15. Darcy
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
darcy
I always assumed that if I ever truly lost my mind, it would feel bigger.
A warning shot from the universe. A lightning strike. Some divine-intervention moment when a voice from the heavens descended specifically to say, Darcy, babe. Maybe don’t.
Instead, it’s St. Patrick’s Day in Boston and I’ve decided to go for a run at eight-thirty in the morning.
Tyler invited me a few days ago, and I made the executive decision that maybe a caloric deficit would offset the disgusting amount of carbs and green beer I’m about to consume today.
Boston doesn’t ease into St. Patrick’s Day…it wakes up consumed by it.
Green bunting hangs from every storefront. Shamrock decals cover bar windows. Somebody two blocks over has draped a massive Irish flag across the front of their brownstone with the kind of commitment usually reserved for social justice movements or championship runs.
Near the park, a man in a full leprechaun costume walks a corgi, both of them carrying it like a badge of honor.
Outside a bar on Tremont, a group of college girls in matching Kiss Me I’m Irish shirts are already several drinks into the day despite the fact that it’s barely sunrise, which at this point feels less like poor decision-making and more like cultural immersion.
I’ve only been in Boston six weeks, but I’m starting to understand what people mean when they say this city does things differently.
My phone buzzes against my armband.
Bex
You better not be at the gym on St Patrick’s Day.
Darcy
Running. Outside. Like livestock.
Bex
That’s actually worse.
Bex
WHY?!
Darcy
The boys invited me to the parade. And the bar after.
Darcy
I’m preemptively managing my choices.
Bex
THE boys (plural)?
Bex
Darcy Elizabeth Reed!
Darcy
It’s a group thing. The whole firehouse goes.
Bex
That’s what they want you to think.
Darcy
They literally march in the parade with the other firehouses and police departments. It’s a civic event.
Bex
Please tell me you’re going…
I turn the block and get hit with a gust of wind strong enough to humble me.
Darcy
Yes.
Bex
Thank god. What are you wearing?
Darcy
Haven’t decided yet.
Bex
Let me guess…something green.
Darcy
Probably.
Bex
Groundbreaking.
I laugh into the cold air and keep running.
Back at the apartment, showered and warm and still a little flushed from my run, I stand in front of my closet having an internal debate over outfit choices that would be embarrassing if witnessed by another human being.
It’s a parade followed by a bar crawl. A group thing. I am not dressing for anyone in particular—I simply happen to own a green cashmere sweater, and today just so happens to be St. Patrick’s Day. Those two facts are entirely unrelated, despite what Bex would undoubtedly argue.
The sweater wins anyway.
I pull on black jeans and my Docs, add the gold hoops that have become permanent fixtures at this point, then shake my hair loose and let it do the wavy thing it defaults to when I stop trying to control it.
Mascara. Lip gloss that technically counts as low effort even though it absolutely does not.
When I step back from the mirror, I look exactly like someone who definitely did not spend the last forty minutes trying to look effortlessly put together.
My phone vibrates.
Tyler
Parade starts at 11:30. We’re in the third block behind Engine 37.
Tyler
We’ll head to The Bell with everybody once we’re done.
Before I can answer, another message comes through.
Mack
Better see you there.
I smile despite myself.
Darcy
Is that your way of making sure I wasn’t planning to ditch you both?
Mack
You wouldn’t dare.
Tyler
She better not disappoint us like that
I blink at the screen, my lower belly doing one very unhelpful little flip.
Darcy
Of course I’ll be there.
Three dots appear almost immediately.
Mack
Good.
A second later—
Tyler
See you soon, Trouble.
Something had shifted. I couldn’t have explained it if I’d tried, but suddenly everything felt a whole lot less hypothetical.
Wait, is this them flirting or am I reaching a new level of delusion?
If this was what happened when they both decided to stop making me guess, I’m so unbelievably screwed.
And in less than an hour, I’d be standing in front of both of them.
I stare at my phone for one more second before grabbing my keys and heading downstairs before my imagination gets there first.
I find a spot near the corner of Columbus just before the parade reaches my block.
The city is already loud before it even starts—music spilling out of bars with their doors propped open despite the cold, green everywhere, the collective energy of a population that has apparently been waiting since February for permission to become unhinged outdoors.
Then the pipes and drums round the corner.
The sound rolls down the street before the musicians do, deep enough that I feel it in my ribs.
People surge toward the curb, cheering as marching bands, veterans, neighborhood organizations, and enough Irish flags to qualify as a second invasion make their way past. The air smells like coffee from the café behind me, something greasy and delicious from a market down the street, and whatever questionable life choices are already happening inside the bars opening early for the day.
