“That’s bullshit. We loved each other. That’s all that matters—”
“We weren’t some sappy fucking country song, Imogen! We had nowhere to go! Because the place where we had been sleeping burned down. We lost so much already. Holding onto each other seemed foolish. And I knew I couldn’t give you the life you needed. The one you should have! I was only ever going to be some dirty man’s secret in an alleyway. You saw it! Christ, Imi, I saw your face when you found me! How could I go to bed with you at night knowing the things I’ve had to do keep us fed? I saw the way you looked at me. You loved me, sure. But you were disgusted too.”
“That’s not true!” I argued. But I was lying.
He was right.
I had been disgusted by him. And the choices he continued to make. I had felt betrayed. Hurt. Especially that last day. When he had made so many promises and broke all of them.
“We were going to start over somewhere else, Yoss.”
He rubbed his temples as though he had a headache. “This was never about me. It was always about you. Don’t you see that?”
I was tired of his evasiveness. “If it was all about me, you never would have left! Don’t you understand what it did to me when you never showed up? How a big part of me died that day under the bridge?”
Yoss’s eyes flashed in my direction. Fiery. Alive. It was a relief to see. But it also worried me.
“You went home, Imi! You graduated from high school! You went to college! You got a fucking job that means something! You have a home! You were married, starting a family. You were doing everything you were supposed to!” He was shouting. I should have cared about the noise we were making. I should have cared that others could have heard us.
But we were finally making headway. Getting somewhere.
I took a step forward, invading his personal space. Our faces were only inches apart. We were both breathing heavily, our cheeks flushed. I met his gaze and leveled him with the cold, hard truth. The one he seemed to be evading.
“I should have been doing those things with you.”
Yoss shook his head. “We were only together for six months—”
“Six months that might as well have been sixty years. Time is inconsequential given what we were to each other. Or was I mistaken? Was I the only one feeling the things that I did? Was it all a lie, Yoss?” I asked, barely above a whisper.
He closed his eyes, his energy draining. He sat down heavily on the bed, his elbows on his knees, gripping his head in his hands. “No. It wasn’t a lie,” he said, as if the words were wrenched out of him.
That’s all I needed to hear.
I sat down beside him, close, but not touching. “Don’t leave, Yoss. Not yet. Promise me.”
“Imogen, I can’t stay here. I’m crawling out of my skin. The smell. The sounds. It’s driving me crazy.” He dropped his hands so that they dangled between his knees. His shoulders were slumped. He looked tired. Exhausted.
“Not yet, Yoss. Please. Let me figure something out for you.” Our eyes met. They held. They clung. Fire sparked and ignited.
And burned his resistance to the ground.
“Not yet,” he agreed.
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
I had no plan.
Yoss wouldn’t go to a shelter. There were minimal funds for other accommodation. I spent all afternoon on the phone talking to social services, churches, and community boards. Anyone who could help Yoss.
But hands were tied. Resources slim. “Send him to the shelter,” I was told over and over again.
I even broke down and called Tracey Higgins.
“It took you long enough to call me back, Imogen,” Tracey said snidely.
I gritted my teeth. “I know, Tracey. I apologize. But I’m calling now to see if we can coordinate something for Yoss Frazier. He’s due to be discharged from the hospital, possibly today. I’m hoping we can come up with somewhere for him to go.”
“I told you I would hold a bed for him at the shelter,” Tracey interjected sharply.
“Tracey, Yoss doesn’t want to go to the shelter. He is very adamant about that. You know as well as I do that you can’t force someone to go,” I said evenly.
“Look, Imogen, I work my ass off in this community to provide a safe place for the homeless population. I have two security guards on at night and three full-time staff members seeing to over fifty clients a day. I sit at the table and try to do whatever needs done to help these people. Do you know what doesn’t help them?” she snapped.
“I don’t mean to insult your services—”
“What doesn’t help them are people like you, Imogen. You think you’re the only one who can save them. You want to play superhero when what you should be doing is making sure we’re all playing an equal part,” Tracey went on angrily.
I started to lose my patience. My nerves were frayed as it was and Tracey’s moral superiority complex wasn’t helping.