No Tomorrow

As I eat my salad, I watch people walk by, everyone appearing to be in a rush to get somewhere. I fear I’m going to end up just like these people—rushing through the day and life in general to get to the next place, only to keep rushing more to get somewhere else. Maybe Evan has the right idea after all, being completely free.

I wonder if his quest for freedom has taken him away from here for good. Saddened by that possibility, I throw my salad container in my lunch bag and leave my bench to stroll around the park. Unlike the others, I walk slowly, shutting out the voices and rapid steps to enjoy the sound of the leaves blowing in the trees. Without conscious thought or plan, I find myself nearing the old stone bridge. The place Evan ate his burger. The same one he told me he slept under.

Biting my lip, I peer down the grassy slope leading to the old vacant road beneath the bridge. I take a deep breath and carefully walk the weed-ridden path.

I know I shouldn’t be doing this, but I can’t stop myself. I’m pulled by some type of magnetism I can’t explain or resist.

As I round the stone wall of the bridge, I see him sitting on the ground. His legs are stretched out, his eyes are closed, and he’s holding a rock the size of a baseball against his forehead. Acorn lies beside him with his head resting on Evan’s leg—a perfect picture of man’s best friend and guardian.

I waver a few feet away unsure whether to approach him or walk away and pretend I never saw him. He could be drunk or high. Why else would he be sitting so incredibly still, holding a rock?

I take a few hesitant steps closer, too overcome with worry and curiosity to leave without making sure he’s okay.

“Evan,” I say softly.

He lowers the rock, and his forehead creases when his bloodshot eyes focus on me.

“Piper?” Squinting, he shakes his head and peers around me to stare down the path I just came from, then levels his gaze on my face. “What are you doing down here?”

“I-I was worried about you.” I’m a stalker now, seeking out homeless men under bridges. “Are you okay? You don’t look so great.”

He closes his eyes and leans the back of his head against the bridge. “I’ve had a migraine since last night,” he mumbles. “I can’t even stand up.”

I take a few steps closer and kneel next to him, cursing myself for wearing a skirt and hoping I’m not flashing him. Thankfully, I’m wearing black silk panties and not silly kittens.

“Can I get you anything?”

“No, I just have to ride it out. The cold of the rock helps.”

I swallow over the lump of sadness in my throat. He should have an ice pack and be sleeping in a clean bed in a quiet, dark room. I unzip my lunch bag, pull out my unopened water bottle, and set it on the ground next to him.

“You can have my water. It’s cold,” I say. “I could run over to the pharmacy down the street… get you an ice pack and some ibuprofen. Maybe something to eat?”

“Nah… I’ll be okay if I rest.” He grabs the water and untwists the cap. “You’re sweet.” After he gulps almost half the water, he presses the damp bottle against his forehead. “Been a long time since someone cared about me.”

I touch Acorn’s head and scratch between his ears, and his tail thumps happily. “He cares about you,” I reply with a smile.

Evan flashes me a weak grin. “True… but having someone like you giving a shit about me is like winning the fucking lottery.”

Every insecure molecule of me dances with sheer giddiness. Me? A lottery?

“I think your migraine has given you brain damage.”

“My brain is fine.”

Our eyes meet. The usual light in his blue eyes has been snuffed out, leaving them eerily vacant, as if he’s no longer behind them. I miss the carefree man with the charming smile, puppy dog eyes, and beautiful music.

Cautiously, I reach out and touch his forehead, gently caressing his warm brow, and whisper to him, “My mom used to rub my head when I was little and didn’t feel good.”

When he closes his eyes, his long, dark lashes touch his cheeks. “Mine never did.”

Taking a breath, I lean closer to him. The pavement digs into my knees, but I ignore it, focusing on balancing so I can use both hands to reach him. I rub his forehead and temples, surprised by the softness of his hair under my fingertips.

His pained expression gradually softens under my touch. He inches his hand across the pavement until he bumps against my bare knee. I don’t move away and he stays there.