Things Not Said

Chapter 1: Andrew

Andrew

"Shit"

As the train station doors open, the cold slaps me in the face, biting my cheeks and giving me the warmest welcome I deserve. I throw my bag on the ground and quickly unzip it before rummaging through it in search of my scarf. I toss a shirt to my right and dig my hand inside the clothes, but come up with nothing.

"Damn it."

I put the loose shirt back inside and zip up the bag. My hands rub together and I blow a warm breath on them, my heart beating quickly inside my chest, desperately trying to bring enough heat everywhere in my body. My muscles are tense and I forgot my scarf. This is turning out horribly, just as I'd imagined.

People rush by me, cursing at the freezing wind that whips at their cheeks. This is how I remember Golden: people rushing everywhere, never paying attention to anyone around them. Oakland, however, is different; everybody stops and smiles, asks if they could help you find a taxi, maybe help with your bags. Here though, you have to fend for yourself — especially in the middle of the winter.

My phone starts to buzz in my back pocket and my frozen hand reaches it in time. My fingers fumble over the buttons before I finally manage to click Answer. 

"Hello?"

"Hey Andrew! It's Jack."

The voice on the other line rings like church bells to my ears. A smile makes its way onto my face for the first time since I got here.

"Hey Jack."

"Just wanted to make sure you got home okay."

A shiver runs down my spine at the word home. I scoff. "Are you sure you want to call it that?" My teeth have started to rattle and I'm doing my best to make the words sound sure and steady, but they come out scared and uncertain. 

I hear him sigh on the other end. "You're right."

There's a silence that comes and sits at the end of his words, taking up more room than it was given. I can hear my heart beating in my ears, a sound of desperation and anger that I've never liked about myself, and so I drown it out by replying to his words.

"Hey, look, it's really cold here and I forgot my scarf and I'm standing outside and I can't wait to get into a cab so, you know what, I'll call you back when I get to his house, alright?"

Another silence fills the empty space, though this one if short-lived.

"Alright. I'm glad you got there okay. Don't forget to call me."

"I won't," I reply.

"Alright, well, then. Have fun."

"Yeah. This is extremely amusing," I spit angrily.

"I'm sorry, wrong choice of words. Talk to you later."

"Whatever," I say before flipping my phone shut.

I heave by bag onto my shoulder and scan the parking for a sign of a slim, black BMW only the insurance company could’ve paid for. My eyes pass from worn-out cars, to Audis, to homeless men and I sigh knowingly. Of course he forgot me.

However, my gaze locks on the car that had been described to me earlier that day. It’s parked furthest away from the train station doors, the honking taxis parked close behind. It couldn't have been parked any further, which was probably his intention. It's barely a black spot on the horizon from my point of view.

Another reason the first words I feel like saying to Albert aren’t very nice.

I drag my feet across the ice coating the sidewalk and, after slipping a dozen times, opt for walking in the middle of the road. It’s definitely safer. A car grazes by me and honks its horn. I feet like giving the driver something he’d remember, but shoose not to and continue walking, my hair blowing in my face and my cheeks, bitten by the wind. This was just what I'd expected from this town. No big welcome, no warm car to save me from the cruel cold. No, nobody would do that now. Not after what happened. They were almost too afraid of me. As if I'd been the one that had been wrong, as if I'm the bad guy.