Next to Never
Page 58
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I haven’t changed at all.
Flipping open the top of the compass, I watch the disk under the glass wobble on its axis and the dial slowly find its position just slightly past the W. Turning my body a hair to the right, I pause and wait, watching as the needle moves again, coming to rest at the exact point between north and west.
And then I look up, fixing my eyes dead ahead, out to the horizon.
“Mr. Morrow?”
I blink and snap the compass shut. Sliding it back inside my breast pocket, I pick up my beer again and turn my head to see Tahra, the housekeeper, standing in the doorway between the balcony and the apartment. An immigrant from India, she comes several times a week to clean up, grocery shop, and cook supper, earning a little extra money in addition to what her husband brings home from the oil rigs.
“Yes, Tahra?”
She smiles, speaking softly. “Your dinner is staying warm in the oven, sir. I’ll head home now.”
“Thank you,” I tell her. “Good night.”
I turn back, catching the sun just as it disappears beneath the horizon. The dry air burns my nostrils as I breathe in, but I’m not ready to go inside yet.
“Are you all right?” I hear her ask tentatively.
I twist my head around again, regarding her. “Yes, why?”
She studies me for a moment and then gestures to me with the dish towel in her hand. “You’ve started standing in the same spot every night, facing the same direction.”
I hesitate before responding. “Have I?”
I haven’t been keeping track, but I guess she’s right. I thought I’d been more restless lately, but if she was starting to notice, then I guess it is pretty obvious.
“If you wish to pray, Mecca is that way.”
And I look back up in time to see her gesture to the southwest with a knowing smile.
I grin, shaking my head. “You don’t stop trying, do you?” And then I look back out on the last light of the sun shimmering on the city, and I think about what’s beyond the skyscrapers and the bazaars and the desert. Beyond Mecca, the Red Sea, Africa, and the Atlantic . . .
“Actually, my home is that way,” I finally say, pointing with my bottle and gesturing northwest. “My home is 7,308 miles from this spot.”
“That’s a long way.”
I nod, lost in thought. “Yeah.” I pause and then continue, “And even still, nothing is different. She was right.”
“Who?”
Happiness is a direction, not a place. Yeah, she was certainly right. The corner of my mouth lifts in a smile, thinking about how smart that kid always was.
Even a young girl, fourteen years old, knew that anger and unhappiness had not one fucking thing to do with where you lived, whom you loved, or what you did with your life. It was all in our heads.
And no matter how much you run, you can’t run from yourself, can you?
Amusement fills my chest, and I’m suddenly wondering what she’s doing now. What they’re all doing. Madoc and his barbecues and picnics and pool parties, making everyone laugh and love him despite themselves. Jared with the sound of his engine filling the neighborhood and Tate and how she always wanted to play in the rain, even as an adult. Fallon and her smart mouth, who always got everyone we worked with to do things exactly her way; and Juliet with her sexy, free spirit. And then there’s Jax, with one eye always on the ball and one eye always on his wife.
I wonder about the kids and how they’re all grown up and probably wreaking hell, getting their licenses and breaking rules.
Quinn annoyed the crap out of me when she was little, but she always stood by my side, literally, making me feel like one of their own in a group of people that weren’t really my family.
Why did I leave home again? I suddenly struggle to remember my reasons, because right now, it feels like what I gave up is a hell of a lot more than what I ran away from.
“Sir?”
My eyelids flutter, and I take in a breath, coming back to the conversation. “Sorry. Nothing. Never mind,” I say quickly, dismissing her. “Thank you, Tahra.”
“Good night, sir.”
But before I have a chance to turn back around, she speaks up again, “If you don’t mind my asking . . . if you’re homesick, why don’t you just go home?”
I drop my eyes, remaining silent. I’m not sure how to answer that, but it’s a good question.
Can I go home? Of course. Anytime I want.
So why wasn’t I budging?
I inhale a long breath, feeling the welcome heat suddenly hit my cold fingers as I stare northwest.
