Don't Ask, Don't Tell

Chapter 24

 No coffee, double shot, triple espresso would be strong enough to erase the fog that clouded Samuel's head. The rest of the night had dragged so slowly, it almost stood still. Samuel's Casio beeped with every hour gone by, the sound taking decades, then centuries to repeat.

By the burst of quiet sobs coming through the wall, proved Cheryl got little sleep, too. The front door had slammed at ten past seven and the tires of her Honda Civic had crunched the pebbles in the driveway a moment later.

With his hands behind his head and his eyes fixed to the ceiling, Samuel hadn't moved a muscle. The blue shadows above him had turned into brown patterns to his side as the sun had tapped him on the shoulder, a reminder of the world going on.

It wasn't until past midday that he'd found the strength to crawl out of bed. No blinking light on the answering machine, no notes, no messages or missed calls on his phone. Her mobile was on the kitchen counter. The only sign of Cheryl's distress, the unequivocal evidence of his actions, was the unmade bad in the master bedroom.

Samuel's Casio beeped again—3:00 pm.

Still no signs of Cheryl.

Where was she? Her shift didn't start until later that evening, but she couldn't have gone to her parents'—if she'd told her brother, or worse, her father, Samuel would be in a hospital bed by now. Coming clean was no use, either. Explaining what had led to his appalling behavior would only put him at the bottom of Lake Mead and produce two corpses instead of one. Was that a dramatic euphemism? He didn't want to find out.

"Double shot Americano for Sam!"

Samuel thanked the barista with a nod and retrieved his drink from the sticky counter. Two sachets of sugar later, he left the air-conditioned oasis for the scorching heat of the Nevada afternoon. He squinted as the sun reflected off of a blue metal USPS mail box, and lowered his Rodenstock over his blood-shot eyes. He didn't need a mirror to know he looked like shit.

The traffic light turned red just as he was about to cross the street. Wiping a bead of sweat from his forehead, Samuel took a sip that scolded his tongue. The little girl next to him crooked her neck to meet his concealed gaze and grinned with a scrunched up nose and a front gap. He did his best to reciprocate and extended the courtesy to the woman holding her hand.

What if people came with descriptions like paintings? His would read 'Samuel L. Reid, born 1973. Straight until proven guilty. Takes his sins out on his girlfriend. Closeted homophobe.'

The light switched to white, and the woman snatched the little girl away as if she'd notice his plaque, leaving Samuel to cross the street on his own. He turned on Atlantic Avenue, finding cover from the sun on the shaded side of the road he hadn't walked in years. Going back to Boulder City was always a struggle; Cheryl's place or her parents' the only safe harbors in town. As for Henderson, he hadn't set foot there since graduation–Foothill High had to remain buried in the past. So today, Samuel wasn't in the city for a stroll down Nightmare Lane, but for insomnia-induced necessity.

By the time he reached the other end of Atlantic Avenue, the coffee had cooled down enough for Samuel to down the remaining half-cup that he tossed in a bin on the corner with East Street. He halted on the edge of the sidewalk and sunk his sweaty hands into the pockets of his Nike shorts.

This neighborhood was much quieter; so quiet, in fact, Samuel expected a tumbleweed to roll down the street, but only a rusty El Camino did, towing a trail of black smoke. As it took a left at the end of the block, silence fell again.

Why was he so nervous? Was it apprehension or anticipation that made him sweat more than the muggy air? Either way, this was his only option if he wanted to clear his mind. Samuel inhaled deeply and dove into the road, crossing it in quick strides; with the same momentum, he pushed the clinics' door open.