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.

               Drowning. The more I am trying to drown out these voices around me, the more I feel myself getting pulled into the waters.

               Is that what today’s incident was about? Was I hallucinating?

               “One more shot please.” I ask the bartender, Matt. He gives me a quick nod and gets into action.

               I gulp it down as soon as he refills. My throat burns. I am going to get sick. Not now, not right away, but sometime before the night is over, and there is nothing I can do about it. The inevitability of it depresses me even more.

               “Another!”

               “Whoa.” Remarks the girl from earlier this morning: the one with long dark hair, pale blue jeans and that dark green hoodie; the pretty girl with sad eyes. “Slow down, will you?”

                “You.”

                “Me.” She echoes, leaning against the counter. “Hi. I hope I am not intruding or anything.”

                 “No.” I put the drink down. “No, I honestly can do with some company right now. I never got your name, though.”

               “Celestine.” She smiles. “I don’t mean to pry, but where are you from?”

               “Is it that obvious?” I chuckle. “Boston.”

               “Wow. What are you doing here?”

               Seriously. What am I doing here?

               “Kind of a getaway from the city, you know? What about you? What are you doing here?”

               “I was born here.” I raise an eyebrow. She grins. “I know. The accent. Well, I was raised in Cali, so there’s that. I am visiting.”

               “Your family is still here?”

               Her face falls. She fiddles with the pendant around her neck. It’s different in design from the one that got damaged, but has the same enamel coating over its silver plating. “I don’t have one. They uh, they died in an accident. But I come every year to pay my respects if I can.”

               “I am sorry.” I don’t know what else to say. Apparently, I am bad at being emphatic too.

               “Don’t be. It’s okay.”

               “Okay.” I say and sheepishly take a sip of my Screwdriver.

               “No.” Celestine places her hand on mine. “You are over-thinking it. Don’t. People make such a big deal out of it. It’s not. Everyone dies.”

               “Well it isn’t exactly table talk.” I laugh nervously.

               “Why not?”

                “Oh, well. Do you always talk about death so animatedly?”

               She grins. “It is supposed to make me happy. After it ends all my pain and suffering, that is.”

               I frown.

               Celestine takes in my expression and smirks. “Oh, no. I am not suicidal.”

               “You don’t say?”

               She laughs and—oh my god, perhaps it’s the drunk me talking, but I can so get used to the sound of her laughter. It’s so free and pure and wholesome.

                I shake my head sideways in order to shush the thoughts in my mind. I just met her like, 12 hours ago. I am getting ahead of myself here, I know, but ask me if that stops me from staring. My eyes are very much fixated on her face, taking in every detail, when a random person bumps into me.

               “Sorry, mate.” He slurs.

               As much as I would like to say, “Hey, it’s okay”—it’s not. I have spilt my drink on my shirt because of him.

               Celestine gives me a sympathetic smile. “You might wanna get that cleaned, I guess. Go ahead. I will wait for you here.”

               I look around Barney’s till I spot the restroom. I make my way towards it, open the door, and let myself in. And it’s only when I am closing the door behind me that I realise there is a girl already inside. She is standing in front of the mirror, her hands gripping the wash basin for support. I think she is crying. I think I should check. But I am not good at comforting people, and that’s an understatement.

               “I am so, so sorry.” I stutter. “I thought it was vacant. I hope you are okay. I am gonna go now.” I say before rushing out of the restroom. What a day today has been. One awkward moment after another.

               “You should get a lock on that thing.” I say to Sarah on my way to the bar.

               “What are you talking about?” Sarah retorts, counting her tip.

               “Lock on the washroom door. There was someone already inside and I just made a complete fool of myself?”

               Sarah picks up the dirty dishes from the table and then turns to face me. “How drunk are you?” She asks.

               “On a scale of 1-10,” I pause. “A six, really.”

               She looks at me strangely.

               “Hey, are you done?” Celestine walks in our direction.

               I blink once, then twice. “Yeah. Well, no. Somebody is inside, but I didn’t know that. . .”

               Sarah opens her mouth and then closes it, like she is waiting for the right time to raise her concerns. She looks at Celestine who is looking at me. I feel weird.

               “What?” I ask, confused.

               “The bathroom door is open, honey. There is no one inside.”

               At those words, I turn around, only to see the open door of an indeed very empty restroom.