Page 119 of Crazy In Love
“Good.” I catch a flash of yellow from the corner of my eye, so I bound to my feet and thrust my arm in the air, and when some other jackass rushes to the curb twenty feet to my left, I stare at the side of his head and snarl when his eyes come to mine.
Wisely, he retreats, dropping his hands and taking a long step back. Then two. Three.
Smart.
As soon as the cab stops in front of me and the trunk pops open, I wheel my case around—wee-woo-wee-woo—and lift its stupid weight into the back long before the driver has a chance to get out and do it for me. Slinging my purse onto my arm and slamming the lid down, I stalk to the back door and slide in.
Sweat makes my skin sticky. It makes my shirt cling to my shoulders and my hair grip to my neck. Because despite the fact it’s dark out already, and although it’s not yet summer, the humidity is thick, and my whole fucking life wants to irritate me.
I meet the driver’s eyes in the rearview mirror, and rumbling out my address, I sit back with a heavy, noisy exhale.
“So… you’re in a cab now?”
“Jesus, Booker!” I startle at the voice in my ear, scaring the driver, so he jumps and wrenches the wheel dangerously to the left. “I thought we were done?”
“You didn’t end the call, and I’m kind of afraid that if I do, I might see you on the news in a little while. Something about an enraged ape climbing the Empire State Building.”
I slump back in my seat and close my eyes. “Goodbye, Booker.” I tap my headphone and kill our call, and though my phone beeps with incoming texts—one from Alana, asking me to text her when I get to the apartment, and one from Raya, asking if I landed safely—I ignore the robotic phone voice. Because neither is from Chris, and his declaration of undying love is the only thing I want to hear right now.
Is this how he feels when I steal his fork? The itchy skin. The tight control on a temper that wants to blow. When he’s sleeping in sheets that annoy him, is it like how my shirt sticks to my skin and feels like a straitjacket? Or when he wears socks with imperfect stitching, does he feel the same frustration I feel when my hair sticks to my neck?
And if this is his life, howdoesn’the rage against anyone who looks at him? How does he live like this without wanting to kill someone?
“Most of the folks I collect from JFK are tourists with big smiles,” my driver murmurs. “They’re usually pretty bubbly and energetic and excited to be here.”
Exhaling a long, chest-emptying sigh, I peel my eyes open and meet the dark stare of a man easily inching toward sixty. Maybe even sixty-five.
“I know I’m a stranger,” he explains. “But seeing as how we have twenty minutes, and you probably won’t ever see me again… you wanna talk about it?”
Yes. No.
“Do you ever feel like you just don’t belong anywhere?” I look at my purse and drag it open with shaking hands. I’m so hungry that even a stick of gum would be an improvement to my current state. “My parents didn’t want me. Neither of them. My foster families didn’t want me. My college degree hardly wanted me, and even when I got it, I didn’t use it.”
He nods, listening without interrupting. Processing without intervening.
“My best friend left. And it’s not that she doesn’t want me, but she wants her husband and family more. Which, of course, is entirely appropriate.” No gum. Not even a breath mint. Frustrated, I settle back in my seat and fold my arms. “I’ve lived in New York my entire life, but I have norealfriends. I have colleagues. And I have neighbors who are nice. But I should have more, right? I’m almost thirty years old, so I should have more to show for nearly three decades of existing.”
“You haven’t found your place yet.” Calm and entirely too comforting, he drives us out of the airport and onto regular New York roads, where everyone is kind of crazy and drivers are erratic. Yet, he keeps our progress smooth. Our stops and starts, unhurried. “You’re still young. It’s okay that you’re still looking.”
“But I’ve looked all over the world! I’ve prioritized plane tickets over groceries more times than I can count. Nowhere wants me.”
“Could be because you’re looking for a place, when maybe you should be looking for a person.”
“My best friend would disagree.” I lay my head back and close my eyes. “And if she heard your theory about finding a person, she’d smack me with a newspaper. Then she’d probably smack you, too.”
He chuckles, his chest and belly bouncing with the sound. “I meant,you. You haven’t found you, yet.”
“Oh! Well.” I open my eyes and meet his in the mirror. “Yeah. She agrees with that. She said I have to figure out what it is I want.”
“And you’re struggling because you’ve never belonged, and no one wanted you.” He merges lanes and slides us between a bus and another cab. “How can you possibly know what you want, if you don’t even know who you are? Your family bailed, so you have no foundation to work with. You have nothing to grow from.”
“You’re good at this.” Smiling for the first time since standing on the dance floor at Alana and Tommy’s wedding, I exhale a cathartic snicker. “You get a psych degree before taxi school?”
“No. But I meet all sorts of people every single day. I’ve developed somewhat of a hobby of trying to understand them in our limited time together.”
“Can you understand me? And when you do, tell me what I should do.” I chew on my lip and stare out at the partial darkness outside. The sun is down, but this is New York, after all. “I’m honestly so, so tired,” I breathe, swallowing my shaky breath before it betrays me. “It’s like the universe wants me to solve a ridiculous riddle. But I can’t read the words. I can’t evenseethe words.”
“Why don’t you tell me what you think you want to do? Or what you think should happen?”
