Page 63 of Brain Damage

But obviously that isn’t the case. Jamie is allowed to eat alone in his room. He’s actually choosing to be out here.

If I had that choice, I would never stay out here. Not in a million years.

“Did I miss anything while I was gone?” I ask him.

Jamie shakes his head and smiles. “You know we couldn’t have any fun without you.” He hesitates for a minute and his face gets all serious. “I was worried about you, Charly. Really worried. I’m glad you’re okay.”

Then Jamie does something that really surprises me. He reaches out and grabs my hand and gives it a squeeze.

The only hands I’ve held recently have been my mother’s tiny, arthritic fingers. Jamie’s hand is large and strong. And warm. Warm hands, warm heart, right? After that one squeeze, he hesitates for another second, then pulls his hand away just before that man reappears with his lunch.

44

BEFORE

I think I’m drunk.

Or if I’m not, I will be soon. I’m on my third glass of wine. I’d prefer to be swigging whiskey or something like that, but all we have in the house is wine. I’m not a big drinker, and Clark only drinks red wine, so there you have it. It does seem a little ridiculous though that I am feeding my anger for the most important conversation of my life by sipping pinot noir.

He’s late. I had no idea that he got home so late every night. What was I thinking? That he sat home every night, just twiddling his thumbs, waiting for me to come home? Obviously not.

It makes so much sense how he was able to get away with cheating on me. I’m never home. I’m at work, or I’m running, or I’m out with friends. He could get away with anything right under my nose. And I guess he did.

I sit at my desk, staring at the door with all my concentration. Kitty attempts to cheer me up by rubbing against my leg, but it doesn’t help. Not this time. I shake my leg to get her to leave me alone, and I end up kicking the leg of the desk. I hear something rattle loudly.

I slide open the desk drawer—Clark’s gun is inside.

I was so angry with him when he bought that gun. But now, looking at it lying peacefully in the desk drawer, I’m not angry. In fact, the gun gives me a sense of comfort.

No, not comfort. Power.

I carefully lift the gun out of the drawer, my heart pounding in my chest. It’s heavier than it looks. I wonder if it’s loaded. I have absolutely no idea how to tell if it’s loaded, and I’m worried any attempts to figure it out will result in my accidentally firing the gun into my foot or something. I’m just going to assume it’s probably loaded.

I aim the gun in the direction of the door, imagining Clark standing there. And just for a minute, I imagine pulling the trigger.

The sound of the key in the lock jars me out of my fantasy. I quickly place the gun down on the desk and wait for Clark to let himself inside. Kitty, sensing an imminent confrontation, makes a dash for the kitchen.

“Charlotte!” Clark seems shocked to see me sitting there. “What are you doing here?”

Any other day, it would’ve been an innocent comment. Today, his words make me want to strangle him.

Or shoot him.

“I live here,” I remind him. “Or have you forgotten?”

Clark shrugs off his dark jacket, slightly damp with rain. “You’re just never home this early, that’s all. I didn’t expect to see you.”

“Who were you expecting?” I ask. I lower the boom: “Haley?”

Clark freezes. Despite everything, I sort of wish I had a camera so I could record the look on his face. It’s actually almost amusing. I can tell he’s trying to maintain his composure, but failing miserably. “Who?” he manages.

“Haley Matthews,” I say. I don’t budge from my seat. “Isn’t that the name of the girl you’re sleeping with? That’s what the detective said.”

Is he going to deny it? I almost hope he does. I’m so ready to whip out the photographs. Instead, his eyes lower and he finally notices the gun lying on the desk in front of me.

“Charlotte,” he says, a slight tremor in his voice. “Why do you have the gun out?”

“What’s wrong?” I place my hand on the barrel of the gun before he can attempt to make a grab for it. “Does my having a gun make you nervous?”