Page 32 of Our Last Resort
It wasn’t even a new article. Gabriel had made the ill-fated trip to a sandwich shop just days after the discovery of Annie’s body. He hadn’t shopped for groceries, and in his dazed state didn’t think of the optics.
I kept walking. My legs were shaking.
My boss. Myboss.Reading up on the case, looking up shitty little articles from his work computer.
I quit.
Not even my beloved job was worth another judgmental stare, another meeting with this asshole.
In fact, I was done with bosses altogether. After a childhood of being belittled and blamed by the mothers, I didn’t need anyone looking over my shoulder, searching for mistakes.
I became self-employed.
Day-trading is such a weird job. There’s no service rendered. I still check the news at dawn, make some early trades on the round-the-clock markets. By the time the rest open at nine-thirty, I’m ready.
What does it take to be a day trader? Well, it requires observation. It means understanding what people value, and what they don’t. I don’t have to agree; I just have toknow.
Every morning, I look for opportunities; I pounce. In the afternoon, I go back for another round. The dance stops at 4 p.m., when the markets close. One last go on the round-the-clock markets, then I update my trading journal (yes, keeping a log helps) and read more news.
You can be a day trader and spend two hours a day at your computer. I choose to be the kind who puts in fifteen-hour days, because work makes me feel good. It’s the only activity during which I enjoy taking risks.
Not everyone can make a living day-trading, but I’ve pulled it off. And so I make a very healthy, very comfortable amount of money.
I’ve tried to share with Gabriel. It’s the natural thing to do. But he has always resisted me, in ways big and small. When Ibooked the hotel, I was going to get him his own suite, but that went too far for him.
So I agreed to split one. I worried it would be awkward, sharing space again after so many years, but it’s not. It remains the most normal thing in the world.
I open my book, an Italian novel in translation.
My eyes bounce around the pages. Sentences travel through my brain with the elusiveness of water streaming through a strainer.
I could be wealthier, by the way. But I choose not to. What I do—I enjoy it, but I’m notproudof it. It doesn’t add value to anything but my own brokerage accounts.
So I keep myself in check. I’m careful not to give myself everything I want. In New York, I live in one of those horrific new buildings, the walls a blinding white, the same gray floors in every unit, chrome parts glistening smugly in the kitchen and bathroom. I’d much prefer one of those creaky prewar buildings with a view of Central Park or the Hudson River. But I’m wary of letting myself get too comfortable, toocontent.
Around us, the guests begin to relax. They remove their T-shirts and lie in the sun with something resembling abandon. Adults wander into the water. An employee checks on the various groups, returns with glasses of water and the occasional cocktail and lunch items.
Just the thought of food makes me want to throw up. I’m finding it hard to breathe.
Maybe if I shift my position a bit. I sit at a ninety-degree angle, drop my head.
Is it working?
No.
There’s a bright pinch between my ribs. I try for a deep inhalation that never comes.
When I close my eyes, a nightmare awaits at the back of my eyelids: Gabriel with his hands behind his back, head bowed, the red and blue lights of a police car flashing on his face. Gabrielin a courtroom. Gabriel in an orange jumpsuit. Gabriel behind bars.
The pain travels from my rib cage to the back of my throat. There’s a weight on my shoulders, on my chest.
Think soothing thoughts.
Think about—
Charlie. My dog, my perfect good boy. The smell of his paws, of his belly after a long walk in the heat. This goofy creature, eighty-percent German shepherd, twenty-percent whatever else. He settled into my life with a disconcerting ease, curling up on my couch the minute I brought him home three years ago.Duh,he seemed to say.I’ve been waiting for you.
I. Can’t. Breathe.
