Target on Our Backs

As soon as I hear Karissa's voice, I glance her way, meeting her eyes as she regards me warily from where she lays. She's awake now, but barely. Her face is flushed, eyes bloodshot, with sleep-lines marking her cheek.

  "It's not funny," I say, continuing to peel the orange. "I was just thinking about how, if that were me, Giuseppe would probably be dancing."

  She rolls her eyes and shifts around on the couch, pushing the blanket off of herself. "He would not."

  "Yeah, you're probably right," I mutter. "He's told me a few times that I'm already dead to him. I died two decades go. This?" I motion toward the television, where they've all already moved on, the plot moving forward. "This would probably just be a relief."

  "You dying wouldn't be a relief to anybody." She pauses, her face scrunching up. She's not stupid. She knows I have enemies. "Well, I mean except for, you know, anybody who truly hates you, but that's not your father."

  "If you say so."

  "I do," she says, her voice stern. "So no dying. I forbid it. You've gotta stick around and grow old."

  I wait for it, as soon as she says that.

  As usual, she doesn't disappoint.

  "Well, older, anyway," she mumbles. "You're already kind of old."

  Smiling, I pull the orange apart, breaking off a wedge to eat. It's sweet and juicy. You can find navel oranges in any grocery store, but there's nothing quite like one pulled straight from a tree in Florida.

  "I didn't know we had oranges," Karissa says, still eyeing me. "Hell, I didn't know you liked oranges."

  "I do, but we don't," I say, pulling off a wedge and holding it out to her. "Got this while I was out."

  She doesn't hesitate to snatch it right from my hand, eating it before motioning toward me, silently asking for another piece. Or more like demanding it, since she knows I'll give it to her. She doesn't need to ask. I break what's left in half, forfeiting part to her, as my attention turns back to the movie.

  I'm not paying her any attention.

  That's why it catches me off guard when she throws her part of the orange down and jumps up from the couch, accidentally kicking me to get around where I'm sitting. I jolt, startled, and turn to her, but she's gone.

  She's already out of the room.

  She's running.

  I'm not one to fall victim to herd mentality, but I'm on my feet without a thought, following her. She's up the stairs and down the hallway.

  I catch up to her in the bathroom.

  The door is wide open, and she's on her knees in front of the toilet, losing everything in her stomach. Panic sweeps through me. It's a rare sensation. It makes me sick to my stomach.

  That's all it is, isn't it?

  I look at my hand, at the remnants of the orange that I'm clutching. Son of a bitch. I should've known better than to actually eat something he gave me. The thought didn't even cross my mind that it might not be safe.

  I'm getting soft.

  Too soft.

  This isn't like me.

  This soft, flawed idiot I've become is nothing like the strong-willed man I always prided myself as being. That man didn't take candy from strangers and just fucking eat it like he had no reason to be worried. That man knew the cost of being soft.

  I toss what's left of the fruit in the trashcan before crouching beside Karissa, my hand on her back. It seems to have let up already, and now she's just laying there, against the toilet, her head down, like she's planning to go to sleep.

  I'm trying hard not to be disturbed by that.

  I scrubbed it not long ago, one night when I couldn't sleep.

  But, still... I piss in that thing.

  "Karissa, baby..." My voice is quiet. I'm not trying to alarm her. "Talk to me."

  She turns her head, opening her eyes. "I think I'm coming down with something."

  "What makes you think that?"

  Her face contorts at that question. "Other than the fact that I'm laying halfway in the toilet?"

  "Other than that."

  "I've felt like crap all day. I'm queasy. Exhausted. I almost feel hung-over, but I didn't drink last night, so…"

  "So you're coming down with something."

  "Yep."

  I rub her back a moment longer before standing up, offering her a hand. She lets me help her stand up, not at all arguing when I grab her, sweeping her right off of her feet, and carry her down the hall to the bedroom. Yeah, must be coming down with something to not put up a fight over that.

