What ever happened?
Chapter six
Catalina staggered out of the upstairs bathroom and down the corridor to Zaira’s old room. She could make out the outline of a man coming up the stairs, but she couldn’t see his face due to the direct sunlight, and maybe to the panic attack she was currently having.
She stood still in front of Zaira’s door, breathing heavily, panicking. She couldn’t get caught, she couldn’t betray this family like that. Catalina thought maybe all that hatred she had for Zaira was jealousy, but she pushed the thought aside quickly, Zaira was uglier than her.
The figure kept creeping up the stairs, it called out to her. Catalina? Is everything okay? She thought she heard Zaira’s voice, but maybe that was her brain playing tricks on her. She regarded the figure anxiously. It walked closer to her, out of the sunlight. It was Charles. Catalina looked at him, teary eyed, shaking in front of her friend’s bedroom door, clutching the doorknob in her cold, sweaty hand. She held onto it for dear life as she looked at Charles. Her hands shook furiously due to the cocaine and anxiety that currently plagued her body, the door rattled over and over again, beating against the doorframe furiously. She felt her heart beating at that same rhythm, her head beating at that same rhythm, her bones beating at that same rhythm, teeth rattling at that same rhythm.
The man walked closer to her, took her hand off of the doorknob and held it in his, and with his free hand he wiped away the tears she hadn’t noticed had started to fall. She welcomed his touch, muttering apologies and I missed yous in between burps. She sobbed into his chest, retching like a cat as she felt bile rise up her throat.
“What are you sorry for, sweetheart?” He spoke softly.
“I can’t.” She said.
Catalina had traveled all the way to Vermont to get a stupid blazer and now she couldn’t do it. She was dizzy and high, weak, she thought. Paralyzed in front of the door, crying in a stranger’s arms.
She remembered the blazer. It was black wool, with silk lining; it had golden buttons engraved with the brand’s logo, the bottom one had fallen off on a night out in New York when Zaira wore it. She remembered the smell of it, the wool mixing with Zaira’s perfume— clementines, oud, vanilla— and the parliament cigarettes she smoked.
She couldn’t smell that now, only Charles’ musky smell, his spicy cologne, the sweat pooling on his forehead. She felt his arms envelop her, holding her tight as if he’d known her for longer than he had, as if he understood what Catalina was going through.