Page 9 of Forced Proximity

If Justin had felt this way for Willow, I definitely have some sympathy. But more importantly, if Willow felt this for Justin, she immediately catapults to the top of the suspect list. ‘Anything concerning about Justin?’ I ask, digging my knuckles into my hamstring. ‘Priors? Fights? Whispers of harassment, sexual or otherwise?’

Marcus closes the laptop. ‘Very little. A few scuffles on the field when he played college football. A video, a few years back, of him in a shoving match outside a bar, but that’s all. We’re conducting more interviews, but so far, no red flags, no mention of inappropriate behavior with women. He seems pretty clean.’

Hmmm. I’m going to keep digging before I commit. My gut instincts are rarely off, and he all but confirmed he was a tool yesterday.

‘Anything to report from your doctor appointment?’ Marcus asks.

‘Nope. Blood sugar numbers are good.’ Of course. I’m as serious about managing my diabetes as I am my job. I never want to return to the terrifying place where I was as a seventeen-year-old kid hearing a doctor use words like ‘ketoacidosis’, ‘blood sugar level of 418’, and ‘grave danger’, while feeling a sense of mortality normally reserved for the elderly.

‘Glad to hear.’ He stands and stretches. ‘Listen. If you really don’t want the job, you have a choice. But I need your decision.’

I close my eyes and push my thumbs into my temples. Maybe I’m a glutton for punishment. Maybe I keep taking jobs I don’t want because I’m doing penance for The Incident. Or maybe, deep down – which is the absolute worst place for me to go – there’s something deeply unsettling about the video I saw and I cannot be the cause of someone else getting hurt. Either way, I’m not sure what compels me to do it, but I glance at Marcus and take a deep breath. ‘I’ll take the job.’

***

Several hours later, I step into my bare, dark, one-bedroom apartment and toss my keys on the side table. What a freaking day. I set my gun in the dresser drawer, strip off my pants in exchange for shorts and push my fist into my jaw to crack my neck until it pops like gunfire. I search the empty fridge anyway in case something edible besides butter, ketchup and pickles magically appeared while I was out.

Nope. Pickles it is. I twist open the jar and gag. Gross. Who knew pickles could expire?

The freezer is more depressing, holding nothing but frozen bananas for my morning smoothies. Sure, I have a stash of glucose sticks for emergencies and a container of protein powder I can mix with water, but that doesn’t count as dinner. It feels like a ramen kind of night. I grab a package down from the cupboard and add water to a pot. The irony is not lost on me that the meal I ate growing up because we lacked finances, I now eat for pleasure. As the crunchy noodles sink into the bubbling water, I picture Mom frying up eggs from our chickens to add to the pot while my brothers and I chased each other around the kitchen table.

God, I miss them. No more excuses. When this job is over, I’m gonna fly back home to Minnesota for a week, sleep in my old bedroom, eat Mom’s famous tater tot hotdish, and play a fierce game of one-on-one with my dad who can still hold his own even in his late sixties.

I give the noodles a quick stir, check my numbers, then measure and inject my insulin. I toss the syringe into the sharps container at the edge of the countertop and scan my apartment. This place seriously needs a little pick me up. Maybe a plant for the corner. Or a painting above the TV, or something. Anything.

Yep, there it goes again. I’ve had this same thought every week for the last four years since I moved here after my divorce. So, I do the same thing every time this pops up – I push it away. Besides, the solitude has grown on me. For every hour I either spend alone, or protecting someone, it’s an hour of repentance that chips away at the debt of what I destroyed.

When Katey and I split after The Incident, the crushing shame of what happened, mixed with the guilt of abandoning Katey, consumed every pore. I left Katey with everything except my clothes. And once I left, I never looked back. My face burns thinking of how I ignored her cries of ‘things will get better’ and ‘we can get through this’. Back then, I prayed that by leaving, somehow, I’d atone for my sins. By giving up Katey, giving her the chance to find someone better, more deserving, worthy, maybe I’d eventually feel some sort of redemption.

After the split, I moved to this place because it was close to the firm, cheap and temporary. At least I thought it was temporary. Four years later, I haven’t so much as bought a kitchen table. Seems like overkill when I know I’ll be the only one eating here.

I tear the seasoning pack with my teeth, grab the pot and hot pad, and move to the couch. Right as I sink down into the cushions, my phone buzzes.

Mom: Hi honey. Your dad and I are watching Wheel of Fortune.

My mom. Queen of the random text messages.

Mom: I ran into your old basketball coach today. He said to tell his former star player hi. That’s you LOL!

Mom: He’s finally retiring!

Lexi: That’s awesome. Glad to hear Coach is doing well. He deserves some downtime.

Lexi: Tell Dad I passed a ’69 Ford Mustang Fastback with custom red stripes today. He’ll die.

Mom: OK. And don’t forget to send Aunt Megan a birthday card next week.

Lexi: I’ll send tomorrow. Love you.

Mom: Love you too pumpkin!

Mom ends the text with four full lines of heart emojis. Once she learned emojis and what ‘LOL’ meant, she never sent a message without them. After adding a note to my calendar to mail the card in the morning – which I one hundred per cent would’ve forgotten otherwise – I crack open my laptop, interlace my fingers, stretch and download the file Marcus’s assistant sent me on Justin.

My God, there’s a ton of information. Where do I even begin? I twirl noodles onto my fork, slurp up the brothy goodness and scan the page. Justin Greenwood, thirty-two years old. Featured in eleven films, all in the action or thriller genre. Appears he dated multiple women before Willow. Duh. It’s like telling a kid with unlimited funds to go into a candy store and only choose one. The women looked to be from the business – a few actresses and a publicist. Based on the photo timelines, the relationships appeared to last no more than a few months. I scribble down the names to follow up with the investigative team for a proper briefing on how the relationships ended.

I take a sip of water before diving back into my sodium-blasted dinner and continue reading. Justin was born and raised in Nashville, Tennessee. A high school star wide receiver who was offered a scholarship to the University of Southern California. Played for three years until he caught the eye of a Hollywood talent scout who stumbled upon a YouTube video of him doing a backflip after a touchdown. The scout flew him to Hollywood for headshots and set him up with acting coaches, Justin then quit school to pursue acting full time.

The salted ramen remnants stick on my tongue and I gulp back water. Shit like this shouldn’t bother me as much as it does, but it’s so unfair. This guy does a backflip and gets a golden ticket. Others bust their ass all their life and get nothing.