Chapter 36 Dan
DAN
The flight to New York is uneventful, unless you count the baby who cries from takeoff to landing. I think they call that foreshadowing.
I’m too miserable to care.
I land in New York at five and sit in traffic for an hour, trying to get from LaGuardia to Greenpoint. I’m nearly to Jameson and Marcel’s apartment when I tell the Uber driver to pull over.
The shop looks the same as it did when I left two years ago. Eamon gave me a compass on the inside of my biceps for the road. Funny that it brought me back here.
The sidewalk is somewhat crowded for a Sunday evening, people doing their last errands before the new week begins or squeezing in a meal at one of the bistros that line the trendy street. Everywhere I look there are faces, and none of them are looking at me.
I used to love the anonymity of New York. It felt big and crowded and free. I reveled in it, the invisibility. But all I feel right now is the itch to be seen by the one person who may never look at me again.
“Dude!” Eamon says as he shuffles out of the back.
He looks the same, though I’m sure he’s gotten at least a dozen new tattoos since the last time I saw him.
He’s still got plenty of real estate, though designs are starting to creep up his neck and down his knuckles.
He pulls me in for a back-slapping hug. “Long time! How goes it? How’s Drake and the shop? ”
I glance at my watch. Her scrimmage is starting right now. I know she’s in the first lineup. She’s proud to have earned the spot. I should be sitting in the bleachers of the rec center cheering her on. I should be watching the love of my life do what she loves.
I should have known better than to encourage her feelings for me.
I’ve been poison for her from the beginning, and knowing that I’m hurting her right fucking now?
That she’s scanning the crowd for me and that she won’t find me?
It causes an ache deep in my chest that I don’t think anything will ever ease.
All I can do is distract myself from that pain with something else.
“I don’t actually have a whole lot of time,” I say. I texted Marcel that I had to make a stop, but I’ve probably only bought myself an hour at the most before they’re expecting me for dinner. “Can you get me in? I need you to do a quick piece for me.”
“Of course,” Eamon says, leading me back to his booth. “What have you got in mind?”
When I sit down in the chair, ready to feel every single press of the needle, I crack and pull out my phone. The scrimmage is well underway now. There’s no chance a message from me could distract her, so tap out a text. I can’t tell if sending it makes me more or less of a coward.
Then I put my phone down and suppress the urge to ask Eamon to press harder.