Page 2 of Forty

But this is what always happens. I think I’m making better choices, and it ends like this. Carlo Fiore was supposed to be the smart bet. Yeah, he’s “connected,” but he’s just a money guy. An accountant. I mean, he went to Penn State. How dangerous can he be?

A drop of blood dribbles into the corner of my eye; the socket throbs. I bend forward, tear off some toilet paper, and dab. I didn’t even see Carlo’s arm coming. One second, I was spouting off as we walked into the apartment. The next, I’m flying backwards over the arm of the couch. If I didn’t have a brother I’d sparred with constantly growing up, I’d have been down for the count. I can take a punch, though.

Bang. “What are you doing in there?”

“Staging a comeback,” I mutter under my breath. From the thumps and the swaying of the door, I guess he hears me.

“Always with the mouth!”

“Just let me out of the bathroom. You won’t see me anymore. I get it. I screwed up. We’re over.”

Matter of fact, we were over the minute we left the restaurant. He’d dug his fingers into my upper arm, his other hand clutching the stupid messenger bag he totes everywhere like he’s got the nuclear codes. Then he called me a stupid whore, and I was done.

I let him bring me back here because I wanted my stuff. That was another mistake. I’m going to die over a ratty old Steel Bones MC T-shirt and a bottle of expensive shampoo for curly hair.

It’s weird how calm and focused I am right now even though my body is going crazy. My heart’s racing; blood is whooshing in my ears. I’m fidgety, like always, but I have to keep my legs braced, and there’s nothing to fiddle with.

My mind is totally clear, though. It’swild. I have ADHD—got a prescription I don’t fill and everything—so I’m never this present and in the moment. Except when I smoke up. Or sometimes during sex. Not with Carlo. Or anyone, really, except Forty Nowicki back in the day.

What am I doing? Focus.

I’d like to say I don’t usually find myself in these sorts of predicaments, but it’s kind of my thing. I pet the dog that bites. I think I can make it—the yellow light, the staff meeting, the rent—but I fall a skosh short. I go out with a mafioso, and it turns out he makes his points with his hands.

People call me free-spirited. The truth is I’m eternally out of control.

Living in my head feels like running as fast as you can downhill. You know when you hit that point where you can’t stop, you can’t even turn if you want to without tumbling ass over teakettle? That’s my normal.

Before Carlo and the bathroom standoff, there was Nick and the long walk on the shoulder of I-97. Paulie and the night in jail. Aaron and the cat fight video. I could blame the ADHD for the sensation-seeking, the risk-taking. And sure, blame the diagnosis for the string of jobs and the speeding tickets.

But the men? That’s me grabbing for a handhold as I fall to my doom. And just like with Carlo, all my relationships blow up in my face. Usually not with a blowtothe face, but I’m quite familiar with the get-your-shit-and-go. No one wants to be a handhold. And the guys that don’t mind…they’re not stable either.

I press my ear to the door. Carlo’s gotten quiet. Maybe he’s cooled off.

“Carlo?”

Nothing. I wait a minute, and then I rise to my feet with caution. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Damn. I’ve sweated so much I’ve got Cher “If I Could Turn Back Time” hair, and there’s blood splatter on the drapey neckline of my gold cocktail dress.

“Carlo?” Still no answer. Maybe he left.

Where did I leave my jacket? If I make a run for it, I’ll need it. It’s forty degrees out. Did I hang it up? I’m sure I didn’t. I probably threw it on the recliner. Or on the floor?

“I’m coming out, okay? I’ll get my shit and go.” I ease away from the door, duck into the shower, and grab my shampoo and conditioner. My crazy, beautiful curls are a legacy from my Jewish grandma on my dad’s side. Hair products aren’t cheap.

I’ve got a bottle in each hand when there’s a thud, a crack, and then the door flies open so hard it immediately swings shut again. I scream and scream at the top of my lungs, grabbing shit and hurling. Air freshener. A shaving brush.

Carlo muscles in, ducking the projectiles, and grabs me by the arm.

“Shut up!” He drags me into the living room, and I buck and flail, knocking over a lamp. He’s heading toward the front door. He’s going to throw me out. That’s good. That’s what I want.

Stop it, Nevaeh. Cooperate. Let him drag you out.

Oh, but I can’t. I’m pure adrenaline, one hundred percent reaction. My arms and legs have their own mind, and it’s not giving up. I kick and flop and scratch and bite. I’mnotgoing down easy. I fall silent, past words, all body, all fight. The sound of grunts and panting and the slap of flesh-on-flesh fill the apartment. We’re almost to the door.

Open it. Please. Open it. Throw me out.

Then, inches from the foyer, my stupid, flailing fist connects with Carlo’s cheek, and his head jerks back. My brain doesn’t even have time to register the hit before I’m dangling in the air, slammed against the wall, Carlo’s hand tightening around my neck. I dig my nails into his forearms, and I pull, but I can’t breathe, and I’ve got no leverage. Blood is trickling into my eye, blinding me.

How did this happen?

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