36. Adam

36

ADAM

F abian and I got nowhere in Anna’s penthouse yesterday with Mila and her sulking and tight-lipped grimace. I pace about my small apartment, looking out at the blank back facade of the building behind mine through my living-room window. Am I destined to spend my life looking at brick walls? No messages from Anna, despite me blowing up her phone. Fuck, what is going on out there? Is she okay? I text Fabian:

Do you think I should go out there?

Where?

Russia?

If you’re going, then I’m coming with you.

Then:

No way are you going out there on your own.

I pull up a search engine and examine the flights, but I’m wracked with indecision. My stomach aches, reminding me that I should eat something, but when I examine the contents of the fridge, there’s nothing but two lemons, milk, a stick of butter, and three beers. I grab my keys from the kitchen countertop and head out into the cold night air.

Outside, the strings of lights above the stores and across the streets seem almost incongruous. How can Christmas be only five days away? I finally told my mom I’d be home on Christmas Eve, but the idea of going anywhere when Anna might be in trouble makes the acid in my stomach worse.

Once I’m in Chelsea Market, I wind through the central corridor of the building to the food store. A crowd of people are singing and laughing drunkenly up ahead. As a guy comes reeling in my direction waving his arms, I step to one side, but he lurches the same way and careens into me, crushing my arm painfully. Grabbing his shoulder, I try to steady him.

“Careful, buddy.” I smile at him, but he has the glazed expression of the truly drunk as he moves past me toward the doors. I twist to watch him go, then turn back to the Christmas revelers in front of me and stretch out my elbow. I’m such a Scrooge. I hope that drunk guy is okay.

In the store, I buy a roast chicken, vegetables, and potatoes and head back to the apartment, sticking it all in the oven on high heat. When it’s warmed up, I perch on one of my bar stools in my small kitchen and shovel it down my throat. Gradually, my stomach stops grumbling.

I flip my phone over in my hand. Anna’s still not responding, and we can’t find out or do anything here. There’s no alternative: I have to go to Russia.

But as I sit down at my computer to examine the flights again, the world tips sideways a bit and I almost miss the seat. Jesus. I place a steadying hand on the table, blink at the screen, and then stand up again. Maybe that was just something … I walk over to the sink for some water. But sweat is pouring off me, and my hand shakes as I lift the glass to my mouth. My stomach churns. Oh fuck, have I got food poisoning ? That’s all I need. That chicken probably wasn’t okay. The countertop swims in my vision as I put the glass down. I’ve got to lie down. I stagger over and stretch out on my small couch, and the world tips a bit again. Fuck, this is bad .

I pick up my phone to tap out a text to Fabian:

Food poisoning.

And that’s all I manage to type in because the screen is swimming and my heart is a rapid flutter in my chest.

I rest my arm over my eyes, and the last thing I remember is the clatter of my phone and the pain in my hand as it hits the floor.