Chapter 2
The Walk Back
Gavin
Kathleen Murphy made the best soda bread in Boston, and she'd fight anyone who said otherwise.
"You're too skinny," she announced the second I walked through her door, same as she had every Thursday morning for as long as I could remember.
Never mind that I was six-two and in better shape at thirty-five than I'd been at twenty-five.
In Mrs. Murphy's world, everyone was too skinny and needed feeding.
"I had breakfast, Mrs. Murphy."
"Coffee isn't breakfast, Gavin Michael." She was already shuffling toward the kitchen, her orthopedic shoes squeaking against the linoleum. "Sit. I just pulled a loaf out of the oven."
I sat. This was not a woman you argued with. Not if you valued your life.
Her small kitchen smelled like butter and warmth, exactly the way I remembered from when Joey and I were teenagers, tearing through this house like we owned it.
Before college and grad school. Before I became the kind of person who had a corner office and wore suits that cost more than my mother's monthly rent used to be.
"How's the hip?" I asked as she set a plate in front of me—thick slices of bread still steaming, butter melting into golden pools.
"Same as last week. Old." She lowered herself into the chair across from me with a wince she tried to hide. "Joey called yesterday. Says he's coming home for Christmas this year."
"I know. We have a bet going, so this time I think he’ll actually come!"
"We'll see. He said that last year too." She waved a dismissive hand. "How's Charisse? You haven't brought her to see me in years."
I chuckled, the corners of my mouth lifting despite myself.
"Weeks, Mrs. Murphy. Not years." Her familiar fussing wrapped around me like a well-worn sweater.
"I'll bring her by soon, I promise. She's thriving—straight A's last quarter. Started piano lessons too, though we are working on her practice consistency when she’s at her mom’s. "
Kathleen's throat produced a sound somewhere between a snort and a hum.
She'd made her opinion of Rebecca clear years ago, after that first disastrous dinner.
I still remembered Rebecca's manicured finger tapping the china cabinet, her voice carrying that faint note of condescension: "Is this a real antique or just..
. old?" Then she'd spent the rest of the meal with her face illuminated by her phone screen while Kathleen's attempts at conversation withered on the vine.
"Mark my words," Kathleen had muttered while Rebecca was in the bathroom, "that woman's handbag costs more than her heart is worth. "
I’d thought she’d just been nervous and embarrassed by her rude comment. Turned out Kathleen had been right.
"Not surprising." Pretty sure I heard her mumble something about Rebecca riding a donkey to hell. "You eating enough?" She asked, watching me take a bite.
"Yes, ma'am."
"Sleeping?"
"Enough."
"Dating?"
I nearly choked on the bread. "Mrs. Murphy—"
"All work and no ladies makes Gavin a boring guy." She pinned me with the look that had made me and Joey confess to every broken window and stolen cookie. "Charisse is ten now. She's got her own life, her friends, her activities. You can't hide behind being a father forever."
I gave her a wry smile, the kind that tugged at just one corner of my mouth. "I don't think that's the phrase, Mrs. Murphy," I said, brushing a few crumbs from the worn Formica tabletop, my fingers lingering on its familiar surface, smooth from decades of elbows and conversations.
"Bah. When you get to my age, you pick your own phrases. Point is, Charisse is ten now. She's got her own life, her friends, her activities. You can't hide behind being a father forever."
"I'm not hiding."
"No?" She raised an eyebrow. "When's the last time you went on a date? And I don't mean those stuffy work dinners where everyone's trying to impress each other."
I couldn't remember. Didn't want to.
"Thought so." She reached across the table and patted my hand. "You're a good man, Gavin. Better than that woman deserved. But you can't punish yourself forever for her mistakes."
"Mrs. Murphy, I'm not punishing myself."
"Then what do you call eight years of nothing?"
"Focused. Busy. Being a dad. Loving my kid."
She reached across the table and squeezed my hand, her paper-thin skin warm against mine.
"I want you to stop being so scared, Gavin Michael," she said, her voice soft but unflinching.
"That woman left you holding a two-year-old and a broken heart. But the only thing those walls you’ve built are good at is keeping the light out. "
We talked for another twenty minutes—about her garden, about the neighborhood changing, about when Charisse and I would come over for dinner. Normal things. Easy things. The kind of conversation that felt like breathing after a week of long days.
"You're a good boy," Kathleen said as I stood to leave, reaching up to pat my cheek like I was still fifteen. "I could use some more babies running around, you know."
"I’ll get right on top of that, Mrs. Murphy."
Her eyes crinkled with mischief. "That's exactly what I'm telling you to do, young man!" She cackled at her own joke, shoulders shaking with delight.
The trip to the Financial District usually took about thirty minutes if I took public transit. Efficient. Direct. But it was a beautiful day today, and anyone who’s lived in Boston knows beautiful days mean walking and spending as long as possible outside.
So, I took the long way, and did it on foot. Past the old barbershop where Mr. Petrillo still cut hair the same way he had since the eighties. Past the corner store with the faded lottery sign. Past the yoga studio that used to be a boxing gym where Joey and I had learned to throw a punch.
Past The Grind, with its ever-changing window displays — autumn leaves drifting across the glass, snowflakes in winter, beach scenes in summer, and now tulips in spring.
