Pull Me Close: The Panic Series Page 7

  “Yeah, that smile says you’re not interested,” Geo says as her phone begins to ring. “Oh! It’s the wedding planner on FaceTime. I’m going to step outside for a minute,” she says.

  David stands up and shakes his head. “It’s all wedding talk all the time,” he chirps as he walks after Geo, leaving me alone with my brother.

  “Anyway, I’m a changed man. That trip made me realize I need to slow down.”

  “Well, carefree Nick, you never told me what you did during your little sabbatical besides visit Julia and the kids. Because, judging by your mood, you don’t seem all that changed.”

  “I just drove, mostly. I hit the beach, did some stand-up paddleboarding, met Iggy over on the West Coast for some sparring in some MMA gym he trains in.” Iggy’s a real good friend of mine I rarely get to see. The only friend, other than David, who didn’t abandon me when my name was dragged through the mud. He’s usually traveling, so when he’s in town or at least in the continental United States, I try to catch up with him. “Then I had some drinks with him and his buddies, drove some more, did some more paddleboarding, and then came back.”

  “Sounds to me you did a lot of physical shit, got tired, slept, got tired some more, then came home. Very relaxing and carefree, Nicky.” He rolls his eyes and pats my shoulder.

  “It was relaxing,” I say, a little irritated. “You don’t have to worry about me. I’m good.”

  “How can you be good? You’re not having sex, you’re not going out, you’re up my ass and driving everyone insane. You need other people in your life. You need something other than Panic.”

  “I have friends. I have other things going on.”

  With a raised eyebrow he asks me, “Really? Name one.”

  “Iggy.”

  “If you don’t know what a person does for a living, he’s not your friend.”

  “Shut up, man. I know what Iggy does for a living,” I say, glaring at Matt’s irritating smirk. “He’s a mercenary. Or a hacker. Something secret.”

  “I’ll reluctantly give you Iggy. But you see him one, maybe two times a year. And David lives abroad. Any other friends I don’t know about?”

  All of my other friends abandoned me when times got tough. Turned out they weren’t really friends. And, truthfully, that was fine with me. Lesson learned.

  “You know I love you, Nicky, but you’ve become such a dick that the first thing you did when you met Katie was treat her like shit. If you keep this up, you’re never going to meet anyone. You give off an asshole vibe.”

  “Women love the asshole vibe,” I retort. “She came all the way here to explain herself. Obviously she doesn’t hate me.”

  He snorts. “That says more about her than you. She must be really out of her mind.”

  “Ha ha.” The food arrives, but we’re still waiting for our friends to come back inside.

  “Whatever,” Matt says. “I’m starving, and this conversation’s getting boring. All I know is, if you want her to be your friend or fuck you, either way, cut that fucking ridiculous hair and shave your face. No woman, no matter the level of crazy, wants to be around a douchy hipster.”

  “Fuck you very much. You’re just jealous because I got the man genes.” For some odd reason Matt can’t grow a beard. It’s just a patchy weird-looking thing on his face.

  I see David and Geo walking back, holding hands and smiling about something. “Last thing,” Matt says. “This is just a warning, because I do care and I’m sincerely concerned.” His expression has changed, and he looks serious. He leans closer to me, as if he’s going to drop some serious knowledge. “I read once that if you don’t use your cock, it just falls off. Poof. Just falls right the fuck off, and then all you’ll have left is a vagina. Just putting that shit out there, man.” He flicks my ear, which he knows annoys the shit out of me, before grabbing his fork and knife and digging into his food.

  Katherine

  I wake up with a renewed sense of accomplishment. I’m feeling great, with a skip in my step that was missing, I look in the fridge and see that I’m low on orange juice. Normally I’d wait for Roberto, the kid who delivers my food, but today I decide to get dressed, go down to the corner store, and buy myself juice like a normal person. I need juice, I go get it. “Whatcha think, Julius? You think I can do it?” He yawns, looking unamused, and walks slowly back to his bed. Yesterday I went to see Nico. I was able to do that and I didn’t get hurt, I didn’t get into a car accident, and the world did not implode.

