Till he was gone and there was nothing left but a plywood door.
The room was darkened by the early dusk by the time I allowed myself to move. The rain still fell in heavy, rapid drops as I stretched out my rigid limbs and wrapped a blanket around my shivering shoulders. I pushed back the sheets and paused when I found a note and a small pile of cash. I only glanced briefly at the note before throwing it into the waste bin. After all, there wasn't much to read.
Left money for the bus.
I got dressed quickly, folded the cash, and tucked it in a pocket before slipping out the door and into the rain. I was soaked within minutes and shivering again soon after, lost and alone.
I would remember my lesson better next time, I told myself.
Be the one to close the door.
Don't ever be the one waiting for it to open.
Abbi
Three months later…
I wasn't going to do it.
I wasn't going to call him.
Every time I found my hand reaching for my cell phone, my fingers dialling the number, my heart leaping at the sound of each ring, I would come to my senses, hang up, and throw my cell phone away from me like it was radioactive waste.
I wasn't going to do it.
I wasn't going to call him.
I didn't need him and wouldn't need him. That was that. The door was closed. And it would remain closed.
In my new apartment back in Colorado, I sat on the stained carpet floor amongst a mess of white planks of wood, nuts and bolts, screwdrivers and hammers and tools I wasn't even sure of the name of, and more instruction booklets than I could keep track of. When I'd opened the first page to see an icon indicating two people were required for installation, I tore it out, ripped it to shreds, and stuffed it down the garbage disposal before leaving for my night shift at the local convenience store.
I wasn't going to do it.
I wasn't going to call him.
Especially not because some stupid furniture store told me that I needed him. I grabbed what I hoped was the right plank of wood and searched the floor for the right screw. His number was written across the bottom of the instruction page, not that I even needed it; I'd memorised it weeks ago from calling and hanging up so many times. Every few minutes as I worked, I glanced at the number and paused only to quickly shake my head and regain control of myself.
I wasn't going to do it.
I wasn't going to call him.
After an hour of stripping screws, putting on legs upside down, and spending half the time searching for bolts beneath tools and wood and papers, I took a break for a glass of water. I grabbed my aching back as I sank down onto the single chair I owned, which I only owned because my I caught my neighbour going to throw it out. Past due bills were stacked up on the old cracked kitchen countertops, and I knew full well that even more were on the way. I sipped my water, longing for a glass of wine or a cigarette instead. I leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees and rubbing my throbbing temples. An air mattress in a tiny room without air conditioning weren't the ideal conditions for a good night's sleep.
I wasn't going to do it, I told myself.
I wasn't going to call him.
But when I returned to the half-built furniture, I found myself reaching for my cell phone instead of my hammer. The number was on the screen. My thumb was pressing dial. The line was ringing. I would have hung up like usual, I would have. But this time a voice answered on the second ring.
"Mr O'Sullivan's office," a female voice said.
Her brisk, matter-of-fact tone caught me off guard.
"Hello?" the woman pressed impatiently. "Hello? Can I help you?"
I considered hanging up; I should have hung up.
"Um…hi, um…is…is Michael there?"
"Did Mr O'Sullivan ask you to call him?" I heard the click-clack of a keyboard. "I don't see anything on his schedule right now."
I cleared my throat as my cheeks warmed. I got the same sensation I got when awoken on some park bench or train station floor by the shove of a boot or the glare of a flashlight. It was the distinct feeling that you were not wanted.
"I, um, I don't have an appointment or anything," I said, voice small. "I was just hoping to talk to him for a minute or two. I know him, or knew him, I guess. We were…friends or something."
"Mr O'Sullivan isn't available," the woman said.
It seemed her answer had been primed from the second she picked up the phone. My already faint confidence faltered.
"Maybe you could just let him know who's calling?" I tried shyly. "He'll know me."
There was a bored sigh and then a pause.
"What's your name?"
"Abbi."
"One moment."
I squirmed nervously on the carpet, fidgeting with the nuts and bolts by my foot. What would I say to him? Would I be able to say anything at all when I heard his voice on the other end? My heart rate quickened.
As I waited I heard the woman knock on a door.
"Michael?"
"Busy."
I frowned slightly. It wasn't the voice I expected to hear. It sounded like a different man: cold, closed-off, heartless.
"Michael?"
"I said I was fucking busy."
The harshness of his voice startled me. I could feel the iciness of his tone even thousands of miles away.
"Michael, there's a girl calling who says she knows you. Some
