Page 12 of Love Always

He pauses. Somehow, I can feel that wall ratchet up a notch. “Sorry about maybe having to hit the pavement. I can tell you’re … ah, struggling a little.”

“Oh sweet Jesus, I am not struggling.”

“Okay, whatever.”

“Thanks Bud, I owe you.”

I fish around in the glove compartment, but the standard company-issued binoculars are nowhere. This means a trek across the parking lot and back to the office. Shit. I text Bryce one more time. As long as I’m up there, I might as well grab everything I might need tailing an addict.

Mateus: Should I take a unit of Narcan?

Bryce: Absolutely. They are in the lock box in Finn’s office. There’s a inventory sheet in there too. Grab one. Use lot number.

I decide halfway to the building the promise I made to myself once rehab was finished is about to be broken. I’m taking the elevator. It takes about five minutes and I'm back out in the Lexus and shove both the single packet of Narcan in the glove compartment and toss the binoculars on the passenger seat.

Chris Proctor looks like your average twenty-something kid who might be old enough to drink but every bartender will card. In faded designer jeans, a thread-bare blue sweatshirt, a black T-shirt with visible holes, filthy shoes, and mussed hair, he also comes across as a kid who grew up with the taste of several silver spoons in his mouth and decided he didn’t like them. Caucasian, about five eleven, sandy-haired, no beard, emaciated and pale, his hands are too large, and even without the binoculars I can see how red his knuckles are. His skin is raw. This is a kid who doesn't take care of himself. He’s talking to a petite blonde woman, though I can’t make out her face, then saunters over to a beat-up silver Civic with a dull red driver’s side door.

It could have passed for my first car.

As usual, he’s clueless anyone is following him. Most people don't notice when they are being watched. I guess that's a good thing. Fifteen minutes later, he’s pulling up to the curb and dropping coins in a meter, then discovers he doesn’t have to. We are nowhere near his apartment. Light is fading and as he steps out on the street, there’s a self-contained groan. From me.

Stepping out of the car, the burn in my left leg needs to be ignored. With the binoculars in my pocket, I trail him down a block to a restaurant, Beenies, where he tucks in, moves around the corner and ducks in behind the building.

I sigh, shake my head, and pull out my phone. There will be picture taking. I walk past him and then duck behind a dumpster and make my way to the other side where a large bush will provide cover. The back door slams and a cook steps out, a big guy with tatted sleeves on both arms. They talk for a moment and then a skinny guy, with wallet chain and knife, dirty blond hair and a pronounced Adam’s apple, emerges from the door as well. He’s got a toothpick in his mouth. I take full front and profile pictures just to be sure I can ID them later if there’s a match.

The three of them talk for a few minutes and then the kid shakes his head and takes a step back. Whatever is happening, he does not want to be here. He folds his arms and then takes a second step back.

He probably doesn’t even know what his body is already preparing to do—he needs to get out. Mr. Toothpick says something to him and again the kid shakes his head.

Cook’s face is impassive, unreadable, but it tells me everything.

Shit shit shit.

Stepping out from behind the dumpster to the sidewalk, I make noise, pretending to trip over a crack in the pavement.

“Shit!” I glance back at the uneven layers, and then make eye contact with the cook. Toothpick guy spits and the kid just stares at the ground.

“City needs to fix that thing,” I say. “Hey, could you guys help me? Trying to find a place, man. I’m lost.”

Toothpick guy just grins. “You so lost, man, because you’re in the wrong country.”

I blink. It’s not that I haven’t heard this before, and I don’t know why it sets me off, maybe the air, being near the sea again, the fact my leg feels raw, but I am back at that day: Bryce wheeling me up the ramp to P.T., a week after I was released from the hospital, how sick I felt, how scared, how fucking vulnerable, and then that guy in a baseball cap yelling, “Go back home. Go back to fucking Mexico!” Bryce absolutely losing it, letting go of the chair, and as it rolls backward, and he starts wailing on the guy, pounding him, breaking his jaw. The man’s young son terrified and I could do nothing to stop it.

“Shut the fuck up asshole,” says Cook to Toothpick Guy.

“Where are you going?” says Chris Proctor, taking a few steps my direction. He’s twitchy, nervous.

“Here, let me show you,” I say and nod toward the street. “I don’t get which street I turn off of.”

“Don’t you have a fuckin’ car?” Toothpick guy throws his chest out a little.

I ignore him and Chris starts walking with me. Toothpick guy leans into the side street and watches us.

Laying on the biggest smile, I lower my voice and start nodding, saying “Just come with me.”

Chris looks startled.

“Wave.” I nod to the alley, “At them.”