I get distracted watching a troop of tiny Irish dancers somehow manage to look both adorable and aggressively competitive before the first firetruck comes into view.
The crowd cheers louder, and a second later I understand why.
Dress blues have absolutely no business looking that good. Brass buttons catch the late-morning sun. White gloves. Polished shoes. Firefighters walking beside the trucks with the easy confidence of people who somehow make ceremonial uniforms look effortless.
More companies follow, the crowd surging and settling around each one until, somewhere in the middle of it all, I finally spot the Station 37 crew.
My eyes find Tyler first. Or maybe he finds me.
Either way, as soon as I spot him, his head turns, his grin is bright enough that I catch it from across the street. He says something to Mack without ever taking his eyes off me and Mack looks over a second later.
He doesn’t smile right away, just finds me in the crowd with that same unwavering look that’s been doing something to my blood pressure—and my vagina—for weeks, equal parts confidence and challenge like he already knows what I’m thinking.
Then, almost as an afterthought, the corner of his mouth tips.
Thousands of people line the parade route and yet somehow they’d found me.
I lift my chin in their direction and smile. The older woman beside me following my gaze and smiles knowingly enough that I briefly consider moving cities again.
By the time the parade breaks formation, the sidewalks have dissolved into disarray. Families spill into the streets, kids weaving between adults with tiny Irish flags, everyone trying to decide whether they’re headed home or straight to the nearest bar.
I’m waiting near the corner when I hear Tyler before I see him.
“Look who made it out to their first St. Paddy’s Day in Boston.”
He appears through the crowd with Mack a step behind him, wrapping me in a quick hug that smells faintly of aftershave and cold air.
I laugh.
“Told you I’d come.”
“I know.” His grin doesn’t falter. “Still nice seeing it.”
My pulse thumps at that.
“Knew you would.”
Mack’s gaze slides over me as he says it, unhurried enough that my suddenly very self-conscious brain starts wondering exactly what he’s looking at before his eyes settle back on mine.
“Green suits you.”
Before I can think of anything coherent to say, a couple in their early sixties catches up behind them.
They look like the kind of people who’ve spent their whole lives in Boston and are exactly where they’re supposed to be.
The woman notices me first. She’s shorter than I’d expected, with Tyler’s lighter green eyes, Mack’s dark hair and olive skin, and the unmistakable vibe of someone who misses nothing.
“Mom,” Tyler says. “This is Darcy. She lives on the third floor.”
“Darcy.” She reaches for my hand with both of hers. “Carmela.”
She smiles.
“I’ve heard your name.”
I glance immediately at Tyler.
He’s suddenly very interested in something happening several feet above my head. Beside him, Mack has apparently decided silence is the safer option.
“Good things, I hope?” I ask.
Carmela’s smile only deepens.
“Interesting things.”
She gives my hand a warm, deliberate squeeze before letting go, the kind of gesture that somehow feels like it means something without making a production of it.
Their father steps forward and extends his hand.
“Jim.”
His handshake is easy and welcoming, the kind that makes me feel like I’ve accidentally wandered into someone’s backyard barbecue and been handed a drink before I could object.
He asks how I’m settling into the neighborhood, and I manage to string together a few coherent sentences about the South End while Tyler and Mack drift into easy conversation with him about the parade, who they’d seen from other fire stations, and whether someone named Trick had managed to behave himself this year.
“Does he ever?” Tyler says.
Jim nods like he’d expected that answer.
“Figured.”
“Oh, leave the poor boy alone,” Carmela says, though she’s smiling as she reaches up to straighten Tyler’s collar where it’d folded over beneath his jacket.
“You’ve had all morning to tell me about this,” Tyler protests.
“I’ve had all morning to watch you ignore it.”
“It looked fine.”
“To who?”
“To me.”
“Well, there’s your first mistake.”
Jim laughs into a shake of his head while Tyler sighs with the long-practiced resignation of someone who’s learned this argument is unwinnable. Her attention then shifts to Mack next, brushing an invisible piece of lint from the front of his jacket.
He doesn’t even look down.
“Ma.”
“What?”
“There’s nothing there.”
“There was.”
He lets out the smallest breath through his nose—the closest thing I’ve ever seen him come to rolling his eyes—and stands in place while she smooths his lapel anyway.
Neither of them seems really bothered by it. I don’t know why that gets me.
“Nice meeting you, Darcy,” Carmela says before her and Jim disappear back into the crowd.
Tyler turns beside me.
“She liked you.”
I side-eye him.
“She looked like she had me profiled in under thirty seconds.”
“She probably did.”
“That’s…a terrifying skill.”
Mack snorts.
“That’s an Italian mother.”