  Nothing happened.

  Very anticlimactic, actually.

  I survived, and it was worth it.

  I grab my purse, lock the door, and walk out of my building feeling brave. Just making it this far is an accomplishment. When I pass an elderly woman on my way, instead of sticking my hands in my pockets and moving aside, I wave and smile. The need to run isn’t there. It’s a downright miracle, and I’m feeling better than when I left my apartment a few minutes ago. By the time I open the door to the store and take the carton of juice from the cooler, I’m practically humming.

  It’s been so long since I’ve been able to do everyday things such as going to the store that I feel like throwing my fists up in the air and doing a little jig. I want to call the doctor and tell her about my monumental breakthrough. In fact, tomorrow I’ll call Dr. Glance and finally set up that appointment. He’s back from his sabbatical and has emailed me twice. I’ll get to tell him in person how much progress I’ve made. Maybe I don’t need therapy after all. Maybe I just needed to get back out there and start living.

  I’m standing in the line to pay; it’s a small corner grocery, and people come in and out. Everyone seems to be minding their own business, but it’s getting a bit crowded. I move to the side to allow a woman to pass, and she accidentally brushes against me, causing me to flinch. The man standing behind me is just a bit too close, but I take a deep breath and think of all the positive things around me, like the fact I’m actually here. I clutch the juice close, the cold feeling good against my skin. It’s Miami, so it’s hot, and the little market is not much cooler; the number of people doesn’t help, and I feel sweat begin to trickle down my spine. I look around. I can hear people speaking around me, the ding sounds from the front door opening and closing, the sound of the cash register.

  It’s a warm September morning. I’m standing in the subway, my messenger bag on one shoulder and a copy of my favorite book, The Count of Monte Cristo, in the other hand. Distracted by the phone call from my mother this morning, I almost missed the train, so I don’t get a seat. I’m holding the steel pole, not paying much attention to anyone or anything around me. The train takes off, catapulting me slightly forward and then back. The hum of the train and the chatter of the passengers serve as a background noise I’ve learned to ignore. The truth is, most people are still half asleep and the chatter is pretty low. I don’t notice much when I’m sitting because my nose is usually in a book, but since I’m standing today, I notice a pregnant woman with a stroller and a baby inside. She’s holding the baby’s little foot and wiggling it. Sitting right next to her is an elderly man who looks like he’s too old to be out of his house. He’s holding a cane and his eyes are drifting closed. Sometimes when I’m on the subway I like to wonder where people are going. If I had to venture a guess, I’d say that the pregnant woman is taking the baby to the pediatrician, and maybe the elderly man is going to visit a grandchild or a great-grandchild.

  Suddenly the train shakes in an unusual way. The woman standing next to me, who is dressed in a pair of white pants and shirt, a uniform, furrows her brow. It’s the first time I notice her and the last time I see her clearly because the train comes to a sudden halt, catapulting me forward and against a young guy holding a skateboard. The sound of metal on metal as the train screeches to a stop makes my heart begin to pound. And then the lights go off.

  It is the kind of darkness that only happens when you close your eyes in a completely darkened room. I can’t see a single thin
g, I try to focus on the pole I’m holding, willing my eyes to adjust, but they don’t. I don’t panic right away, because trains stop sometimes. I’ve lived in New York most of my life, and I’ve been in a broken-down train before. There’s no noise coming from the passengers, probably because we’re all collectively holding our breath waiting for the lights to turn back on and the train to begin to move again.

  The baby cries first.

  The wail is so loud that I startle. I can see shadows as my eyes begin to adjust, and I can tell that the pregnant woman has taken the baby out of the stroller and is now trying to calm her child, but it’s not working. As the minutes tick by and the train still doesn’t begin to move, the darkness combines with the crying baby and my nerves begin to fray. Five minutes turn into thirty.

