Broken Compass

George is worried about me, and that translates into food being shoved at me with orders to eat up and get better. “Eat up, boy, you’re wasting away! How’re we gonna find a good girl for you like that, huh? All that metal in your face must scare them away. Eat!”

His wife, who is also the cook, nods in agreement, and piles more food on my plate.

Sounds like Greeks treat every ailment with food. You have the flu? Eat. You’re dying after being shot? Eat. You’re depressed? Eat.

So I eat, to make George happy, and then focus on getting through my shift, cleaning and washing and listening with half an ear to him talking when he’s in the kitchen, or chatting up his guests at their tables.

On the plus side, since he’s worried about me, he sends me home early, and I’m out on the street at least an hour before closing time, rolling a cigarette and thinking I should check on West.

Despite my decision not to leave town yet, and the brief relief it brought, I’ve had this bad feeling again today all day, like the one I got that night when I barely caught Nate before he jumped to his death.

I don’t know what it means, if it means anything or if it’s just depression from being sick and tired and unsure about the future, but it lingers in the back of my mind like a malignant presence, a foreboding.

My body wants me to head home and lie down. Plus, Syd will be waiting for me. Maybe I’m just trying to avoid that talk, put off whatever it is she wants to say.

Whatever the reason, I find myself making my way toward the building where we once lived.

The first place I stayed in this city, where I met these three people who changed my path, held me back and did something to my thoughts. To how I feel. They made me care, and I still dunno how they did it. With their pain, I guess. Their sadness and fear. Their need of protection. And those small flashes of affection sent my way that I can’t ignore.

Is it because I’m starved for it? That I’m so weak I’d take any affection I can find?

Nah. I don’t feel that way with George, and he’s been like a father figure to me—even if he believes eggplant and feta cheese can save my life. No, it’s different with Syd and the guys.

I’m so caught up in my thoughts and the joint I keep rolling between my fingers that I don’t notice the guy shadowing me until I’m closing in to the building.

Am I seeing things? I thought I noticed someone tailing me the other day. Or is it all in my mind? I’ve relaxed my defenses in this past year, though my nightmares have more than made up for it.

I speed up.

The shadow behind me speeds up, too.

I don’t ask myself twice if I’m imagining this. My first instinct is always to run and hide, so that’s what I do. I run and run, going around the block, checking over my shoulder.

Is he following me still? I don’t see him. Did I lose him?

Was he after me at all?

A lady is going into the building, and I grab the door before she closes it. “I’m here to see Weston,” I say, breathlessly. “Please.”

She hesitates, then lets me in. “You’d better not be a robber,” she tells me sternly.

“I’m not, ma’am. I swear.” My knees feel like rubber. I close the door and lean on it for a moment, steadying myself.

“Weston is such a nice boy,” she says. “I’ve only just moved in across from them. He’s always so polite and helps me bring the groceries up.”

“He’s very nice,” I agree. I think of him cooking us brunch, taking care of Nate, looking after me when I was sick the other day.

I go up the stairs with her, then frown at the half-open

door to Weston’s apartment. I’ve noticed this when I used to live here, that someone—his grandfather?—sometimes leaves the door open when he comes in. I should tell West to do something about it. Any motherfucker could slip in like I’m about to do.

The crack is wide enough for me to enter the apartment without even pushing on the door—or I’m really wasting away, like George said, and I’m thin like a ghost.

I hear voices inside, and at first I think it’s West. Something about the cadence, the richness of the male voice.

Then a female voice rises stridently, and I falter. Is that his sister? Am I walking into an argument?

I’m well inside the living room by then. The voices are coming from one of the bedrooms, and even as I spin on my heel to make my escape, the words stop me in my tracks.