“New York is your dream, Emily, not mine. I’m never moving there.”
Oh hell. We are worlds apart. “How are we supposed to be together from different sides of the country?” I ask softly.
He shrugs. “You should have thought of that before you applied for this stupid job.”
“It’s not a stupid job.” I plead, “Don’t you want to support me in my dream? Are you going to come and visit me at all?”
“I told you—I don’t like cities.”
“So what you’re saying is, if I don’t fly back to California, I won’t see you at all.”
He shrugs and sits down and picks up his PlayStation remote.
“Are you serious?” I snap as I begin to see red. “I flew all the way home to discuss our future, and you’re going to play fucking Fortnite.”
He rolls his eyes and starts the game. “Quit your nagging.”
“Quit my nagging,” I snap. “I don’t want to live in your fucking parents’ garage, Robbie.”
“Don’t, then.”
“What is wrong with you?” I cry in outrage. “Why do you want to waste away here? You’re twenty-five, Robbie. You need to grow up.”
He rolls his eyes. “If you flew all the way back here to be a bitch, you needn’t have bothered.”
Steam shoots from my ears. “If I walk out that door, Robbie, we are over,” I say.
His eyes rise to meet mine.
“I mean it,” I whisper. “I want you in my life, but I won’t sacrifice my happiness because you are too fucking lazy to get off your ass and make a future for yourself.”
He clenches his jaw and goes back to his game. He begins to play.
I watch him through tears as I hear my angry heartbeat in my ears. “Robbie, please,” I whisper. “Come with me.”
He keeps his eyes on the screen as he begins to shoot people in his game. “Close the door on your way out.” He puts his headphones on to block me out.
I get a lump in my throat as I finally see our relationship for what it really is.
A sham.
I take a long look around his room as he plays his game, and I know that this is it.
The defining moment where I decide what I’m worth. What I want from life.
I can’t save him . . . if he doesn’t want to be saved.
What I want is someone who wants to grow with me, and I don’t even know what growth I want. But I can’t be stagnant here in his parents’ garage any longer.
I don’t even know who he is anymore . . . but this isn’t me.
The woman I want to be lives in New York and has the job of her dreams.
Sadness overwhelms me. I know what I have to do.
I walk over to him and take his headphones off. “I’m going.”
He stares at me.
“You’re better than this,” I whisper.
He clenches his jaw.
“Robbie,” I whisper. “You’re much more than just a football star. You need to believe that.”
His eyes search mine.
“Go and get some help.” I look around his room. “It’s going to be too late for us, but I want it for you.”
He drops his head and stares at the floor. I take his hand in mine. “Come with me,” I whisper. “Please, Robbie, pull out of this . . . if not for me, for yourself.”
“I can’t, Em.”
My eyes fill with tears, and I bend and kiss him softly one last time. I rub my fingers through his stubble and stare into his eyes. “Go and find whatever it is that makes you happy,” I whisper.
“You too,” he breathes sadly. I realize he doesn’t even want to fight it; he knows this is for the best. I smile at the bittersweet moment, and I kiss him softly, with tears rolling down my cheeks.
I get into my mother’s car and stare at his house for an extended time.
That was much easier and much harder than I imagined.
I slowly start the car and pull out onto the road. I wipe my tears with my forearm as I feel a chapter of my life close.
I drive down the road and out of Robbie McIntyre’s life. “Goodbye, Robbie,” I whisper out loud. “When it was good, it was great.”
Monday morning
“And what do you think would happen if you told the police of your suspicions?” I ask.
“Nothing. Nothing at all,” the frail old woman replies. She has to be at least ninety. Her white hair is in perfect finger waves, and her dress is a pretty shade of mauve. “They’re useless.”
I dutifully scribble down her reply on my notepad. I’m out in the field today, following up my own lead. There has been a string of satanic graffiti on the fronts of houses lately, and this particular woman’s house has been done three times. Fed up with the lack of support from the police department, she contacted Miles Media, and I was the lucky one who picked up the phone.
“So . . . tell me when this all began,” I ask.
“Back in November.” She pauses as she tries to remember. “November sixteenth was the first time. A huge mural of the devil himself.”
“Right.” I look up from my notes. “What did it look like?”
“Evil.” She gets a faraway look in her eye. “Pure evil, so lifelike, with huge fangs and blood dripping everywhere.”
“It must have been terrifying for you.”
“It was. That was the night when a jewelry store got robbed around the corner, so I remember it well.”
“Oh.” I frown. She didn’t mention this before. “Do you think it’s related?”
She stares at me blankly.
“The graffiti and the robbery, I mean,” I clarify.
“Don’t know.” She pauses for a moment and then contorts her face as if in pain. “I’ve never thought of that before, but it’s all making sense now. The police are in on this conspiracy.” She begins to pace. “Yes, yes, that’s it.” She taps her hand on the top of her head as she walks back and forth.
Hmm. There’s something off here. Is this woman of sound mind? “What did you do when you found the graffiti on your house?”
“I called the police, and they told me that they don’t have time to come out for graffiti but to take a picture of it and email it to them.”
“And you did that?”
“Yes.”
“What happened then?”
“My son got my house acid washed and removed it, but three nights later it happened again. But this time it was an image of someone getting murdered. A woman had been stabbed. The graffiti was so intricate that it looked like a painting.”
“Oh.” I continue to take notes. “What did you do this time?”
“I went down to the police station and demanded someone come and look at my house. My neighbor had his house vandalized too.”
“Okay.” I scribble down her story. “What’s your neighbor’s name?”
“Robert Day Daniels.”
I glance up from my notes, surprised by his name. “His name is Robert Day Daniels?”
“Or is it Daniel Day Roberts?” Her voice trails off as she thinks. “Hmm.”
I stare at her as I wait for her to decide which it is.
“I forgot his name.” She scrubs her hands in her hair as if about to launch into a panic.