Franklin

8 | of drunk encounters

               In my lifespan of twenty six years, I have successfully mastered the art of not thinking clearly. I think I think too much, but nothing productive ever comes out of it, especially when I am in a fix.

               Take now, for instance. I am going through the files and whatever info we have on the M.P for what is probably the tenth time since we came back from the lake, and I am yet to draw a conclusion.

               To make matters worse, Andy has taken it upon her to play my nurse and psychoanalyst. And while her level of concern is touching, it is also turning out to be quite a hindrance in my thought process.

                “You know you need to sleep. Your brain isn’t functioning.” Andy speaks from across the room, her tone matter-of-fact. She is sitting by the only window in the room with a mug of coffee.

                “So you keep telling me.”

                Her eyes narrow. “That’s because it’s what you need—”

                “What I need,” I hold up a hand signalling for her to pause. “Is to get done with this case so that we can both go home, away from the nightmare Franklin has turned out to be. And then maybe I can peacefully sleep in my own bed. How does that sound?”

               Andy says nothing. She sips her coffee instead. Bad move. Winston Churchill would relight his cigar to give him time to think or compose articulate statements. Andy, like most people, sipped her coffee to buy her time to come up with some BS for an answer.

               “Keith could have helped us, had you not been so eager to leave right after he showed up. He knows something, Andy. That was kind of the whole point of the meet-up.” I huff. “But you always have to interfere, don’t you?”

               She watches me over her coffee, amused. “I acted in your best interest, Stevie. You should have seen yourself. Not to mention he’s a minor.”

               “No.” I shake my head. “You acted in what you thought was my best interest. It’s not the same thing, not today. And FYI, he’s a legal adult—one who was willing to talk!”

               Andy sets her mug down. “And you are being desperate.”

               “I am done here.” I say and stand up. I am not an angry person by nature, but I have my moments. Now is one of those. I need a drink, or I need to knock someone out.

               “Where are you going?” Andy calls after me. I don’t need to turn around to know she is giving me ‘the look’. It’s a subtle expression, but I know it all too well. I have disappointed her. She is the nearest thing to a friend I have after Richard, and I have disappointed her. I should sit down. I should apologize. But because she is the nearest thing to a friend I have got, I keep walking. 

               She was supposed to have my back.

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               Here’s a totally random fact about me: I have a general rule to not let the people around me affect me beyond a time period of seven minutes. If I let them, I won’t be able to survive in the ‘real world’. I am a sensitive cactus.

               Being a push over has its own pros and cons, alright. So I have always let my family and friends deal with the future of their relationship with me. I have always been the go-with-the-flow kind of guy, even if it meant losing my balance every now and then, and drowning at some point.