I told myself I was just walking. Getting exercise. Seeing how the old neighborhood was changing. Perfectly reasonable explanations that had nothing to do with the brunette I'd gone in to meet the day before.
Except they were lies. All of them.
Through the window I could see her behind the counter, moving with the grace of a dancer — pulling shots, steaming milk, smiling at customers.
The place was slammed. She looked tired but happy.
She was in her element. She was beautiful in a way that had nothing to do with makeup or a facade of polished perfection.
I should go in. I had a reason to now, even a flimsy one. I could get a coffee. Say hello. See if yesterday was real or if I'd imagined the whole thing.
I should keep walking. I had a meeting soon and planned to review in preparation. I also had a project manager who'd already called twice about material delays on the Kendall Square development.
My phone rang. I answered without looking, still watching her through the glass.
"Gavin, where are you?" My assistant Gillian, always efficient, always slightly exasperated with my tendency to walk instead of taking cars. "You have a full day ahead."
"I'm walking back from Southie. Twenty minutes or so out."
"You're never late."
"I'm not late. I'm early for being on time."
"That doesn't even make sense—"
She was so busy she never even lifted her head my way—moving between the counter and the machine, saying something to her barista, laughing at whatever he said back. She had no idea I was standing there on the sidewalk like a besotted idiot.
I'd seen beautiful women before. Dated them. Married one, though that felt like a lifetime ago. But something about her—the way she moved, the way she laughed, the way she was completely in her element and completely unaware of it—made me forget everything else.
She stood apart from the women who populated my professional world.
Where they wore tailored blazers and statement jewelry, she wore a faded t-shirt with her coffee shop's logo stretched across it.
Her jeans had that soft look of denim washed a hundred times, and her dark hair was caught in a hasty ponytail, wisps escaping at her temples.
There was something disarming about her. She had the kind of beauty that made you think you'd never before realized what beauty even meant. I wanted to go back in. I knew it standing there on that sidewalk watching her not notice me.
"Gavin? Gavin, are you there?"
My phone was still at my ear. Right. Gillian. The meeting.
"Yeah. I'm here. On my way."
I forced myself to keep walking.
"Is everything okay?" Gillian asked, a note of concern creeping into her professional tone.
"Fine. Everything's fine."
Liar.
The rest of the walk passed in a blur. The Financial District was already buzzing.
My building was a 1920s beauty—limestone facade with Art Deco details that most people rushed past without noticing.
It had the kind of craftsmanship you couldn't replicate today, even with an unlimited budget.
I loved buildings like it, the way history sat in every cornerstone.
My best designs happened when I could weave that kind of character into something new—letting the past inform the present instead of erasing it.
"Mr. Byrne," Gillian was waiting by the elevator, tablet in hand. She was in her late forties, close to six feet tall, and had the stern professional demeanor that sometimes had me thinking back to all the times I’d gotten in trouble as a kid.
"Your nine-thirty is in the conference room.
The Kendall Square delay is being addressed. And your ex-wife called."
Of course she did.
"What did Rebecca want?"
"She didn't say. Just asked you to call her back.
Something about this weekend's schedule and you not answering her calls or text messages.
" Gillian's lips pressed into a thin line, her eyebrow arching just enough to communicate volumes.
After five years as my assistant, she'd perfected the art of professional disapproval that told me I'd just complicated her already overflowing to-do list.
I nodded, stepping into the elevator. "Give me five minutes, then send them in." My office was on the twentieth floor, with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city. Million-dollar view. Custom desk. Original art on the walls that cost more than my first car. All the trappings of success.
I sat down and stared at my phone. I should call Rebecca.
Should review the plans for the meeting.
Should focus on the dozen things demanding my attention.
Just as my mind strayed to the woman in the cafe, my phone buzzed.
Rebecca: Need to talk about this weekend.
Charisse can't come. David's taking me to the Cape. You'll need to keep her.
I read it twice, anger simmering under my skin. Just like Rebecca to assume I had no plans. To treat our custody agreement like a suggestion rather than a legal document. To not even care about how much it hurts her daughter when she bails.
But the truth was, I preferred having Charisse with me, anyway.
The thought of my daughter being sidelined for Rebecca's weekend with David made my jaw clench.
Let Rebecca play happy couple at the Cape.
I'd be the one our little girl can always rely on when plans changed, the one constant in her life.
I typed back: Fine. I'll pick her up on Friday after school.
Three dots appeared, then disappeared. Then: Thanks. I'll let her know.
No apology. No acknowledgment that she was, once again, changing plans at the last minute.
I set the phone down harder than necessary.
Gillian knocked and opened the door simultaneously—her signature move. "They're ready for you."
"Thanks. I'll be right there."
After she left, I sat there for another minute, staring out at the city before me.
My conversation with Mrs. Murphy ran through my head on repeat.
I couldn't remember when I’d last been on a date or felt something for someone—when I’d last had fun.
Everything in my life was structured, planned, and controlled.
Work. Charisse. Maintaining a civil relationship with Rebecca.
Making sure I was the responsible one, the reliable one, the one who had his shit together—not rocking the boat because it’s always Charisse who pays the price.
I exhaled slowly, pushed back from my desk, and adjusted my tie before gathering the blueprints. For now, it was back to work, but my thoughts lingered on dark hair, intense eyes, and a smile that could light up even the darkest of days.