“Someday,” I whisper.
Flipping open the top of the compass, I watch the disk under the glass wobble on its axis and the dial slowly find its position just slightly past the W. Turning my body a hair to the right, I pause and wait, watching as the needle moves again, coming to rest at the exact point between north and west.
And then I look up, fixing my eyes dead ahead, out to the horizon.
“Mr. Morrow?”
I blink and snap the compass shut. Sliding it back inside my breast pocket, I pick up my beer again and turn my head to see Tahra, the housekeeper, standing in the doorway between the balcony and the apartment. An immigrant from India, she comes several times a week to clean up, grocery shop, and cook supper, earning a little extra money in addition to what her husband brings home from the oil rigs.
“Yes, Tahra?”
She smiles, speaking softly. “Your dinner is staying warm in the oven, sir. I’ll head home now.”
“Thank you,” I tell her. “Good night.”
I turn back, catching the sun just as it disappears beneath the horizon. The dry air burns my nostrils as I breathe in, but I’m not ready to go inside yet.
“Are you all right?” I hear her ask tentatively.
I twist my head around again, regarding her. “Yes, why?”
She studies me for a moment and then gestures to me with the dish towel in her hand. “You’ve started standing in the same spot every night, facing the same direction.”
I hesitate before responding. “Have I?”
I haven’t been keeping track, but I guess she’s right. I thought I’d been more restless lately, but if she was starting to notice, then I guess it is pretty obvious.
“If you wish to pray, Mecca is that way.”
And I look back up in time to see her gesture to the southwest with a knowing smile.
I grin, shaking my head. “You don’t stop trying, do you?” And then I look back out on the last light of the sun shimmering on the city, and I think about what’s beyond the skyscrapers and the bazaars and the desert. Beyond Mecca, the Red Sea, Africa, and the Atlantic . . .
“Actually, my home is that way,” I finally say, pointing with my bottle and gesturing northwest. “My home is 7,308 miles from this spot.”
“That’s a long way.”
I nod, lost in thought. “Yeah.” I pause and then continue, “And even still, nothing is different. She was right.”
“Who?”
Happiness is a direction, not a place. Yeah, she was certainly right. The corner of my mouth lifts in a smile, thinking about how smart that kid always was.
Even a young girl, fourteen years old, knew that anger and unhappiness had not one fucking thing to do with where you lived, whom you loved, or what you did with your life. It was all in our heads.
And no matter how much you run, you can’t run from yourself, can you?
Amusement fills my chest, and I’m suddenly wondering what she’s doing now. What they’re all doing. Madoc and his barbecues and picnics and pool parties, making everyone laugh and love him despite themselves. Jared with the sound of his engine filling the neighborhood and Tate and how she always wanted to play in the rain, even as an adult. Fallon and her smart mouth, who always got everyone we worked with to do things exactly her way; and Juliet with her sexy, free spirit. And then there’s Jax, with one eye always on the ball and one eye always on his wife.
I wonder about the kids and how they’re all grown up and probably wreaking hell, getting their licenses and breaking rules.
Quinn annoyed the crap out of me when she was little, but she always stood by my side, literally, making me feel like one of their own in a group of people that weren’t really my family.
Why did I leave home again? I suddenly struggle to remember my reasons, because right now, it feels like what I gave up is a hell of a lot more than what I ran away from.
“Sir?”
My eyelids flutter, and I take in a breath, coming back to the conversation. “Sorry. Nothing. Never mind,” I say quickly, dismissing her. “Thank you, Tahra.”
“Good night, sir.”
But before I have a chance to turn back around, she speaks up again, “If you don’t mind my asking . . . if you’re homesick, why don’t you just go home?”
I drop my eyes, remaining silent. I’m not sure how to answer that, but it’s a good question.
Can I go home? Of course. Anytime I want.
So why wasn’t I budging?
I inhale a long breath, feeling the welcome heat suddenly hit my cold fingers as I stare northwest.
“Someday,” I whisper.
