Chapter 16
Chapter sixteen
Sully
My phone lit up on the kitchen counter at half past ten. It was the building line. I almost let it go to voicemail.
"Mr. O'Reilly," Martin spoke in his formal tone. "Package down here for you. USPS."
"On my way."
I was in sock feet, wearing yesterday's jeans. The quick down and back didn't require changing.
The lobby was quiet; most of the residents were at work or working in their home offices. Martin had the box on the desk beside him. He slid it across without ceremony, told me it had come in about twenty minutes ago.
On the way back up, I read the return address twice. It was simple—Baker, Lexington, Massachusetts. It didn't include a zip code.
Three strips of tape stretched across the top, pressed flat. Cath Baker sealed things tightly, the way my grandmother always wrapped her Christmas presents.
Pratt would already be at the practice facility. His schedule ran in my subconscious.
Back in my condo, I set the box on the counter and didn't open it immediately. I ran my thumb along the tape seam and pressed one corner to test the give.
After starting coffee, I pulled a steak knife from the drawer. The serrated edge gave me a ragged cut, top to bottom. The cardboard gave without resistance.
Inside were sheets of packing paper folded with care. I tore it open and pushed it aside.
The first record was face down.
I'd guessed what it was before I turned it over.
Rumours: Mick Fleetwood in a black and white outfit with a ponytail. Stevie was in motion, draped in chiffon. And those balls hanging between Mick's legs. We had a lot of laughs over those.
Stevie Nicks' signature was still there, bottom right corner. It was in silver marker, slightly smeared. The night we bought it came back in pieces. It was from a merch table immediately after the concert.
Bryan had won backstage access from a local radio station. It was the biggest night of his life, meeting his top musical heroes, and he needed something for them to sign. We met Stevie for about forty-five seconds. She smiled, signed, and moved on to the next person in line.
Bryan's smile nearly broke his face. For the next month, every third conversation included, "—like when we met Stevie Nicks at the concert."
We'd called it joint property because I was the only one with the cash required.
That wasn't accurate. It belonged to Bryan, regardless of who paid. He loved the album first and longest.
A second record sat underneath. It was the self-titled breakthrough Fleetwood Mac album, the one before Rumours.
Bryan bought it for a quarter at a yard sale, and it kicked off his obsession.
We listened to it at his house on his mother's stereo.
We sprawled on the floor and listened from start to finish.
Bryan talked through some songs and went quiet for others.
There was something else in the box. Cath had wrapped it separately. It was a photograph, unframed. The front was glossy, and I looked before I could stop myself.
It was the dorm room, junior year, based on the wall behind us. Cath had taken it herself on move-in day. Bryan and I had our arms around each other's shoulders with broad smiles. We loved our corner of the world, and it loved us back.
Underneath the photo was a note, folded once.
He talked about you all the time. I hope you know that.
I read it again, and I couldn't keep standing. I slid down to the floor with my back against a kitchen cabinet, a note in my hand and face between my knees. It wasn't a collapse, more a surrender to gravity.
I didn't move or cry.
The refrigerator hummed. A pipe somewhere in the building knocked once and quit.
I don't know how much time passed before I stood up to retrieve my phone. I found Tricia in my recent calls list. I didn't know for sure what she could offer, but at least she knew the context.
She picked up on the second ring.
"Sully, please don't tell me you crashed your car."
I stopped for a moment. "Hey. No." I got those out and had to think about where to go from there. "I don't think I'm okay today."
The sentence tumbled out, completely on target.
Her voice softened. She didn't try to offer reassuring words. "Okay. Talk to me."
I didn't tell it straight. I circled it, starting somewhere off to the side.
"I got a package this morning. From Bryan's mom."
"Cath sent you something?"
"Records. His records. And a note."
A pause. "What did the note say?"
I stumbled toward the couch. "That he talked about me all the time."
"Oh, Sully."
"Yeah."
I got to the albums eventually. Then Bryan. The order made little sense, but I got enough words out for Tricia to see the shape of it.
She listened without redirecting. She didn't offer standard consolations. Instead, she just stayed on the line and let me talk.
When I was quiet, she began asking small questions. "Where are you right now?"
"Couch. Living room."
"Comfortable position?"
"Yeah."
"Have you eaten anything today?"
I thought about it. "Not yet. No."
