs. I quietly scoff at the ridiculous notion. That either Amber would ever be awarded that title, or that I could ever bring any other woman into this space. It is hers, and hers alone.

I enter the apartment, tossing my keys and cell on the entryway table as I make my way down the hall. My hand hovers over the doorknob to the room I spend most days pretending doesn’t exist. The contents responsible for my undoing on more than one occasion.

Inhaling deep, I turn the handle and shove it open. The door slowly swings into the room, allowing the sleek black frames to come into view. I briefly hesitate before stepping inside, placing my back against the adjacent wall. Lowering myself down, my breathing becomes labored as my ass hits the floor and I’m suddenly eye level with the images propped up against the side of the guest bed.

They showed up the morning of my twenty-second birthday—eleven days after I destroyed us.

She’d obviously orchestrated the whole thing prior, and it was too late to cancel. I thank God every fucking day for that. Because while they are my undoing, they’re also my most prized possessions.

Six photos. Six 11x14 black and white photographs, matted and set in large black wooden frames. All images she took of us in various relaxed states around the apartment in those two blissful months we spent together between Christmas and Valentine’s Day. There’s one of her snuggling on top my chest. Another of us spooning in bed, my chin peeking out over top her shoulder. I laugh at the one of her sitting on my lap at the breakfast nook as we sip our coffee. She caught me by surprise with that, plopping down unexpectedly without warning. I almost spilled the shit everywhere.

I remember thinking it was weird at the time, her suddenly snapping selfies or capturing random moments of us using the camera timer. And then months later, they showed up.

My gaze scans over each one before coming to rest on my favorite. It’s a side profile of us from the waist up. We’re in bed. I’m on my stomach, my head turned toward the camera, laying atop my arms. My eyes are closed as I sport a crooked ass smile. The covers are pooled around my waist, placing my freshly inked portrait tattoo on full display. J’s laying on top of me, her back to my back. She’s topless, though her arms cross overtop her chest, concealing all except the side profile of her perfect breasts. Her face is directed up at the ceiling, eyes closed, with a faint smile playing on her lips. Her hair is sideswept to the right, revealing the entire left side of her neck, and thus, her bishop tattoo.

I reach for the envelope on the bedside table, the one that accompanied the pictures. Snatching it up, I fall back down into my seated position on the floor where I slowly slide out the card inside, exposing her handwriting. I run my fingers overtop the imprints of her pen strokes that form the excerpt from the Frank O’Hara poem she quoted— “Having a Coke with You.”

“In the warm New York 4 o’clock light we are drifting back and forth

between each other like a tree breathing through its spectacles

and the portrait show seems to have no faces in it at all, just paint

you suddenly wonder why in the world anyone ever did them

I look at you

and I would rather look at you than all the portraits in the world”

I’d never heard this shit before, but I looked up the whole thing after she referenced it and now, I’ve read it so many times I can recite that motherfucker by heart. On a shaky inhale, I flip the card to the other side.

Maverick,

All I see is you.

Happy Birthday, baby.

I love you.

-J

I draw my legs up. Resting my elbows against my knees, my palms press against my eyes.

“I love you too, baby.”

CHAPTER 35

---