Jean-Paul is home again. I don’t know for how long but I didn’t press him. I’m just content to see him safe. He sleeps now, curled up on his futon in his room.
I found him sitting in the doorway of my building, waiting for me to come home from my shift. I was so relieved to see him that I felt I might almost break down. Yet, he was casual about it, as if it was just another day, as if he hadn't gone missing for nearly two weeks. I wanted to shake him, shake sense into him, but I embraced him instead. I wanted to ask him where he’d been, what he’d been doing, why he ran off again, but I just said, “Hey, kid. I missed you.” I learned long ago not to push JP. He’ll only run farther. The frustration of loving that kid is unbearable sometimes.
I wonder if Bruno went through this kind of anxiety over me when I first came to live with him. I ran back to the street, too, and he had to track me down more than once. I have a whole new respect for that old cop, I can tell you. Loving a wild kid like me had to be hell. I understand it now; it can be a thankless job. It tests your courage, your commitment, your ability to trust. But what can you do? You can’t walk away. You just have to keep standing there with your hand out and your heart open. Like a fool.
