Page 31 of The Delivery

“Just talk to me like a person. I mean, not like a case. Talk to me like I was your friend, like we were for a few days in Detroit. No Pathways, no professional stuff. Just Lana and Mozey.”

I suck air into my lungs, but I still feel myself deflating. I can’t handle a relationship without borders between Mozey and me. I’m transparent enough even with three years between us. Even with wives and boyfriends and children, I still can’t turn off this flood of emotion. Maybe deportation will be good, putting literally thousands of miles between us. He can’t paint me from there. Send him to another country. He won’t be able to reach me.

Mozey slides his hand across the table, palm up, his face pleading with me to just be normal and not to be such a spastic, defensive, nervous, bossy jerk. He needs comfort right now, understanding and support. I’ve been trained in these things. I can do this on autopilot.

“I’m sorry, Mozey. This must be very overwhelming for you, not to mention frightening. Let’s plan a course of action to make this transition go as smoothly as possible.”

“Lana,” he shouts, and I jump in my seat. He looks angrily at me and runs his hands through his shiny, black hair. “Can’t you do it? Can you be real with me? Just try. Once. Please.”

I feel like I might cry. I don’t know how to act. I’ve had plenty of boyfriends and sexual relationships in my life, but my feelings for Mozey leave me confused and insecure. I don’t know whether I should cry or if I should punch him in the gut or run into his arms.

“Could you give me a hug? Admit that you care about me? We could acknowledge there was always something there between us that we were too scared to explore? Am I allowed to say that?”

His big brown eyes are flashing warmly, trying to coax me into agreement. My defenses kick in frantically, and I spring up from the chair.

“I—uh.”

“Lana, I still want you. I’ve never stopped wanting you.”

Those are the words I’ve always wanted to hear from him. The same words I long to say right back to him. How come I can’t admit it to myself? How come I can’t just have this one, perfect, beautiful thing? Because I don’t deserve it. Because, admitting to loving him means I’m a bad person.

“I have a boyfriend. I don’t think he would appreciate me having this conversation.” I grab my purse off the table and turn away, leaving him sitting there stunned. He asked me for my honesty, and I gave him back none.

As I walk away, the floor melts behind me and swallows him up. Then the walls become wavy and slip down to the floor. I could be walking on the moon for how disoriented I feel. I think I’m in love with the man sitting behind me, and it’s the most complicated feeling I’ve ever uncovered. I haven’t even so much as heard him sneeze in nearly three years and I’m still crippled by the amount of emotion charging through me.

I rush to my car as the pavement sinks into holes and black caverns right behind every step. All the windshields in the parking lot turn to liquid rainbows with the glare of the sun. The earth is folding in, consuming itself. It will eat me too if I don’t get away from him. My car is the only small oasis in the world that’s crumbling at my feet. When I reach it, I jump inside across the seat, trying to catch my breath. The drink holder between the two front seats is crushing my sternum. I jam my key in the ignition and blast the air conditioning. The radio is blinking in and out, static commercials in Spanish. I cover my eyes and whimper into my hands. I just witnessed my world fall apart. Because I’m so scared and because I let it.

CHAPTER 15

Dale and I make tomato soup and grilled cheese with sourdough and Swiss. He fills me in on the shots they had to get today and the grueling process of doing a million and one takes. I try to listen and nod sympathetically, but I’m chugging wine so fast my throat hurts from the acidity. I slice my finger chopping a red onion for the salad; Dale likes to keep the knives sharp, one of these days I’ll slip on an artery.

In the bathroom medicine cabinet I find Bacitracin and douse the throbbing gash. I howl when the antiseptic hits it and hop on one foot to distract myself. I can’t stop obsessing, and now my obsessions are all moody and sluggish from alcohol. I’ve known a million kids that are cutters, and I get the psychology. I’ve never cut myself intentionally, even the thought of it unnerves me. I watch a giant red drop of blood gather at one end of the cut, and I quickly stick my finger under water to wash the red off.

I kind of get the distraction, the pull to the wound. It removes your brain from the larger pain lurking inside you. I hit it again with the liquid then wrap it in gauze and a band-aid. It throbs like a giant thumb, mute, but screaming at me.

Dale knocks on the door softly and murmurs my name. I feel like jamming my fist into my mouth and tearing the broken flesh with my teeth. But what I do instead is open the door with a smile, hold up my bandaged finger to prove I wasn’t just hiding in the bathroom eating my feelings. Stuffing myself sick on a whole goddamned smorgasbord of emotion, an all you can eat buffet of Lana’s regret dinner-special.

We eat in our little sun-filled kitchen and talk about plans for the weekend. Dale does the dishes, and I pay bills on my phone with my measly bank account. I usually send whatever is left to my parents. They try to pay my uncle at least some rent at the end of each month. Mom got some hours sewing costumes for a small theatre company, and Dad is still occupied with an early morning paper route. Lexi has a full-time job now even though he dropped out of college. He works as a janitor in a large public high school. It’s a big enough place to employ a whole team, and apparently Lex is in charge, he’s the king of the janitors. He tries to supplement Mom and Dad’s income as well, but he hasn’t got a lot to spare.

I’ve got to try harder to get work full-time. It always depresses me thinking about Lex using his mind to put pink sawdust on puke and my dad lugging around newspapers nobody reads at four in the morning. Why didn’t I study law or medicine or finance? I can’t save the whole fucking world or all the delinquents in Los Angeles; I should have been more practical and just tried to save my family.

“A penny for your thoughts,” Dale says, wiping his hands from the sink.

All my thoughts are crazy, Dale. You don’t want to hear them.

I’ve got a scowly face on, and I’m chewing my nails. I look up at Dale and wish he would disappear. I want out of my life.

“I wish I had money. And balls. I really wish I had some nuts.”

Dale wipes his hands on jeans and sighs; he’s not into my depression or my lame humor.

“Maybe we should call it quits, Lan. It’s been a while since you were happy. You could stay here until you find a job. I mean there’s no rush. We could talk about it more or maybe try to see a counselor.”

“Did you meet someone else?”

I don’t care if he did, and I’m not sure why I’m asking. I don’t really want a romantic relationship with Dale. I may have never wanted it, but every time he tries to break up with me I react by digging my claws in deeper. The freedom scares me and makes me feel sick. As soon as Dale agrees with me, I immediately back track. I’m like that annoying car in front of you on the highway. The one that slow tortures you until you’re cursing and biting down on your teeth. When the passing lane finally opens up and you step on the gas, slow torture car speeds up too because he can’t imagine driving without torturing you.

“Okay,” I say, and I have to hold my jaw from producing the most inopportune yawn.

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