Chapter 7 Mac #2
I held my mother's gift, thinking about her studio. North-facing windows. The wheel in the corner that hummed when it spun. Clay dust on every surface, no matter how much she swept.
Perfection is the outward expression of inner discipline, she'd told me once. I'd been twelve, watching her throw the same bowl for the fifth time because the rim wasn't right.
What if you can't get it perfect? I'd asked.
She'd looked at me with those dark eyes that saw everything. Then you learn what the clay is trying to tell you. Sometimes imperfection is the point.
I'd thought about that a lot in my life. About what happens when you can't tell the difference between a controlled accident and just fucking up.
"Mac?"
Eamon's voice pulled me back. I realized I'd been standing there, staring at the newspaper-wrapped ceramic, not moving.
"Sorry." I tucked the package carefully into my jacket pocket. "I just—my mom will love this."
"When this is over—" He stopped.
I looked up. "When what's over?"
"The threat. I want to bring you back here. To buy your mom something else. Without me scanning exits the whole time."
Future tense. He was thinking about what came after.
"That's a long way off," I said.
"I know." He held my gaze. "But I'm already planning it."
We started walking again, back toward the main arcade where vendors were closing up. The flow of people shifted—workers leaving, last-minute shoppers rushing through, a tour group bottlenecking near the flower stalls.
Eamon moved closer. "Stay with me."
The crowd compressed. Someone's shoulder bag swung into my hip. A teenager on his phone nearly walked through me. The noise levels rose—overlapping conversations, a busker's saxophone, someone's kid having a meltdown about the pig statue.
Then someone bumped me. Hard.
Not a brush. It was a full-body collision from behind that sent me stumbling forward two steps.
"Sorry!" A woman's voice, breathless. "So sorry—these crowds—"
I caught myself on the edge of a vendor's table. Turned.
She was already moving away. Medium height, grey coat, dark hair under a knit cap—one of a dozen similar-looking people in winter clothes, swallowed by the market crowd in seconds.
"You okay?" Eamon's hand landed on my elbow, steadying.
"Yeah. Just—" I straightened. "People not watching where they're going."
Eamon's eyes tracked the direction she'd gone. His jaw ticked. That hypervigilant assessment I'd seen a hundred times this week, trying to sort threat from coincidence.
"Happens," I said. "It's Pike Place at Christmas."
"Right." But his hand stayed on my elbow, and his attention remained sharp on the crowd.
We kept walking. The alley narrowed, brick walls pressing closer. The guitar music had stopped.
The vendor stalls gave way to cafe backs and service doors. Less picturesque. The parts of the market that tourists didn't photograph.
I liked it there.
"She's good?" Eamon asked. "Your mom?"
"At ceramics? She's incredible."
"I meant—" He paused, choosing his words. "With everything. The coming out. The attention."
I thought about my mother at my coming-out press conference, sitting in the third row, hands folded in her lap. So still she could've been carved from stone. Afterward, she'd hugged me—brief, tight, Japanese restraint meeting Irish blood—and said, I'm proud of you.
Four short words. That was it.
"She showed up," I said. "That's what she does. She doesn't... she's not loud about it. Not like Ma. But she's there."
"Sounds like enough."
"Yeah, it is."
We reached the end of the alley. The gum wall loomed ahead—famous for all the wrong reasons, brick covered in layers of chewed gum like diseased modern art. Tourists loved it. I'd always thought it was gross.
Eamon stopped walking. Alone for the first time all day.
Rain beaded on his jacket. One drop caught in his beard. I watched it slide down to his jaw.
He was close enough for me to smell the coffee and rain on him. Close enough to see his pulse in his throat.
An electric charge passed between us, like the moment before lightning strikes, when the air is tight and strange.
Eamon's phone buzzed. He pulled it out. The screen glow made his face shine blue-white. I watched his expression shift—neutral to something more complicated.
"What?" I asked.
He didn't answer.
"Eamon. What is it?"
He turned the phone toward me.
The stalker sent him a message.
Subject wore the blue Columbia hoodie today.
Fourth time this week. Repetition suggests disrupted sleep patterns.
Progressive deterioration documented. The market vendor—the ceramics—good instinct.
Maternal aesthetic influence noted. But the crowd exposure is unacceptable.