  After an hour, the heat feels like it’s searing my skin and I’m still holding on to the pole as if my life depended on it. The horror of not knowing what is happening inside the steel tube is a palpable living organism inside the train. I can still see faint flickers of light as people flip open their phones, but there’s no reception. Over the course of the next few hours, those flickers die out, along with our sanity, and we’re left in complete and total darkness. And what I didn’t know at the time was that I’d be there long after the phones all died.

  My heart begins to accelerate at the memory. The customer in front of me moves back a little and I jump away. Then the room begins to spin and the sound of the refrigerators coming from the back are suddenly deafening hums. I feel my throat tighten and I see spots in my vision as my stomach begins to churn.

  “Hold this, please.” I shove the juice into the hands of the woman behind me, and run out of the store without a second thought.

  By the time I’m locked safely inside my apartment, I’m out of breath and feeling hopeless. As I heave air in and out, I just know that I’ll never leave that front door again. I took one giant step forward yesterday and a huge leap back today.

  After spending the rest of the day ruminating over my shitty morning, I make a decision to have a better tomorrow.

  My balcony is as tiny as my apartment, but it overlooks the ocean. I’m only on the fifth floor, but it’s an unobstructed view. That’s one of the reasons it was so expensive for such a small space. I have a comfortable chair and a small table where I love to eat on days it isn’t unbearably hot. Today is one of those evenings. The sound of the ocean makes me feel a little better as I take a bite of my fettuccini on the balcony.

  But then I think about how my life is so small, so insignificant. The loneliness is a blanket, suffocating me day in and day out. I want to be better; I want to live. What would my mother think if she were still alive? She’d be so disappointed in me.

  That evening I’m lying in bed staring at the ceiling when my phone chirps to signal that a text has arrived.

  Hi.

  I sit up quickly, not recognizing the number.

  Who is this? I text back.

  Your favorite club owner.

  I’m fairly certain it’s Nico, but something makes me type Matt?

  Matt is your favorite? You wound me. It’s Nico.

  Grinning hugely, I text, Hi, Nico. Hey, how’d you get my number? Are you some sort of stalker?

  Can’t divulge all my secrets.

  A few seconds later comes another message from him: You said you didn’t have many friends. I think we should be friends.

  You do?

  I do.

  Friends? With Nico? Okay, I text.

  That was easy. I thought I’d have to do lots of groveling.

  I almost feel silly but I can’t help it. I’m not good with texts. It’s not something I do often. My sister, mostly. A few authors I work with will text me on occasion, but that’s about it.

  Another chirp: What are you up to?

  In bed already.

  Party animal, aren’t you?

  Well, I am enjoying an exciting book on the history of the Tudor dynasty. Good times, I reply.

  You’re kind of funny.

  With a smile, I answer, Was that kind of a compliment?

  Kind of.

  What are you up to? I ask.

  About to start a busy night. There’s a big event here tonight.

  I’m not sure what else to type, but I wish I could talk to him, hear his deep voice. All I can think of to say is, Sounds fun.

  I’d invite you but…

  Even through the phone I feel how the conversation has turned somber. But I don’t do well with crowds. Don’t worry about it.

  It hits me how truly different we are. He’s the owner of a nightclub, always surrounded by people. I’m always alone, afraid of people. How could we possibly be friends?

  Just then my phone rings.

  “Hello?”

  “That was weird,” comes Nico’s voice. “I made it weird. You said you’re trying to get better and I just assumed you couldn’t or wouldn’t come.” He takes a breath. “Sorry. Sorry. Lemme try that again. Hi, Katherine. How are you?”

  I laugh at the realization that he’s feeling a little awkward too.

  “I’m okay, Nico.”

  “As I was trying to say, though I came across as an insensitive asshole…Katherine, there’s a thing at the club tonight. A spring-break thing hosted by a vodka company. Would you like to come? Might be fun.”

  I lean my head back on the pillow. He’s sweet. “Uh…I can’t.”

  “You sound…what’s wrong?” His voice holds concern for me.

  “Bad day, that’s all.”

  “Want to talk about it?”

  “Not really.”

