Page 137 of Who I Really Am

His eyes get huge again. “Wait, so you two did...”

“No. We did not. We kinda figured things out before it went that far.” And I’m eternally grateful for it.

Still, the fury on his face…

I’m not scared or anything, but I am glad Marco isn’t around. My brother is going to have to work through his anger somehow, and until he does, well, Marco might be safer in a cell.

“Look, I’m not telling you this to hurt you.” Okay, maybe a little.“I’m telling you what really happened so you can understand that Marco was not to blame, not any more than I was.” I feel stupid tears. “I’m not your perfect little sister, Tripp. I did a dumb thing, and worse, it wasn’t the only one. This year has been…” I dash my head. “What you need to understand is that the second Marco realized who I was, that was it. He wouldn’t have come near me if I were the last woman on the beach. I’m the one who told him not to go. I’m the one who invited him to stay in the cabana.

And as far as what you witnessed yesterday, well, that just happened in the last couple of days—and I’m not going to apologize for it. Neither of us should have to because we’re both adults, and I hope you can accept that. But regardless, would you please,pleasestop painting me the saint and Marco the sinner? He respected me, and he respected you and your friendship. And, I’ll say it again: surely you can find some grace in your heart for the man who saved my life.”

CHAPTER 37

Marco

Today is one of those perfect kinds of days. Blue sky, bright sun.

My apartment, on the other hand, is a dungeon, dank and dark. No UV rays have penetrated my living space in weeks. Curtains are drawn, blocking the eyeballs and zoom lenses of nosy protestors and fake news purveyors.

All is as I left it, excepting the apples I bought the night of the shooting. Now they’re shriveled, worm-eaten, brown balls. There’s a vacant lot behind my building, so I slide open the glass and launch the pair one by one off the balcony, to get lost in the unmown grass.

I pause for a breath of fresh air but hear a creak. I catch the hem of my neighbor’s house dress disappearing behind her balcony door an instant before it slams shut.

So much for a moment of peace. Mrs. Griffith hasn’t liked me since the day I moved my furniture up the stairs one year ago. She started out by complaining I played my music too loud during workouts. No matter how drastically I lowered the volume, she objected. Once, she even called in a noise complaint on me. I invested in Bluetooth headphones the next day and have used them ever since.

I’m good at listening to my instincts, so I lock my gun in my gun safe, gather the few items I need from desk and bedroom—not that I can take anything where I’m going—lock the door behind me, and jog down the outer stairwell. Before emerging from the shadowy breezeway, I plant a ballcap on my head and my aviators on my nose.

No one is around, at least that I can see, and I have time to kill. Backpack slung over one shoulder, I head to the parklike area across the street and sink onto a wooden bench. Five o’clock is still hours away.

The postage-stamp-sized stitch of green space belongs to the neighboring complex, but no one has ever complained about me using it before. For the moment, I have it to myself.

Solitude sucks. I’m a gregarious guy. A people person. But at this stitch in time, I’m flying solo. Mom would be here if she could, would be if I’d let her.

A mother shouldn’t see her only son locked up, guilty or innocent, whichever of the two I am. The news reports will be inescapable, and she’ll sob when she sees my ugly mug with numbers across the bottom.

Who am I kidding? She’s already crying and I know it, ever since I told her I was turning myself in tonight. The offer of her meager savings to go to bail was agonizingly poignant and entirely expected, but I let her know I had it covered.

I lied.

I mean, I got the ball rolling today to withdraw from my 401k, something I should have done much sooner. I’m told the judge is likely setting bail ridiculously high, as if I’m some major flight risk.

Am I? As I stare at a trio of ducks frolicking in this manmade pond, my thoughts continually drift to certainwhat ifs.What if I headed south to visit the notorious Wall? What if I headed west and caught a slow boat to China?

I’ll do none of these things, but apparently I’m the only one who knows it. No, I’ll be cooling my heels in lockup for a few days, probably weeks. After that, I’ll be on the outside somewhere awaiting a trial with an outcome I feel certain is all but predetermined.

The name that Gibson, Anderson’s Lubbock dealer, gave me to hunt down here in Dallas, the one I’m supposed to be tracking today before the cuffs go on, nests in the depths of my pocket, a crumpled wad of pulp, as useless as all my hopes of clearing my name, a one in a million shot.

I watch the ducks paddle away. See? Even they don’t want to get close.

Some people make a muddle of their lives and they do so with full awareness. They simply don’t care to alter course. I, on the other hand, can honestly say I had no clue how badly I was mucking things up until my abrupt fall from grace. I was on top of the world. Living my life, doing mythang. Blissful ignorance of my failings, my growing vulnerabilities, kept me sprinting toward a future I see now that I did not want. There was plenty of time, time to do things right, time to become the man I always intended. A solid citizen. A good brother, son. Husband, some day.

All of it has slipped my grip, pouring through the fissures of my life like wet beach sand.

I wish I still knew how to pray. I prayed a ton when Dad abandoned us so suddenly.

Yes, I started out far differently than I’m finishing.

Annalise knows how to pray. I know she lost her way and all, for a time, but I sensed her strength yesterday, her resurgence, and I think a lot of it has to do with her knowing—knowing her Source and having a foundation. She knows where to return to find her footing, and there will be a solid foundation when she gets there.

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