Page 178 of 72 Hours of You

“So,” he says. “Uh, okay. So. Good night?” He leans in and gives me a hug. I put my arms out and pat his back. “Right. Okay.” He walks over to the couch like he’s about to lie down on it.

“Ew. Stop.”

“No, it’s fine. I’ll just sleep here.”

“Peter,” I say, “I don’t even want to think about what that thing looks like under a black light. It’s a king-sized bed. We can both sleep in it. It doesn’t have to be weird.”

He rubs the back of his neck. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, just stop making it a thing.”

Peter nods. “Okay. Cool. Fine. Cool.”

We pull down the covers and get in, fully clothed. And then just lie there, flat, arms at our sides, staring up at the popcorn ceiling.

“Night,” he says, his voice straining for casualness. And then he reaches up and turns off the lights with the switch above the bed.

We stay like that for a while, not moving, not talking. And then Peter rolls over toward me. And I roll over too. His face has this golden glow from the city lights filtering through the tiny hotel window’s cream curtain, and we just keep lying there with the noises of drunk people laughing (and fighting) and distant sirens mixing with the sound of our own breathing.

He takes a breath and it looks like he’s about to say something or scoot closer to me and my heart starts beating against my chest, and I can’t even tell what I want to happen next. But then he reaches out over the covers and slides his hand over mine.

And we stay there, holding hands and looking at each other until Peter says “Good night” for the third time, and I whisper it back, my voice sort of cracking in this excruciatingly embarrassing way. And then we both close our eyes.

And I fall asleep holding Peter Beckett’s hand.

Thirty-Seven

THE HOTEL ROOM IS BLURRY. Everything is swimming in waves of blue light. Everything except his face.

His cheeks are so red they’re almost purple. His eyes are savage and bulging like his head is going to fucking explode. His fingers dig tighter into my arms, squeezing. His nostrils flare, hot puffs of air blowing into my face. The smell of ripe alcohol is so strong I want to hold my breath, but I can hardly breathe.

My head throbs against the shitty floral wallpaper. Maybe both of our heads will explode tonight.

“Please, Mr. Campbell,” I whisper again, my voice choked.

The name changes something in him. He starts to tremble. He peels his thick fingers from my arms, and I slide down the wall and crumple into myself, my knees at my chest, my cheek pressed against the matted carpet.

And then I start to cry.

“Oh Jesus,” he says. “What am I doing? Oh Jesus. Oh honey. I’m sorry.” He pulls at his salt-and-pepper hair. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Oh Jesus, please forgive me.” He looks at his own hands like he doesn’t recognize them. “Oh god. Oh god.” And then he starts to cry too. “Caroline. Caroline. Caroline.” He’s wailing, saying her name over and over and over. Saying it until I think I’ll never hear another word besides Caroline ever again.

“Please,” he chokes out, “can’t you fix it?” He bends down to the floor, trying to get me to look at him. Begging. Pleading.

“No,” I whisper, the smell of old carpet cleaner stinging my nose. I let my eyes glide past him. I will not look at his face. I will not. I keep my eyes on my running gear draped over the computer chair in the corner, the bib already attached for tomorrow’s meet. Charles grabs for my hand, his gold watch scratching my wrist. I flinch, drawing my fingers back under my body. Back into myself.

“Please,” he says, his voice trembling. “I’ll do anything. Anything. I’m sorry that I … that I hurt you … but …” He pushes the edges of his palms into his eyes. And then he lets out another scream. “Please, god. I can’t live like this.”

Except he can. He has no clock over his head.

He will live.

But I know what he means.

He means he won’t survive.

And neither will I.

Thirty-Eight