Page 53 of P.S. I Miss You

He’s the definition of unavailable.

“That’s too bad …” she says. “I was hoping we could order a pizza or something.”

“Don’t you have some packing to do? Or something?” I have to start distancing myself from her, and I have to start now.

If she weren’t leaving, I’d fight for her.

I’d tell her how much I want her … how much I need her … in my life.

But now I’m just going to be some roommate she hardly knows, some guy she fucked around with a few times, some lovestruck schmuck who waits until zero hour to tell her how he feels.

Her suitcase is packed.

Her plane leaves in three days.

And this ship? I’m afraid it has sailed.

“Have fun, Sutter.” Her words are cordial. Her tone is not. But it’s better this way. I wouldn’t want her to run off to her job missing a guy she’s got no business missing.

She needs to focus on more important things.

What kind of selfish bastard would I be if I stole her focus at a time like this? If I so much as expected her to make me a priority?

Melrose disappears down the stairs.

I get dressed and disappear down the street, in a dark sports bar that smells like spilled beer and not Melrose’s intoxicating perfume. In a space filled with everyone looking to escape from something and not in the arms of a woman who has become my escape.

She’s not even gone and already I miss her.

THE DOORBELL RINGS A few minutes past nine thirty Wednesday night. I pause tonight’s reunion episode of Real Housewives, toss the throw blanket to the side, and make my way to the foyer to find out who the hell would ring a doorbell this late at night.

Peeling back the white curtains that block the little window in the front door, I see a teenage boy, messy hair the color of California sand, and behind him, a Yellow Cab is parked in the driveway, headlights pointed at the house.

Yanking the door open, I step outside and put my arm around Tucker.

“Are you okay?” I sign. “What are you doing here?”

The cab driver gets out of the front seat and flags me over.

“Stay here,” I sign.

“Kid ordered a ride on his phone,” the cabbie says when I get closer. “Didn’t say two words the whole time. Just gave me the address. I pointed to the fare when we pulled up and then he looked at me with this—”

“He’s deaf.” I cut to the chase because I don’t have time for this. I need to make sure he’s okay, and I need to get a hold of Sutter. “How much do I owe you?”

“Ninety-four bucks,” he says. Clearing his throat, he adds, “Plus gratuity.”

Jesus.

“I’ll be right back.” I dash inside, find my bag, and pull out my debit card before returning outside. I give him a generous tip for having the decency to help Tucker despite not quite understanding what was going on. “Thank you so much.”

The cabbie leaves, and I usher Tucker inside. He takes a seat on the sofa, staring at me with wide, unblinking eyes, and in the dim, lamp-lit room, I make out the sunken dark circles under his eyes.

He hasn’t been sleeping, and for all I know, he hasn’t been eating either.

“Are you hungry?” I sign.

He nods.

I hurry to the kitchen and fix him a sandwich and chips and pour him a glass of milk, and when I get back, I text Sutter. The message shows delivered but not read.

“Did something happen?” I sign to Tucker as he eats.

He places the sandwich down with both hands, finishing the oversized bite in his mouth.

“Dad was drinking,” he signs back. “Throwing things again.”

“Did you tell Sutter?”

Tucker shakes his head no. “I just wanted to leave. Before it got worse.”

I check my phone again. My text still doesn’t show as read. He said he was going to some sports bar, but there are literally dozens of them in this area alone. I could drive around all night and still not find him.

But the important thing is, Tuck is here and he’s safe with me. I’ll wait up with him. I won’t leave his side until Sutter gets home.

“You like this?” I hit play on the remote and point to the TV.

Tucker reaches for a potato chip and wrinkles his nose.

“What?” I sign, pretending to be shocked. I find the button on the remote for the closed-captioning and sink back into the sofa.

A few minutes later, his eyes are glued. I don’t know if he’s trying to be polite and humor me or if he’s truly into this middle-aged-female reality drama stuff, but I can only hope that for a fraction of his young little life, he might be able to distract himself from all the chaos and bullshit at home.

Once the episode ends, Tucker carries his plate and glass to the kitchen. When he returns, he studies me, forehead kind of wrinkled and eyes narrowed, and in his current state, he looks exactly like Sutter.

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