She sniffles and tries to smile at me. "You're not an asshole, Gustov."
I didn't expect that. I shrug. "Sometimes I am."
She shakes her head. "No, you're not. You're one of the good guys. Believe me."
I don't know where she's going with this, but I need to steer her in the direction of answers. "So, who is the asshole?" She knows what I'm asking, and my mind keeps going to fucking Michael.
She shakes her head.
I touch her cheek gently and her instinct to hide her scar is paired with pain. I pull back my fingers quickly. "Sorry. You want some ice?"
She shrugs. "Doesn't matter."
"Pain matters. Swelling matters. Let's help both with some ice. And then we'll talk."
Ma's in the shower when I head back out to the kitchen. I can hear the water running. I don't want to worry her until I know what's going on with Impatient, so I decide to hold off until the morning to tell her anything because she'll sit up all night worrying if I only give her the few details I have now.
After a stop in the kitchen for a baggie of ice and a kitchen towel, I head back to Impatient. I'm almost there when I hear it. I'd say someone's knocking on the door, but the level of noise that's coming from the foyer would imply someone's pounding the shit out of the front door and skipping polite knocking.
The pounding is quickly fueling a fire that ends with me in a rage. By the time I reach the door I'm ready to pull the motherfucker off its hinges and go ripshit on whoever's on the other side. I swing it open, yelling, "What the fuck?"
And then I see him. Fucking Michael. My blood is boiling now.
He's standing there in his three-piece suit trying to look all composed and professional, except that he's practically vibrating and a vein at his temple is throbbing. I can smell the gin on him like he's been marinating in it instead of drinking it.
He hasn't answered me, so I try again. "Jesus Christ, was all the pounding really necessary, dickhead? We have a fucking doorbell."
"Where is she?" he growls.
I laugh, although that question is anything but funny to me. I know this guy put those bruises on her even if she won't admit it yet. He's bad news. Standing before me now, he's a head case on the verge of psychopathic. "As soon as you laid a fucking hand on her you lost the right to ask that question. I should beat your ass right here, right now, you sonofabitch. But I'm not gonna do that because, believe me, motherfucker, if I get started I won't stop until you're lying face down in the driveway, no longer breathing. Leave."
He shakes his head and his body sways to right itself. He's drunk off his ass. "She's mine."
I shake my head and take a step over the threshold so I'm nose to nose with him. "What the fuck kind of creepy stalker talk is that? Leave her the fuck alone."
"Are you fucking her?" The temple vein throbbing has amped up in intensity.
"None of your fucking business."
A short burst of disgust flares from his nostrils. "I knew it."
"Listen, I don't know what you think you know, jackass, but you need to leave Scout alone. If I find out you've contacted her in any way, shape, or form, I will find you, you piece of shit. And I will annihilate you. Are we clear?"
Before he can answer I've stepped back in the house and slammed the door in his face.
"Goddamn, I need a cigarette," I say to myself as I march through the living room toward the hallway. I need to get back to Impatient.
The bedside table lamp is turned on when I return. It's dim, but lights the room in a soft glow. She's dressed in a long-sleeved pajama top and shorts. The pillows are propped up against the headboard and she's leaning back on them. Her legs are pulled into her chest and her chin is resting on her knees. Her hair's messy and tangled and her eyes are puffy, like she's been crying for days.
"Here you go," I say, handing her the ice pack. My hands are still shaking with anger from the run-in with fucking Michael, and I'm trying to calm myself.
She takes it and presses it to her cheek, wincing against the pain.
I sit on the bed next to her. She seems relaxed, but not in a peaceful way. It's more like all of the energy has been drained out of her. "So. This is the part where I ask questions and if I'm lucky, you answer them."
She nods.
"When did you meet fucking Michael?"
"Fucking Michael?" she questions, though it also sounds like agreement. One hundred percent agreement.
"Yeah, that's what I call him in my head. Seems especially fitting tonight." I'm trying to hold back my anger, but it's proving difficult.
She takes a deep breath and heaves it out, and just when I think she's going to keep quiet she says, "I met him a little over two years ago. I was at a coffee shop near my subway stop, killing some time. There was a storm outside. He came in, bought some coffee, and asked if he could sit with me because every other chair in the place was taken. Against my better judgment, I said yes. I thought he would just sit there and ignore me, because that's what people usually do. They don't want to stare at my scars, so they pretend I'm not there."
"But he didn't ignore you?"
She shakes her head sadly. "No. He talked to me. About normal stuff. It was small talk, I guess, but it didn't feel small to me. We talked for over an hour, and in that hour I never once felt ugly or broken." She's talking quietly, but her voice carries so much emotion. And it's the kind of emotion that could flip at any moment only you don't know which way it's going to go. Sad. Mad. Defeated. Vengeful.