"Okay."
At some point in the conversation, I got up off the couch and walked over to the window. Outside, the city was conducting its business with complete indifference to me. A cab made the turn on LaSalle, and someone walked a golden retriever. It carried a stuffed animal in its mouth.
Tricia was still talking. I'd missed a few words.
"—not saying you need to do anything about it right now. I'm saying you can let yourself feel bad."
"I know."
"Do you?"
I didn't answer.
We stayed on the line a while longer, with no clear direction in our talk. She told me about her kid eating pickled beets, making a face, and then wanting more. I listened with about forty percent of my normal attention, laughing at the correct moments.
Before I hung up, she told me she loved me and that I would be okay. I had to take her word for it.
I set the phone on the counter.
The box was still open on the counter, and the note was in my hand. I read it again.
He talked about you all the time.
On a normal morning, I would have turned music on by now. Most of the time it would be Fleetwood Mac. Once in a while, Steely Dan or Elton John. Disco was for company.
I let the condo remain quiet.
I didn't think about trying to contact Pratt. He had none of the background. I hadn't actually avoided talking about Bryan. The right opening never appeared. Now it felt like I'd have to shove a damn mountain through a keyhole if I wanted to get him up to speed.
As I lay back on the couch, a weight settled over me. It wasn't sharp, no pain in my gut. It tied concrete blocks to my ankles, making it impossible to move.
Half an hour later, I fell asleep.
When I woke, it was already late afternoon, pushing toward evening. I thought about Bryan on the floor of his room listening to that self-titled record—dark hair falling across his forehead, with those near-black eyes fixed on the ceiling, completely absorbed.
I thought about the diner meal: scrambled eggs, wheat toast, and two hours of nothing that turned out to matter.
Call me this week. Yeah, definitely.
I'd spent the last two years in Chicago moving fast enough to not allow the memories to catch up. I was good at it.
I stayed on the couch while the room darkened around me. I hadn't been this still since Boston.
It was worse than I'd thought it would be.
Bryan was gone. I'd had two weeks, and I didn't call. A single gunshot had taken the steadiest person in my life, and I still hadn't found my footing without him.
I needed to move again.
I stood and walked to the kitchen and back. Then I looked out the window. Finally, I turned around. The condo felt smaller.
The box was still on the counter. I knew I should put it away. That would be a reasonable step. I could find a shelf in the closet where it could sit while I figured out what to do with it.
Grabbing my phone, I scrolled to Nora and called. She knew some of the context.
She answered over bar noise: voices stacking on each other and glasses clinking. Carver's was humming at full post-workday volume.
Nora nearly shouted into the phone. "Sully, what's this about?"
I tried to piece together a coherent story, but what came out wasn't that.
"I didn't call him back." It came out rougher than I meant it to. "Two weeks he was trying to reach me, and I kept thinking—there's more time. There's always more time."
"The friend in Boston?"
"I was so angry at him. For a while, I was just furious. I know that's insane." My voice cracked on the last word. "And then his mom sent me his records and a note saying he talked about me all the time, and I don't—" I stopped. "Things with Pratt are—"
I didn't finish that sentence either.
A pause on Nora's end. I heard her speaking to the room: "Tomasz. I need you to cover." There was a brief exchange I couldn't make out. Then back to me, with the bar noise pushed to the background.
"Hey, I've got you. Stay with me."
"I'm fine." That was so wrong I nearly laughed.
"I know you are. Can you get to my place?"
"Nora, you're working—"
"Tomasz is working. I'm asking you a question."
I ran a hand through my hair. "Yeah. I can get there. Wicker Park, right?" I'd never been to Nora's place.
"Yeah, now listen. I'll send it in a text message after we're done talking. You take the Pink Line to Damen, three blocks north, left on Schiller. I'm the green door, 2B." She paused. "Steady enough, or do I need to pick you up?"
She didn't soften the question.
"Yeah," I said. "I'm steady."
"Start moving then. I'll be there when you get there."
She hung up.
I stood in the kitchen for a few seconds and then focused on something simple and immediate. I had one job—get from my place to Nora's. I grabbed my coat off the back of a chair and slipped on my shoes. On my way out the door, I walked past the box on the counter without touching it.
I didn't look back. I pulled the door shut and heard the lock engage.