  I get her settled into the bed and run my hand along her forehead. She's clammy but not hot. "How about some soup?"

  "You going to have some delivered?"

  "No, I'm going to cook."

  "We don't have any Campbell's."

  "I don't need any," I tell her. "I know how to make soup from scratch."

  She stares at me with disbelief as she throws the covers off that I just got on her. "If you're cooking, I'm watching."

  Laughing, I force her back into the bed and once again put the covers over her. "Relax. You can watch some other time. Right now you need to take it easy."

  She pouts but again doesn't argue, staying put. I plug my phone in to charge, laying it on the bedside stand, as I leave the bedroom.

  Killer stands in the hallway between the bedroom and the stairs, watching me. He growls a bit as I pass, but I ignore him, heading downstairs.

  The pantry is loaded with ingredients, thanks to her incessant desire to learn how to cook everything she sees on television. I want to make her my mother's Italian Chicken Soup, and pull out everything I remember her using for it when I was a kid, but I'm drawing a blank and having to wing some of it.

  Or most of it, rather.

  It has been a long time since she last made it for me.

  I spend a while getting it together and letting it simmer on the stove before heading back into the den, this time alone. The theme from The Godfather echoes through the room as the credits roll on the television screen. Grabbing the remote again, I flip through channels, stalling when I reach the local news, catching a breaking report about a small corner store in Hell's Kitchen exploding, taking out the entire apartment building above it.

  Gas leak, they're calling it, but I know better.

  Because I know that store. I know those apartments.

  I was just inside them, visiting Armando, threatening him for information.

  I'm staring at the live feed playing from the site, barely listening to what the reporter's saying, but I catch a few of her words, the tail end of her segment.

  A black car seen lurking near the business, missing a license plate.

  I wonder why that is.

  I turn off the television and sit in silence for a moment, letting that sink in.

  I didn't give up any names, but I wouldn't be surprised if Lorenzo riddled it out. If he figured out where I got my information and decided to silence the source.

  I may have very well gotten Armando killed this afternoon.

  And I might've even helped Lorenzo get away with it.

  When the soup's finished, I carry a bowl of it upstairs, finding Karissa lying in bed, playing on a phone. My phone.

  The sight of it stalls me.

  Not that I've got anything to hide from her. I try not to keep any secrets. If she wants to know, I'll tell her. But still, my natural instinct is to balk. "What are you doing?"

  She looks up at me, smiling, and sets the phone down. She doesn't look alarmed, like she's been caught doing anything she shouldn't have been doing. "Just changing your ringtone to something more you."

  "More boy bands?"

  "Does it count if they're boys in a band?"

  "Pretty sure that's the definition."

  "Then yep," she says, as I hand her the soup. "But hey, at least it's still not Bieber."

  "Thank God," I say, taking the phone from her and again plugging it in. "I'd hate to have to divorce you."

  "You'd divorce me?"

  "Or worse."

  "Miss Vitale? A word?"


  It's still strange to me, going by that last name. So strange I don't respond to it sometimes, because it doesn't click it's me they want until they say it again.

  "Miss Vitale?"

  Glancing up, stalling the packing up of my backpack, I look at Rowan as he stands at the end of the aisle, beside my desk. Most of my classmates have already jetted out of here, but I'm running a little behind the crowd today.

  Like an idiot, I fell asleep in class.

  I dozed right through his entire lecture, missing all of it. I remember siting down and well... here I am, an hour later, getting ready to leave again.

  Oops.

  I clear my throat. "It's Mrs."

  That takes him aback. "Excuse me?"

  "There's a Mister, so I'm not a Miss."

  "Oh. You're married."

  "Yeah."

  He seems genuinely surprised by that tidbit.

  Must not have read my file.

  Thank God.

  "Oh, well, Mrs. Vitale, I was hoping I could have a word with you."

