Page 58 of Employing Patience

I drive to Joey’s house, and even though I know I should turn my car around, once my mind is set on something, that’s it. He lives in a quiet part of town, all tiny single-story houses that have been converted from the short-stay accommodation setup when the Kilborough Penitentiary was in its heyday.

I pull up out the front of his address and push down the sinking feeling when I arrive. The small strip of grass out the front is overgrown, threatening to climb over the front steps and porch, two panels of the picket fence are missing, and the front room has a sheet pinned up in place of curtains.

It’s all cosmetic, I remind myself. Nothing a little love can’t fix.

Still, I know the markings of someone struggling, and my red flags are waving.

The mailbox is overflowing with letters, but when I pause to grab them and take them inside, I find a stack of reminder notices.

What the hell is going on?

With what I pay him and his second job, things shouldn’t be this bad.

I change my mind about delivering the letters to him and leave them where they are, then cautiously make my way to the front door.

I knock, and it opens almost immediately, revealing a tall, thin girl with Joey’s features. Her bright smile immediately drops when she sees me.

She points. “Art, right?”

“Yes.” I’m about to ask about Joey when a car pulls up behind me, and her smile reappears.

“He’s in bed sick, see ya!” She ducks around me and heads for the car, leaving the front door wide open.

And me standing there wondering what the hell to do now.

I cautiously take a step inside, wanting to warn the silly girl about how easy it would be to rob the place, only it looks like someone already has.

There’s a couch, a small TV propped up on a crate, and a tiny two-seater table that’s seen better days pushed into the corner.

I almost feel like I should leave and pretend I was never here because I get the feeling Joey wouldn’t be happy with me seeing this. He might joke and act carefree, but I’m starting to realize that maybe that’s exactly what it is. An act.

I quietly close the front door behind me and step further into the house. It’s dark and depressing, no windows left open, and what smells like burned cheese lingers in the air.

This isn’t good. If I was Joey, I’d probably want to spend as much time as possible out of the house as well.

There’s an open door off the living area, showing a bedroom, and two closed ones down a short hall that leads to a laundry room. The first is a tiny bathroom, so the second must be where Joey is.

I knock softly, and when no one answers, I nudge the door open a slit.

My chest stutters at the sight of him sleeping, soft features relaxed, one lean arm flung over his head. He’s kicked off the comforter, and even from here, I can tell his shirt and hair are damp with sweat. I back the hell out of there as quickly and silently as I can.

I know I need to leave, but I can’t stop the clawing need that comes over me to do something.

He’d never accept my help though. I might not know a lot about him, but I know that.

I want to feel relieved that he’s not avoiding me, but him being sick doesn’t exactly fill me with the warm fuzzies.

My feet gravitate toward the kitchen to at least drop him in some Tylenol, but there’s nothing there. No food either, and the bathroom is equally as bare.

Yeah, this doesn’t work for me.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I swipe his keys from the counter and leave, promising myself that I’ll make a quick run to the grocery store, and that’s it.

Absolutely nothing else.

17

JOEY

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