After one month of this hell, Jordan finally took Ferrara up on his offer and let him pay for the services of a therapist.
He deeply regretted it after the very first session. He didn’t want to talk about his feelings. He didn’t want to talk about Damiano. He didn’t need a therapist to know how messed-up the whole thing was. He wasn’t an idiot.
But at least the therapist had given him a prescription for sleeping pills to turn his brain off and finally get some sleep. He hated how the pills made him feel: groggy, weak, and somehow even more anxious, but they were the only solution for his insomnia. Jordan tried not to use them too often, not wanting to become dependent on yet another thing, but sometimes it was necessary.
Thankfully, there was some good news too. His landlord offered him an apartment on the third floor once he heard of Jordan’s inability to use elevators. The apartment was twice as large as his old one, which hadn’t been small either, but to his surprise, his landlord didn’t charge him more. Maybe he felt sorry for him. Either way, Jordan decided not to look a gift horse in the mouth. This building was really good, and he had been dreading the necessity of looking for another apartment on a lower floor. It was good to see some things going his way for once.
But his good mood after the move didn’t last. The new apartment was completely unfamiliar (unsafe) and only made his discomfort and anxiety worse. He couldn’t stay inside it for a long time, the walls closing in on him no matter how spacious the rooms were. That was how Jordan ended up spending a lot of time outside. He started going for long walks in the evening after work. It made breathing a little easier. And it helped him sleep, a little.
Jordan was walking home through the park that evening when some drunks decided that they had nothing better to do than bother him.
At first Jordan ignored them. He knew the type: a bunch of frat boys, high on alcohol, weed, and their own self-importance, just messing around on a Friday evening, trying to get some tail. If he ignored them and continued walking, they’d leave him alone.
Except they didn’t leave him alone.
“You think you’re too good for us or something?” one of them growled, grabbing his shoulder and forcing him to stop.
Jordan sighed inwardly. He wasn’t worried. He could handle himself against three drunks. But he really didn’t feel like breaking his knuckles against those dickheads’ jaws.
But before he could do anything, two burly men in dark clothes materialized seemingly out of nowhere. “Get lost,” one of them said, staring the drunks down. He let his jacket fall open, revealing a gun in his holster.
“Okaaay, dude, whatever,” the frat boy said, letting go of Jordan and stepping back. His friends dragged him away.
Jordan frowned and turned back to the men who’d come to his aid, but they weren’t there anymore. Jordan stared at the empty space they had just been in, his stomach tightening and his heart beating faster.
No.
Surely not.
He wouldn’t do that.
But those men… they seemed like professionals. Normal people wouldn’t slip back into the shadows after helping out someone. They’d say something, wait for thanks. Not just disappear.
Jordan looked around, but the park was dark and quiet. If there were people watching him—following him—they were very, very good.
If.
He could be wrong.
His pulse beating fast in his throat, Jordan continued walking. He couldn’t see or hear people following him. Everything seemed normal.
After a while, he started feeling ridiculous. Maybe he’d imagined the weirdness. Maybe he’d been saved by passersby.
And maybe pigs flew.
Think, Gates, he told himself, pushing his messy emotions into a box. What are the chances of two random men with guns materializing out of nowhere when you need help and then disappearing as soon as you turn around? Extremely slim.
All right.
He could test it. Every theory should be tested.
Jordan considered his options. The test shouldn’t be done with the same variables. If there were people following him around, he couldn’t let them know that he was aware of it.
So he strolled forward, without looking around. He pulled his phone out and started browsing his messages, pretending to be completely unaware of his surroundings.
He was a block away from his apartment when he decided to act.
Pretending to be engrossed in his phone, he stopped in the middle of the street just as a car came around the corner. The car was coming with too much speed, and the driver honked frantically, but Jordan pretended to be too distracted to hear. Come on, come on, come on.
Just as he was about to give up—no test was worth his life—someone grabbed his arm and yanked him back.