Page 93 of Versions Of Us

Stay.

That one word plays over and over in my head for the entire journey home. Is it bad that after everything we’ve been through I still wanted to? To lay down next to him, curling myself into the space between his outstretched arm and bury my head into his chest?

I arrive back at the apartment sometime after one in the morning to find Mackenzie on the couch, one of my fluffy blankets tucked over her legs. Her phone reflects blue light onto her flawless skin, letting me know she’s still awake.

“Oh, hey,” I say.

“Hey,” she replies. “How was the carnival? How did the bake sale go?”

“The bake sale was a success,” I tell her.

“Why do you look upset? Did something happen?”

“No. Well, just some stuff that happened afterwards, I guess. Let’s just say it was…eventful.”

“Eventful good or eventful bad?” she asks, lowering her phone to her lap.

“I’m not really sure. I don’t really want to talk about it.” I flop down onto the armchair adjacent to the couch noticing the empty packet of Doritos lying next to her. “Are those my Doritos?”

She winces. “Uh, yeah. Sorry. I’ll replace them first thing in the morning.”

“It’s fine.” I wave off her apology. “You’re up late.”

“Couldn’t really sleep,” she replies. “So I thought I’d just spend the time deleting emails. I got another rejection letter today. Didn’t get the job at the post office.”

“Damn. I’m sure something will come up eventually.”

“Yeah, I’m trying to stay positive about it, you know?” she says. “Dum spiro spero and all that.”

My head snaps up in time to see her eyes roll before her attention is focused back to her phone. “What did you just say?”

“Oh…Um… nothing,” she says as she resumes scrolling through her phone. “Actually, I’m pretty tired after all. I might head off to bed.”

My eyes track Mackenzie as she stands and walks into her room leaving me sitting there bewildered, the memory of the last time I’d heard those words spoken now in the forefront of my mind.

Everything is beginning to make sense and yet nothing really adds up.

When I finally fall into bed, I lay awake for hours, the conversation I’d had with Em almost six months ago playing repeatedly in my head. Though it was so long ago, I remember it like it was yesterday. I still recall the shakiness in her voice, the uncertainty in her words.

“I was wondering when you were going to call me again,” I had said, genuinely relieved to hear from her.

The last time we’d spoken had been when we were interrupted by an abusive male voice. The conversation I still have nightmares about to this day.

“Sorry. I haven’t had the chance,” Em had replied. I remember how distant she sounded, the gut feeling I’d had that something had happened.

Something that wasn’t good.

“Why is that?” I’d asked her.

She’d answered my question with a question, as she so often did, her voice low and miserable. “Why do you care?”

“I care about what happens to you, Em,” I’d said with a sigh. “I’m worried about you. I’m worried you don’t have someone looking out for you.”

“I do,” she had said.

“I hope you don’t mean the guy I heard last time you called.”

I didn’t know everything about Em or what went on in her life. But I did know that guy was bad news.

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