Chapter 35 Dylan #2
He has the driver drop us off at an Irish pub that I used to come to a lot when I was in my early twenties.
Miles has never been here before. It’s a dive bar—definitely not the kind of place he would willingly go to.
He’s probably never even set foot on Fairfax Boulevard south of Sunset before.
He looks so out of place here in his Zegna wool-silk-blend suit and double-breasted Burberry trench coat. I almost feel bad for him. Almost.
“You seriously want to have a drink here?”
“Oh sure. I read a great review of this place in Zagat.”
“Really?”
“No,” he grumbles. “Not really. I thought you liked this place.”
“I do. I mean, I did.”
He huffs. “Would you like to go somewhere else, Grumpypants Magee?”
“No, this is great, Snooty Huffypants. I just don’t think you’ll like it.”
“Well, it’s not about me right now.”
He winces at the loud rootsy indie music and all the dudes in baggy jeans and baseball caps.
I can tell by the expression on his face that he regrets coming here as soon as we walk in.
But I’m still so stunned that he just said the words “it’s not about me,” I can’t revel in his discomfort.
He takes note of the small tables and heads for a seat at the bar.
There’s no place for him to hang his coat.
He curses under his breath and orders six shots of their most expensive whiskey.
I have one shot, and that’s it. I need to keep my wits about me so I don’t get into a public brawl right before I’m about to shoot a movie. But honestly, even sober, I just want to punch this person.
He doesn’t say a word to me until he’s finished his third shot. “I mean, who even are these people? Look at them. People trying to meet people. People trying to go home with people. I mean, is this what you want?”
“No.”
“It’s not what I want either.”
“So why are we here?”
“Because I’m sorry. Okay? I’m sorry I was a dick to you.”
“Which time?”
“The time at Thanksgiving.”
“Which time at Thanksgiving?”
He waves at me dismissively. “You know what…” He polishes off another shot and is about to say something, but we’re interrupted by a couple of girls who ask for selfies with me.
I hate to say no to fans, and I know Scarlett isn’t even on social media, but I don’t want these girls to post pics of me smiling just in case Scarlett sees them.
I tell them I’m feeling shy tonight and ask if I can sign autographs for them instead.
I do little doodles of shamrocks and leprechauns on napkins for them.
They ask if they can buy us drinks, but I tell them my brother is in mourning for his soul and isn’t good company right now.
I buy drinks for them, and then they politely back off.
“I still have soul,” he mutters. He has now had five shots of whiskey and can barely hold his head up straight.
“No. You might still have a soul, but you’ve never had soul.”
“That’s what I meant.” He shakes his head, aggressively combs his fingers through his dark wavy hair. “Why are you here again, man?”
“Uhhh, because you brought me here.”
“No. I mean why are you here? Emotionally. Relationship…ly. How did this happen again? Don’t you even get how lucky you are? Or were anyway.”
“Because I had Scarlett?”
“Yeah. That. But even before that. Since you were a scrawny kid.” He reaches over to put his hand on my chest. It’s very aggressive and weird and awkward, but I don’t move away because it also might be the most affectionate move he’s made toward me in years.
Maybe ever. “Because of your fucking heart, man. You’re a fucking…
warrior…of the heart. You’re so brave and open and…
stupid, yes, sometimes, when it comes to love.
But nothing has ever made you afraid of it before.
” He moves his hand away to place it on his own chest—over his double-breasted coat, suit jacket, and button-down shirt.
“It’s the thing I’ve always admired most about you, kid.
Your big fucking brave, beautiful heart.
” He crosses his arms on top of the counter, lowers his head, and rests his forehead against them.
I think he’s mumbling something, but I can’t hear what he’s saying because of the music and the other people’s voices.
And because he’s talking to the fucking wood counter.
When I put my hand on his shoulder, his head springs back up again.
“I mean, even when you’re an idiot about who you fall for.
At least you’re always willing…to fall. It’s that willingness, man.
I see it in my daughter too. Not about love, about performing.
Y’know?” He shakes his head. “She’s so bad, man. ”
“I know.”
“So bad. But even when she doesn’t get a part that she wants, she still gets back out there and tries again.
” He picks up one of the shot glasses in front of him and knocks it back.
It’s empty. He tries to lick around the inside of it and then holds it up, trying to get the bartender’s attention.
