Page 9 of Carter

I smile despite myself.

“And?” Tim asks.

I swallow.

“He’d tell me to keep trying.”

It’s silent for a moment, and some of the tension lifts from my shoulders. I know that if I can’t move on for myself, I need to do it for him. Because he wouldn’t like seeing me like this.

“Thank you for sharing, Carter. Does anyone else have anything they’d like to share?” Tim guides the conversation to someone else. Elena. She’s an older woman. A survivor of domestic abuse. She’s strong, so she’s going to be okay. That’s all it takes. Strength.

The chill in the air is a reprieve from the stuffiness of the support group building, but not for long. By the time I reach the subway, I’m frozen. Kane walks with me, like he always does, though he never takes it. Says he lives in the area but wants to make sure I’m okay. He started doing it from the first day we met, when he learned my story. It’s like he knew I was scared without me admitting it. Because I hate admitting that I’m scared to be alone, especially out on these streets.

He’s a big guy; taller than me with a big beard and a lot of tattoos. The kind of guy others may be afraid of, so yeah, it makes me feel better walking with him.

It isn’t much warmer while I wait for the subway to come, or while I’m on it, but it’s better than standing outside. I still have four blocks to walk when I get off before I’m home.

It’s dark and the streets aren’t too busy, especially not around this way. Problem is, when you run into someone, you know they aren’t a good person. Not around here.

Most of the time I’m anxious when I’m walking home, but sometimes it feels like it’s the safest I’ll ever be. How could it happen to me twice?

I enter my building, stopping at the wall of mailboxes on the left and getting my mail before heading up the steps. The elevator can take someone else as prisoner. I won’t get stuck in that thing again. Once is good enough for me. Four flights are my workout for the day. I don’t get much exercise otherwise.

I unlock my door, using my shoulder to shove it open because it gets stuck sometimes, though I can’t figure out why. I’ve tried to fix it more than once, and maintenance has come too, alwayssaying it’s all set. Then it’s fine for a few days until it starts acting up again. I gave up on it. It’s just part of my routine now.

My living room and kitchen are one room; barely big enough to be called a room. There is a small island separating the two, which is good because I don’t have room for a table. The best way to describe this place is drab. Dark brown carpets, cream walls. The tile in the kitchen was white once upon a time, but turned a garish yellow long before I moved in. It’s barely big enough for two people to stand in.

I have exactly five cabinets, three on the walls for food and two beneath the sink for cleaning supplies and paper supplies. I do have a dishwasher though, which is a perk. The sink is porcelain and stained, but it’s big, which allows the dishes to pile up.

The short hallway ahead of me has a door on either side. Bedroom on the left. Bathroom on the right. It should hardly be called a hallway, but I don’t know what else to call it, so it gets the upgrade. The bedroom is the biggest room in the apartment at least, but there is no closet. Nowhere to hide the boxes that taunt me every time I’m in here. If only I had the strength to go through them.

I hang my jacket on the coat rack in the corner of my bedroom since there isn’t space out in the living room, then head to my fridge to see what there is to eat. I haven’t eaten since about eleven, when I took a trip to the cafe around the corner for Eileen and I. She’s the manager at the library, and so very nice. She paid for the coffee and donuts today like she does every other time she sends me over.

“You fly, I’ll buy,” she says. Every time. It makes me laugh.

Eileen knows something is up with me, she’s asked exactly two times. Said she could tell I was dealing with something. First, was the day I started. Then again about a month later when I was settled in. When I told her I was fine, she said she wouldn’t ask again but if I ever wanted to talk to her, I could.

I haven’t. And I won’t. Easier that way.

I eat leftover chicken and rice for dinner, then shower and put on sweatpants. I drop onto the couch and search through the free channels for something to watch, settling on a movie I’ve never heard of because it’s new and won’t remind me of Ryan.

This is my life now. Doing things to avoid his memory.

He’d hate it.

It’s not that I don’t want to think about him. It just hurts too much.

I’m halfway through the movie when there’s a knock on my door. It startles me and my heart jumps into my throat.

Strange. No one ever knocks on my door. Maybe the neighbor needs to borrow a cup of sugar? Joke’s on them. I don’t have any.

I pause the movie and get up to look through the peephole.

“What the…”

I pull open the door.

Standing on the other side is the cop from the bar.