Page 112 of Penalty to the Heart

How did you even know where I live?

Are you stalking me now?

Those would have been the first questions asked by any reasonable therapist when confronted with their patient perched on their doorstep at such a late hour.

I, however, seem to no longer be in touch with my rational side.

“Caleb? What’s wrong?”

“I didn’t know where else to go,” he explains, misery coating his every word as the rain continues to cascade off his body, forming a small puddle on my doorstep. But what strikes me the most is the utter agony and misery etched on his face when he lifts his head to look at me, his eyes filled with a turmoil I have never seen before.

Imagining the worst, I drop my bat and quickly widen the door, hurriedly ushering him inside.

He slowly walks on lead feet, his hair plastered to his forehead and droplets of water clinging to his lashes. I lead him to the living room while taking full stock of his disheveled appearance. His wet clothes cling to his body, revealing the tense muscles beneath, while his hands remain balled into fists, trembling ever so slightly. His whole being seems consumed by some invisible weight, dragging him down into a pit of despair.

His empty gaze focuses slightly as he looks around my living room, scanning for a place to sit as if only now realizing he’s drenched from head to foot.

“Wait here, Caleb. I’ll grab you a towel.”

Not wanting to leave him alone for long, I hurry to my linen closet and grab two towels, one for him to sit on and the other to dry himself with. When I return, Caleb remains frozen to the spot, too consumed with grief to even move. And when I see him starting to shiver, I know that the measly two towels I brought won’t be enough to prevent him from getting sick.

“This won’t do,” I grumble. “Come with me.”

When he doesn’t move, looking like he’s fallen into a catatonic state, I place my palm on his cheek to bring his attention to me.

“Caleb,” I whisper softly. “We need to get you out of these wet clothes, okay? Otherwise, you’ll get sick. Do you understand?”

He blinks once, then twice, before he nods his consent.

“Okay, good.” I smile tenderly at him, lacing my fingers with his so I can lead him into my guest bathroom.

“Just take those wet clothes off, and I’ll put them in the dryer for you,” I say after successfully getting him into the bathroom. “I’ll go look for something for you to wear.”

I hate how he remains oddly still as I leave him to fetch him some clean clothes.

I must be as manic as he is because I almost end up tripping up the stairs in my mad haste to avoid leaving him alone for long. But just as I reach the first floor, I’m reminded that the only clothes large enough to fit Caleb are in the main bedroom—a room I have avoided for many years.

“Get over it, Roxanne,” I mumble to myself, trying to focus on the emergency at hand and get over my own hang-ups for Caleb’s sake.

I take a deep breath before walking into the room, making a beeline to the dresser. I stare at Gregg’s top drawer for the briefest of seconds before pulling it open to retrieve a pair of gray sweatpants and a white t-shirt.

I dash back downstairs afterward and see Caleb still standing in the middle of the bathroom, drenched in the darkness that is threatening to swallow him whole.

“Caleb?” I call out his name, my voice filled with concern. I reach out to touch his arm, but he flinches away as if my touch would only intensify his pain.

“It’s me, Caleb. It’s me,” I whisper softly. “Roxie.”

He takes a deep, shuddering breath before finally meeting my eyes, and it’s at this moment that I see the raw anguish swirling within him. It’s as if he’s battling some inner demon, a war raging inside him that he can’t seem to contain, much less win.

Seeing him like this… so broken… so lost… is just too much.

The rational side of my brain orders me to call someone, anyone, to take him home, with the promise that I’d see him in the morning when he’s not so vulnerable. When the sight of his pain doesn’t make me so vulnerable.

But instead of doing the logical thing—the right thing—I find my feet walking towards him, my hands gripping the hem of his t-shirt.

“Let me help you,” I whisper, his gaze finally sparkling with some light in it, no matter how dim. He nods, and I realize that the wetness coating his face isn’t droplets of water from his wet hair but tears streaming down his cheeks.

“Tell me what happened,” I probe gently as I carefully maneuver his t-shirt over his head and drop it on the floor.

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