67
Vicky
Sunday morning. October 30. The day before Halloween.
Just another day, another workout, as I power walk in my workout gear, AirPods in my ears, and I just happen to stop to check my phone, to have a pretend phone conversation, outside the home of one Lauren Betancourt on Lathrow Avenue in Grace Village, Illinois.
I won’t spend long here. It’s way too close to D-Day. I walk in a small circle, saying, “I know, right?” and “You think you were surprised. You should have seen my face!” I’m animated, even laughing a little.
But all I need is a quick glance on the south side of Lauren’s house, by the gangway and the large privacy fence.
It’s still open. The window, presumably to the kitchen. It’s been open, by my count, for more than eight consecutive days. Which means she just keeps it open all the time. Doesn’t even think about it.
It’s not at eye level. Looks like a stepladder or some lawn chair or bench or something will be necessary to reach it. That’s more difficult. That’s risky.
But it is, without a doubt, a way into her house.
68
Simon
I lace up my running shoes at 7:30 p.m. My longer run for the weekend, saving it for tonight, Sunday night, a fourteen-miler.
Much as I love running through the west side of Chicago, I can’t deny the violence that plagues these neighborhoods, that it’s not the safest idea to be jogging along the street in the dark on a weekend night. The Halloween decorations don’t help my nerves, the ghouls and witches and scream faces.
But I will never stop running through these streets. They inspire me, the people fighting through poverty and crummy schools, getting the short end of every stick, but fighting no less. I have lived a blessed life. I know that. I’ve had a few low points, to be sure, but I’ve never wondered whether there would be food on the table, I’ve never wondered whether I’d go to college, I’ve never had to avoid windows in my own home for fear of stray gunfire, I’ve never been told that there was no hope for me. I’ve never been ignored.
“You’ll find someone you love,” my mother said to me in her last week, forcing the words out. She was right. I haven’t had a hard time finding someone I love. I’ve found two people. The problem is them loving me back. That’s the hole I’ve felt, even before I realized it was a hole.
I end up running faster than even I expected—nervous energy, I suppose. I cover seven miles, give or take, in less than forty minutes.
I stop outside the alley behind Viva Mediterránea, cool air on my sweaty face, my stocking cap pulled low. Not that Christian would recognize me, even if he stood out on his patio on this chilly night and looked down at me. Has he seen a picture of me? Maybe. Probably. He’s never met me in person.
At eight, I power up the green phone and pop in the SIM card. A message is already awaiting me:
I know you won’t read this until tomorrow morning. I’m sorry that I’m writing you instead of saying this in person. It would be very hard for me to say this in person. So here goes. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking, and we can’t be together. We just don’t work. I think you’re a VERY special person, but if I have learned anything, it’s that two people have to make sense together. And we don’t make sense together. I can’t marry you and I can’t be with you. I’m going out of town for a few days to get my head straight. I’m going to turn off my phone. I know that’s harsh but I have to do what’s right for me, and this is right for me. Please respect my decision and don’t try to contact me. I am very, very sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.
I start typing so fast, I almost drop the phone:
Is this a joke? This can’t be real. Everything is great between us. Please tell me it’s a joke!
Her reply box bubbles. It doesn’t take her long:
I’m sorry it’s not a joke. I can’t be with you. Please respect what I want. This is what I want. I won’t change my mind. Believe me this is best for both of us
I respond immediately:
Let’s talk about this. In person. Don’t do this by phone. If something’s wrong, let’s talk about it. Please at least give me that opportunity. Are you home right now?
Her reply is just as quick:
No I told you I’m out of town for a few days. If you love me, you’ll respect my decision. I’m turning my phone off now.
I respond immediately, violating the number one rule against using names:
Lauren, please. Talk to me in person. Or call me
She doesn’t respond. No bubbles.