  I want to say no, because having a word with me leads to more words, which leads to me saying words back, and judging by how the last conversation I had with a professor in this room ended up being one of his last, I'm going to go out on a limb and say having a word with me probably isn't wise. Another thing he'd know if he read my file. But how can I explain that without actually explaining anything?

  I don't know.

  I can't.

  So I merely shrug and continue packing up my things to leave, figuring if he wants to have a word with me, there's really nothing I can do to stop him.

  "I just wanted to tell you that I graded your Napoleon paper."

  "Oh?" Putting on my backpack, I eye him warily, feeling this strange sense of déjà vu about this conversation. "Let me guess... unimaginative? Mediocre? Pretentious?"

  That's what Professor Santino always said about my papers.

  His brow furrows as he pulls the paper out of a folder he's carrying, holding it out to me. "I actually found it to be refreshing."

  That word stalls me for a moment. Refreshing. I take the paper from him, glancing at it, seeing the red A+ written on the top of it.

  Whoa.

  "Thanks," I say, unsure what I'm supposed to say in this situation. "I wasn't sure..."

  "Most people were literal about the assignment," he says, like he knows where I'm going with what I'm saying. "But you explored the concept deeper, and it's appreciated. I know history, to most people, is rather boring, so it's refreshing to have a student actually attempt to analyze things. That's how we learn from history, so we don't find ourselves repeating it... if you know what I mean."

  "Yeah..." I know exactly what he means. "Thanks again."

  He smiles kindly. "I should be thanking you."

  "Well... you're welcome, I guess," I say with a laugh, turning to leave. He's right beside me, walking along with me. "I don't really have a good track record when it comes to writing analytical essays. I sort of bombed my first philosophy class because of it."

  "Daniel Santino's class?"

  "Uh... yeah. That's the one."

  "I never met the guy, but I heard he could be quite difficult."

  Difficult. Hell of an understatement.

  "I wasn't exactly his favorite person," I tell him as we head outside. "We had some issues, so that probably had something to do with it, too."

  "Probably," he agrees. "Because I doubt your essays did you in, especially if they were anything like this."

  Reaching over, he shakes the paper I'm holding onto, giving me another smile before walking away. I stand there, in front of the building, watching him.

  Weird.

  "Friend of yours?"

  I jump at the unexpected voice behind me... right behind me. So damn close I can practically feel the warm breath against my neck. Swinging around, I look at Naz. "Oh, hey! What are you doing here?"

  "Came to see you," he says casually before motioning down the street, in the direction Rowan jetted off to, repeating his question. "Friend of yours?"

  "Rowan's my history professor, actually."

  "Huh. On a first name basis with a professor, are we? And what exactly did Rowan want?"

  "He was just talking to me about my paper."

  I shake it in his face, showing off the fat, red A+ on top of it. Naz snatches it from my hand, eyes glossing over the paper. "You wrote down exactly what I said."

  "Yep," I say, absolutely no shame.

  He laughs, handing it back. "It's nice to know I've still got it."

  Taking my bag off, I fold up my paper and shove it in. I try to put the bag back on then, but Naz grabs a hold of it, taking it from me.

  "I can carry my own stuff, you know."

  "Nonsense."

  Nonsense.

  That's his response.

  I almost take offense to it.

  Reaching over, I snatch my bag back, ignoring him as I put it on.

  Nonsense, my ass.

  He laughs again, reaching for me, pulling me toward him. "I'm glad to see you're feeling better."

  I roll my eyes at that.

  I was feeling queasy earlier, and I still feel like I could sleep for a damn year straight, but at least I haven't thrown up today. Knock on wood.

  "So do you have any classes this afternoon?"

  "Math... English..." I eye him warily. He knows my schedule. He had it memorized before me. "Why?"

  "Thought we could spend some time together this afternoon," he says, "if you weren't too busy."

  I'm equal parts flattered and suspicious. I love when he wants to spend time with me, but I'm not an idiot. I know when Naz is up to something.

  I have enough practice at this point to tell it.

