Tyler(2)

I’m home.

Well, in my home town, at least. Madison. After all these years away, with the rare visits to check on Mom and then only on my brother Asher, I’m here to stay. For now.

Until I get my shit together. Until I make sure my brother is okay. Until I can breathe again.

I take a moment to shove the paper back into the pocket of my leather jacket and step out, inhaling the familiar smell of car exhaust in the cold, humid air. Out of my steel, military-style tail case I pull my beaten-up rucksack and laptop and look up at the building once more.

Ah fuck it. I lock the case, pat the key in my jeans pocket, make sure the disc lock on the front wheel of the bike is on and pass the thick cable lock through the back wheel. Should be safe enough for now. That done, I let myself into the building.

A faint smell of urine wafts from the stairwell, and I take the steps two at a time to the third floor. My door, number 3A, has a dark stain in its center, as if someone’s head was bashed into it at some point, blood and gore splashing.

The thought stops me cold in my tracks. The rucksack drops to the floor, and a shudder goes through me.

Don’t go there, Tyler. Fucking don’t.

I tug on the neckline of my T-shirt, grab my pendant and force a deep breath into my lungs. The key sticks a couple of times, but I manage to unlock the door and push it open. Lifting my beaten-up rucksack, I step into my brand new, temporary home.

A studio—a bed against one wall, a table and chairs in the middle, a kitchenette against the far wall. A bathroom. I glance inside. Basic. Shower stall, sink, toilet.

I drop my rucksack on the bed and wander back to lock the door. Then I open the two windows and shiver at the blast of cold air. I lean outside. Scaling the walls to the third floor would be a bitch, so I hope I’ll be fine leaving them open.

Not that I have much of a choice. Can’t sleep in closed spaces.

I unpack my stuff, take out sheets and make the bed. I take out my clothes and set them neatly inside the dresser. I place the three books I brought with me on top, standing, their spines facing outward. Bradbury’s The Illustrated Man. Dune. Neuromancer. I don’t watch movies anymore, but I read sometimes, when I can’t sleep.

Then I open the drawer again and arrange my T-shirts by color, then my socks and briefs. Close the drawer again. Draw a deep breath.

I sit on the bed and pull out my two pairs of shoes—running shoes, hiking boots—and place them against the wall, facing inward. My shaving kit, my shampoo and other toiletries I place in the small cupboard above the bathroom sink. The shower curtain catches my eye, stained and tattered. I’ll have to replace it. Just looking at it makes my chest tight.

Rubbing the place under my heart, I turn away and force myself to finish unpacking. Not much to unpack. My whole life is there in that rucksack—a notebook, my jogging pants and hoodie, painkillers, bandages, my cell and my wallet.

And the little box for her, with the gift I bought her years ago and never gave her.

So fucked up.

I stare at my few belongings. Of course there’s also my old stuff at Dad’s house, which I need to go get before it’s thrown out as the house is sold.

The thought of going back to Dad’s house raises my hackles. If I was an animal, I’d growl. Dammit. I run my hand through my shaggy hair. It’s grown so long it tickles my jaw and falls into my eyes.

Okay, okay. I need a plan. I need a job, additional to the graphic design gigs I do for a few regular clients. I don’t have much money and I promised Asher some money every month until he gets back on his feet. I can’t let him down. He’s been abandoned and abused too much in his life already. I’m the only family he has left, and I won’t fail him again.

Only I left Chicago without a fallback plan, except for my online work. I quit from the gym where I worked, left the apartment I shared with a guy so lost in drugs and booze I wonder if he’ll notice any time soon, and—

My cell rings, jerking me from my thoughts. I make a grab for it, wipe it on my pants three times and swipe the screen to accept the call.

I regret it instantly.

“Tyler?” asks a strident and unfortunately familiar female voice. “Where are you? I’ve been trying to reach you all day.”

“Marlene.” I roll my eyes.

“Shall I come over? Are you at home? I can pass by your favorite Chinese place and grab your favorites and then we can feed each other and—”

“Marlene,” I interrupt the flood of words, “I told you we were done.”

“You can’t mean that.” Her voice catches, and I sit heavily on the bed, tugging on my hair with my free hand.

“I meant it.”

“How can you say that? How could you break up with me through text messaging? You bastard.”