  “I spent most of the day researching PTSD.”

  That surprises me. “What?”

  “Yeah. I really didn’t know anything about it, other than that it affects a lot of military personnel.”

  “I’ve never been in the military.”

  Through the phone, I hear his deep laugh. “Figured that. Anyway, it can get very severe.”

  “I know,” I say. “You believe me now?”

  “I’m getting there.”

  “How’d you get my number?”

  “I knew your address and your name and I have a buddy who…I don’t really know exactly what he does, but Iggy can easily get information. It took five minutes.”

  “That’s scary.”

  He laughs again. “I know.”

  “If we weren’t friends now, I’d have to hang up and call the proper authorities. You know, the creepy factor and all of that.”

  “Well, luckily we’re friends now, and now you have my number. Use it. Hey, I have to run, Matt hired a new DJ, the second one in the last week, and I’m pretty sure he’s getting blown by one of our regulars in the booth. The DJ, not Matt.” Then I hear, “Uh…shit. He is. Gotta go, Katherine.”

  “A day in the life of a club owner,” I say with a laugh as he disconnects.

  —

  The next day I’m editing a book in which the hero works in a tattoo shop and makes a comment to the heroine that tattoos aren’t painful. Thinking that he did tell me to use his number, I pick up my phone and send Nico a text: Is getting a tattoo painful?

  A few moments later I receive a reply: Depends where on your body you’re getting tattooed.

  I ponder that for a moment. Before I can reply he sends another text: Why? You planning on getting a tattoo?

  I insert an emoji of a surprised face, then add, No! I have a lot of other things that I have to do before I can sit in a tattoo shop with a bearded guy named Bubba who has a gauge in his nose and is wielding a buzzing needle.

  My guy’s name is Jason and he has no beard and no gauge on his nose. He does have them in his ears, though. And anyway, what’s wrong with beards?

  With a chuckle I type, Nothing whatsoever. Have you always had a beard?

  Yes. Since birth. Otherwise my mother wouldn’t have been able to tell me and Matt apart.

  Haha.

  I grew it when I was in college in N
ew Hampshire. It was cold as fuck up there in the winter. Miami boys freeze easily. When I moved back, I just kept it. Same with the long hair, if you were wondering.

  I thought you were just trying to be cool.

  Do I look cool?

  I laugh out loud, then type, Fishing for compliments?

  Maybe a little. A second later he adds, So what’s up with the tattoo question?

  I’m editing a book and the hero tells the heroine that tattoos aren’t painful. It made me wonder, and since you have them, I thought you’d be a good source to ask. And, by the way, the tattoo is on her foot.

  Oh. Ouch. That’s a very painful place to get a tattoo. It’s all bones and cartilage.

  Glad I asked, then. I begin to make notes on the manuscript.

  —

  A few days later Nico texts me again: Are you afraid of sharks?

  No. Weird question.

  I love to paddleboard, he replies. Matt won’t come with me because he’s convinced a shark’s going to eat him.

  The nerd in me texts back, Even though shark attacks are on the rise, it is rare to get eaten by a shark. Bitten, maybe. Eaten? Not so much.

  Wasn’t aware you were such a shark aficionado.

  Grinning, I answer, Haha. I edited an oceanographic textbook last year. And I love Shark Week.

  I love Shark Week too. Matt cowers under the bed.

  Aww, poor Matt.

  I fall asleep that night while watching a video on how to paddleboard. Maybe one day I’ll be brave enough to try it.

  —

  While I’m tidying up my apartment a few days later, my phone chirps with another text from Nico: What are your thoughts on tequila?

  Tequila? Like the drink?

  Is there any other kind?

  I don’t really have a stance on tequila. I remember making bad decisions after drinking it when I was in my early twenties.

  We’ve all made bad decisions while drinking tequila. It’s a rite of passage. Anyway, we had a big mix-up with liquor and I have a shit-load of tequila we can’t use.

  I start looking online for recipes on my laptop. I can make tequila-lime shrimp and tequila-infused pineapple for dessert.