  "Never too busy for you. Do you want to grab some lunch or something? Hang out? Maybe take a walk?"

  "A walk is perfect."

  Yep, definitely up to something.

  We don't take walks.

  I motion past us, down the sidewalk, toward Washington Square Park on the corner near the school. It's as good of a place as any to walk to. Naz takes my hand, something that surprises me, even though it probably shouldn't. We're married, for Christ's sake, but still… he takes my breath away sometimes with the little things.

  It's busy in the park, as it usually is at this hour, as students come and go between classes. We find an empty bench near the entrance and sit down on it. I drop my bag by my feet, kicking it to the side, away from Naz, so he doesn't get any bright ideas about trying to carry it again.

  He takes care of me enough as it is.

  "Have you thought about it any more?"

  His question catches me off guard.

  I'm not sure what he means.

  "Have I thought about what?"

  "About leaving New York."

  "Oh." My insides twist at that. Have I thought about leaving? Sure. I think about it at least once a day, sometimes more. But have I made up my mind about whether or not I want to? Well, that's where I'm just not as sure…

  Memories haunt me here. Every time I turn a corner, they're there, lingering, lurking, a reminder of everything that happened, the things he did, the things I caused. I know it's not all my fault, not at all, but I'm not blameless. Silence implies consent. I've heard that said so many times. If you don't speak up about something, you're letting it happen. Acquiescence. Living here, there's no way we can ever really have a fresh start. We're covered in permanent marker. We can't erase our black marks… not in New York.

  But to actually leave means walking away from the only place I've ever thought of as home. It means leaving the people I care about, leaving my best friend, saying goodbye to Naz's father. Am I ready for that? It means leaving behind the good memories I've had here along with all of the bad. Because there's been a lot of bad, yes… but there was still so much good.

  "Oh," he repeats after a moment of silence. "Should I take that as a no?"

  "I don't know," I
say with a sigh. "I just... is it a mistake? I don't want it to be like we're just running away from our problems, because eventually they'll catch up to us whenever we stop running, you know?"

  "Yeah," he says. "I know."

  "I just wish someone would give me some sort of sign so I know what the right thing to do is."

  "The right thing, Karissa, is whatever you want to do. There's no wrong decision here."

  I want to believe that.

  But it doesn't feel that way.

  "I don't know," I say. "I don't know what I want. I'm happy here, but I just wonder if maybe we'd be happier somewhere else."

  He says nothing to that.

  I don't know what he's thinking.

  I wish he'd be the one to make this decision.

  But he puts it on me, and that's a lot of pressure, because despite what he says, I fear there might be a wrong decision here.

  And knowing me?

  I'd be the one to make it.

  "Hey! Guys!"

  Melody's voice is unmistakable. By the time I look up, she's already right in front of me, dragging a flustered looking Leo along with her, her hand locked in his so tightly he nails dig into his skin. He doesn't put up a fight, but he doesn't seem very enthusiastic about it for some reason.

  "Miss Carmichael," Naz says casually. "Nice to see you again."

  "You, too." She gives him a brief once-over. "Stylin' and profilin' as usual, I see."

  Naz glances down at himself, brow furrowed slightly, like maybe he doesn't know what the hell she means.

  "Hey, Mel," I chime in, to spare him from that conversation. If he asked, she'd probably only confuse him more. "What are you guys up to?"

  "Heading to grab some lunch," she says. "Oh! Why don't you join us? That would be awesome, wouldn't it?"

  I start to decline, as Leo nervously rubs his neck with his free hand, but Naz interjects before anyone else can say anything. "I think that's a wonderful idea."

  Uh… okay.

  Not the response I was expecting, especially after the conversation we'd had about him making friends. He glances at me, raising his eyebrows, awaiting agreement. I shrug, because really, who am I to decline at this point? He's already said yes.

  "Sure," I say. "Where are we going?"

  Melody turns to Leo, smiling proudly, knowing she accomplished one hell of a feat getting Naz to agree. "Where to?"