Too many variables. Too much stress on the system.
Adjusting the timeline accordingly. —V.K.
P.S. The grey coat fits the season. You didn't even look at my face.
My lungs stopped working.
"Eamon." My voice came out strangled. "The woman. The one who bumped me."
His face went white. Then red. "What woman?"
"In the crowd. Grey coat. She—" The realization hit like ice water. "She said 'sorry' but she wasn't sorry. She wanted to—"
"Touch you." Eamon's voice was flat. Dead. "She wanted contact. And I didn't—" He looked at his hands like they'd betrayed him. "I was standing right there and I didn't—"
"You couldn't have known—"
"That's my job. Knowing." His breath came faster. "Reading the room and seeing threats before they materialize. And instead I was thinking about—" He cut himself off.
About us. About the ceramic shop. About buying me cider.
"They touched you, Mac." His voice broke on my name. "They put their hands on you, and I was standing six feet away scanning the wrong fucking direction."
"She was there. At the ceramic stall. Watching me buy—" My throat closed. "She watched me buy something for my mom and then she—"
"We move now. We don't show them panic. We give them boring. Can you do that?"
Could I? I'd been performing my entire life. Smiling through interviews where they asked if I was sure about being gay, if it was only a phase. Smiling through locker rooms that went quiet when I walked in. Smiling through ex-boyfriends who loved the Instagram stories more than they loved me.
I knew I could perform, even when my hands were trembling.
"Yeah," I managed. "Yeah, I can do that."
"Good." He released my wrist. The loss of contact felt like freefall. "Stay close. We're heading back to the car—normal pace. I'll be scanning, but I need you to keep your eyes forward. Don't look for them. That's my job."
We started walking. Eamon moved like nothing was wrong. Casual. Confident. A guy finishing a market visit with a friend.
I tried to match his energy. Tried to keep my breathing even and my pace calm.
The crowd thickened. Every face could be one of them.
Woman with the shopping bag—too close, turning to look—
Guy checking his phone by the fish counter—
Couple taking photos, camera pointed our direction—
Eamon's hand brushed my spine. Pressure. Direction. Keep moving.
Holiday music blared from somewhere. "Santa Claus Is Coming to Town." Someone laughed.
Ordinary. Everything looked so completely fucking ordinary.
We passed under the arch, back onto the street. The car was two blocks up. Eamon had parked it in a garage—covered and secured. Smart. Professional.
We reached the garage. Took the elevator up instead of the stairs—enclosed space, security cameras, Eamon positioned between me and the doors. His hand had drifted toward his jacket again.
The elevator dinged. Doors slid open.
Our car sat exactly where we'd left it. Nobody nearby. No notes on the windshield. No signs of tampering.
Eamon checked anyway. Walked the perimeter, looked under the chassis, and inspected the door seals. Methodical. Thorough.
I stood there shaking and watched him make sure my car wouldn't explode.
This was my life now.
He unlocked it remotely, opened my door first, and waited until I was inside before circling to the driver's side.
Eamon pulled out his phone and started typing rapidly. Updates to Michael, probably. Threat escalation. New timeline implications. All the tactical language meant someone wanted to hurt me, and we were running out of time to stop them.
"For a second," I said quietly, "I forgot they existed."
Eamon's typing paused.
"That's what makes it dangerous," he said.
"Or human."
He looked at me. The phone screen cast shadows under his eyes, making him look older. Tired.
"You can't afford human right now," he said.
"Neither can you."
Something flickered across his face. Gone before I could read it.
"This isn't about me."
"You're protecting yourself." The words came out flat. True. "From this. From me."
Silence.
"Mac—"
"They see it too. Whatever's happening between us. That's why they're escalating."
More silence. Heavier.
"So we stop." Eamon's voice came out rough. "We stay professional. We keep you alive. That's what matters."
The space between us suddenly widened. No more accidental touches. No more cider in the market. No more moments where Eamon looked at me like I was a person instead of an assignment.
"Yeah," I said. An icy sensation crept up from my gut. "Professional."
I turned to look at him. Rain streaked the windshield between us and the world.
"And after?"
He didn't answer. Started the car instead.
The engine's rumble filled the space where words should have been.