Avi adjusted the rearview mirror and cleared his throat, drawing Mitch out of his own spiraling thoughts.
“Hey, so,” he started in that fragile tone, the one that Mitch absolutely loathed, made of crystal and would shatter if you so much as looked at it wrong. But then the cadence kicked up as he continued. “For what it’s worth, and it’s probably not much, but I think this is easily one of the most…” he stretched an arm out and grasped at the empty air, as though he was seeking to pull words from the ether itself. “This blows. I don’t know the details, but I can tell that it’s miserable. And you’re doing something that’s either really courageous or really stupid, and I don’t envy what you’re going through even a little bit.”
Mitch remained silent, chewing on the inside of his cheek and glancing over at the clock. He forced out a shaky, “thanks”, but nothing else.
“Of course.” There was a smile on Avi’s face, but its deference almost caused Mitch to burst into tears.
For the remainder of the trip, the words exchanged were non-committal, a far cry from the topics they’d delved into earlier. As soon as signs for Greenwich began springing up, Mitch’s leg bounced without restraint. He knew he’d have to address his concerns, and after some consideration, he unceremoniously blurted out, “Don’t come up to the loft with me. Stay in the car.”
Avi’s head tilted in his direction. “Aren’t you going to need help getting everything downstairs?”
Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.
“I’m not paying you to help me move stuff, just the gas for the ride,” Mitch responded distantly, but his bottom lip quivered despite his attempt to remain frigid.
“OK, so…” started Avi. “That’s well and good. You have a bad shoulder, though. And like, I promise these aren’t just TV muscles? I can handle a few boxes.”
“I don’t-” Mitch’s voice started to escalate, in a way that he was bracing for a fight. But Avi just looked confused, and this wasn’t a confrontation that merited hostility. Sagging in the seat, he could feel the protective varnish stripping away due to the three hours they were enclosed together. “I don’t want you to meet him. Or…or see me around him, alright?” He squeezed his eyes shut. “I don’t want him to have more ammunition, I just. I need to get in and out of there as quick as I can.”
“Dude, hate to be the bearer of bad news, but you can’t do this part on your own. Unless you’re gonna try to get him to help you get stuff into the car, and in which case, uh…we’re meeting regardless. Sorry.”
“Fuck me,” Mitch choked out, unable to hide the anguish any longer.
“Another person being there could make things awkward?” offered Avi. “I don’t mind falling on that grenade.”
All Mitch wanted was to tug at the steering wheel, and beg to head back to Monument; forget having closure, he could become a ghost and never interact with Calvin again. His ego was practically non-existent on a regular day, but the last two weeks had left him raw and half-dead. The idea of having someone see the final blow be delivered live and in living color, and then the vultures pick at his corpse’s entrails, was a step too far, even for him.
But he was also much too exhausted to protest, and they were now mere blocks away. Put an end to this, throw his body into the Hudson River; who cared and what did it matter? So he responded with a meek “OK” and clung to his own shirtsleeve, fingers nearly ripping the fabric from the tension.