Target on Our Backs
Page 4

Naz doesn't like me taking cabs. He doesn't trust others to keep me safe from harm. But given the situation, I imagine he wouldn't have much to say about it right now.
My mind wanders during the drive, wondering where he might've run off to, what he might be doing right now.
Part of me is afraid to know.
It takes almost an hour to get home with traffic, and it costs sixty bucks for the trip. Ugh. I give the driver a hundred-dollar bill, telling him to keep the change. He seems surprised by the gesture, flashing me another smile and thanking me in a quiet voice.
He didn't try to talk to me the whole way here.
I appreciate it.
The house seems still, almost creepily so. I don't like being here much anymore, especially alone. The place is haunted by memories, a lot of them not-so-good… memories of times we fought, the time I drugged Naz's food… memories of the time he considered taking my life, the time I realized there was a monster inside of him. We both almost died in the foyer on separate nights, and although it was long ago cleaned up, sometimes, if I look just right, I think I can still see remnants of the blood.
We talk about moving… we talk about it all the time… but for some reason, we haven't pulled the trigger, so to speak, too caught up in every day life to make a decision.
Too caught up trying to adjust to our new realities.
Him, as out as someone like him can be.
Me, now his wife.
Crazy.
I use my keys to unlock the front door before stepping inside and relocking it behind me. Killer, my dog, is asleep in the living room. He looks up when I enter, on alert, before happily dodging toward me, wagging his tail, wanting to play. I rub his head, scratching his big ears, but I'm too exhausted to do much more today.
Sighing, I kick off my shoes right then and there and head for the den with the dog right on my heels. Maybe I'll take a nap on the couch, if I can even shut my mind off to fall asleep. God knows when Naz will get home. Could be hours. Could be days.
"Didn't take you long."
A scream rips out of me the second I hear the unexpected voice, startling me more than even the gunshots did. What the hell? My knees buckle and I almost drop to the floor, panicked, as my eyes seek out the source. Naz sits in the den at his desk, clutching a newspaper open, his eyes on it.
"Jesus Christ, Naz, what are you doing?"
"Reading today's paper."
"Reading today's paper," I repeat.
He's reading a fucking newspaper? Really?
"Yes," he says. "I picked one up on my way home."
"You picked one up," I say incredulously. "On your way home."
His eyes flicker to me then as he cocks an eyebrow. "Why are you repeating everything I say?"
"Why am I repeating everything you say?"
He can't be serious, can he?
Jesus Christ, he's actually serious.
Seriously?
Naz shakes his head, setting his newspaper down on the desk before leaning back in his chair, turning slightly to angle toward me. "Now I see why you hate it when I do that. It's quite annoying."
"I just…" Seriously, what the hell? "I don't even know what to say to that. I don't know what's happening. You just… what are you doing?"
His brow furrows, like I'm the one not making sense, and maybe I'm not, but I'm absolutely baffled. Why is he here? He disappeared from the deli, leaving me there to fend for myself, just to come straight home and read the goddamn newspaper?
It makes no sense.
"How did you get home?" he asks, eyeing me suspiciously.
"I took a cab."
"I thought I told you—"
"Yeah, well," I interject before he can even try to lecture me for not listening to him. "How the hell else was I supposed to get home?"
"You could've called for the car service," he says. "Would've taken them twenty minutes, tops, to get to Hell's Kitchen where you were."
"Well, it wouldn't have been an issue in the first place had you not just left."
"He told me to leave," Naz says casually, picking up his paper again as he turns back away. "What else was I supposed to do?"
"Uh... take me with you. You didn't have to just leave me there."
"You were safe."
"I was safe?" I scoff. "How do you know?"
"Because I wasn't there anymore."
His voice is matter-of-fact. I'm not entirely sure what to say to that. "But how do you know—?"
He sets down his paper again, this time with an exaggerated huff of annoyance, like he doesn't want to have to talk about this. I probably shouldn't press the matter, but I want to hear what he has to say.
I want some sort of explanation.
I deserve one.
"You're not dense, Karissa, so don't act like it," he says, staring at me pointedly. "You continue to refuse to look at the big picture when it's always right there. How do I know it was me they were gunning for? Tell me something, sweetheart… who else in the place has a target on their back? There's only one reason someone would do what they did, and you're looking at it." He motions to himself. "So, yeah, I knew you were safe, because I wasn't there. Is that a good enough answer?"
I want to say no, it isn't good enough, but I know he'll never accept that. Still, though, I can't help myself. "It's not your fault, you know."
"Then whose is it? Yours?"
"Why does it have to be anyone's fault?" I ask, walking over to where he sits, perching myself on the corner of his wooden desk. "Things just happen sometimes."
"Look, I appreciate what you're trying to do, but just… don't," he says. "I've made my bed, and I've long ago accepted that I'll someday have to lie in it. Nothing I do—or don't do—today will erase what I did yesterday."
"What did you do yesterday?"
He cuts his eyes at me, and I know I need to watch myself at this point, because he's not in the mood for my antics. He looks angry. He almost looks like Vitale. "You know what I mean, Karissa. The present doesn't make up for the past."
"Yeah, I get it," I say. "Just because you apologize doesn't mean you're automatically forgiven."
"Exactly," he says. "And in my case, I didn't even apologize."
"Are you sorry?"
"No."
I shouldn't laugh, because it's not funny, but I do. I laugh. Ever the blunt one. Naz looks at me, and he doesn't even crack a smile, but I see his expression soften a bit, his posture relaxing.
We sit in silence for a moment—me watching him, him looking at his newspaper—before it gets to be too much. "That still doesn't mean it's your fault, though."
He slaps his paper down on the desk with a groan before running his hands down his face. "Karissa…"
"Look, all I'm saying is we're responsible for our own actions. We're not responsible for what other people do." He doesn't look like he's at all buying what I'm saying, but I continue anyway. "So whatever you did yesterday, yeah, that's on you, but what someone does today because of it? That's on them, Naz. No one has ever been forced to retaliate."