The Neighbor - Lisa Gardner [140]
He could tell Colleen had been uncomfortable with the request. Or maybe it had been the trash bag after trash bag of dirty laundry he’d loaded into the trunk of her car, while three cameramen had clicked away from across the street. At least when Colleen had pulled away, the photographers had abandoned their posts, as well. No use staking out a house when you knew the target wasn’t there.
“What happened to your head?” Colleen had asked as she drove down the street.
“Kitchen fire. Left a paper plate too near a burner. Embers floated up and caught my hair on fire, but I was too busy dumping flour on the stove to notice.”
She didn’t look convinced. “You doing okay, Aidan?”
“I lost my job. I burned my head. I got my face on the evening news. No fucking way, but thanks for asking.”
“Aidan …”
He stared at her, daring her to say it. She was sorry. What a shame. Things’ll get better. Hold tight.
Pick a platitude, any platitude. The sayings were all bullshit. And he and Colleen both knew it.
She drove him the rest of the way in silence, biggest favor she ever did him.
Now he finished folding his towels, sheets, various coverlets, even three doilies. If it was a textile and it had been in his apartment, he’d washed it with Clorox color-safe bleach.
Let the police hash over that one. Let them hate him.
After this, he planned on returning to his apartment and packing up everything he owned. He was placing his entire collection of worldly possessions into four black trash bags, and he was bolting into the wind. That was it. Show over. He was done. Let his PO chase him. Let the police go apeshit looking for another registered sex offender.
He’d followed the rules, and look where it got him: The police were screwing him; his former coworkers had tried to jump him; and his neighbor, Jason Jones, just plain scared him. Then there were the reporters … Aidan wanted out. So long. See you. Bye-bye.
Which didn’t explain why he remained here, sitting on the floor of a grungy Laundromat, snapping his green elastic band and clutching a blue ballpoint pen. He’d been staring at the blank piece of notebook paper for three minutes already. He finally wrote:
Dear Rachel:
I’m an ass. It’s all my fault. You should hate me.
He paused. Chewed on the end of the pen again. Snapped the band.
Thanks for sending me the letters. Maybe you hate them. Maybe you couldn’t stand to see them anymore. Guess I can’t blame you.
He crossed out words. Tried again. Crossed out more.
I love you.
I loved you. I was wrong. I’m sorry.
I won’t bother you again.
Unless, he thought. But he didn’t write it. He forcefully kept himself from writing it. If she’d wanted to see him, she could’ve done it by now. So take the hint, Aidan, old boy. She didn’t love you. She doesn’t love you. You went to prison for nothing, you pathetic, stupid, miserable sack of shit….
He picked up the pen again.
Please don’t hurt yourself.
Then, almost as an afterthought:
And don’t let Jerry hurt you either. You deserve better. You really, really do.
Sorry I fucked everything up. Have a nice life.
Aidan
He set down the pen. Reread the letter. Debated tearing it to shreds and attempting another bonfire. Held it instead. He wouldn’t send the letter. In group, the exercise was simply to write the note. Teach him empathy and remorse. Which he guess he felt, because his chest was tight, and it was hard to breathe, and he didn’t want to be sitting in the middle of a seedy Laundromat anymore. He wanted to be back in his apartment, curled up with blankets over his head. Someplace he could get lost in the dark and not think about that winter and how good her skin had felt against his, or how much of both of their lives he had destroyed.
God help him, he still loved