“Hey! Barkeep! Another shot for the joli garcon and two for his best-looking brother. Moi.” I signal to the bartender to cut him off.
“I loved her mother,” he continues. “I really did. I tried to make it work. I really did. But I didn’t try hard enough.
And she found someone who would. And he makes her happy.
And I am happy for her. And I know we were not meant to be.
We were never like Mama and Pops. Y’know? ”
“Yeah. I know.”
“But you…you had someone, for once, who’s actually…
” He holds his hands out in front of himself, knocking over a couple of shot glasses.
“Finally someone who is actually…emotionally…” He pauses.
He either can’t find the word he’s looking for or he’s forgotten what he was saying or that he was saying anything.
“Available?”
“Yes! Emotionally available. For once. I mean, she was your fucking”—he lowers his voice—“therapist. She was your fucking therapist.” He shushes me and then starts talking loudly over the music again.
“But it worked. You made it work anyway. And then you blew it. Why’d you have to blow it, man? Why?”
“I didn’t think I was blowing it.”
“Well, you was. You did. You were in the game, and you threw it away!”
Now it’s my turn to shush him because yeesh. “I didn’t throw it away.”
“Oh yes, you did. Are you fighting for her? I don’t see you fighting for her.”
“She told me not to call her.”
“Since when does that stop you?!”
I shush him again.
He shakes his head again. “I just, I can’t… I can’t let her know how much I like her, not even a little bit.”
“Wait, what? Scarlett? You like Scarlett?”
“No! I mean yeah, I like her for you.”
“You’re talking about someone you like? You like someone? Was Scarlett right?”
He keeps shaking his head, hunched over, staring at the counter. “Yeah. But I can’t tell her. I can’t ask her out. I hardly ever see her.” He doesn’t even look at me when he punches my shoulder. “You had someone. You had something real. Fight for it, man. Fight for her. Like the Irish.”
“Fight like the Irish?”
“Fight like the Irish!”
A Dropkick Murphys song transitions to “I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For” by U2.
Miles gets this faraway look in his bleary eyes, puts his hand on his heart again, and closes his eyes, nodding.
“Yesssssss.” He points to the ceiling. “This… Only to be with you…” He sings. “Sing!” he commands.
“Only to be with you…”
“Yessssss. That.” All of a sudden, he pulls out his wallet, drops a hundred-dollar bill on the counter, and stands up.
I have to hold his arms until he steadies himself.
“Let’s get out of here,” he mumbles, and then he turns to me and stabs at my chest with his index finger.
“You have found what you’re looking for. Right?”
“Right.”
“You’re gonna climb the highest mountains for her, right?”
“Right. I will run through the fields.”
“Only to be with you,” we sing together.
Miles is all wobbly like Bono in the music video, and then he grabs me, musses up my hair, and kisses me on the cheek.
When we get out onto the sidewalk, he takes a deep breath and then says, “Where’s my car?”
“You didn’t drive here. I’ll get us an Uber.”
“Get us two Ubers. I’m going home.”
“Well then, you have to get your own.”
“Fine!” He’s all wobbly again when he reaches into his pocket for his phone. “I’m fine.”
“You okay?”
“I’m fine.” He scrunches up his face, shudders, makes a weird sound at the back of his throat, and then suddenly he’s standing straight and seems almost legit sober. “I’m fine,” he says again. He taps his phone a few times and then points at me. “If you tell anyone about tonight, I will deny it.”
“I’m sure I’ll wake up tomorrow and think it was all a dream.”
He wags his finger at me. “It is all fucking dream. Your life is a fucking dream. Always has been. You have a great life. Don’t throw it away. All right?”
“Okay.”
“All right?”
“Okay.”
“Okay.”
“What about you though? Who’s the lady you can’t ask out?”
He shakes his head for, like, the twentieth time tonight. “Doesn’t matter. I’m too busy with work and Macy anyway.”
“Right.”
“Enh. I’m fine. But you. You’re a fucking mess. When are you gonna get your life together, huh, kid? Jesus.” He stares at his phone. “Shit. I missed a call from Kid Rock.”
And we’re back to our regularly scheduled programming.
But I won’t forget this.
I won’t tell anyone else about tonight.
But I’ll never let Miles forget it.
And I will definitely do whatever it takes only to be with Scarlett.