Arik
Chapter Thirty-One
The lights hanging on the Christmas Tree sparkled as snow rested upon its branches. Dozens of people walked through the South Street Seaport as I made my way to Ambrose Hall to meet Byron.
A scent was lingering—a scent so potent it overpowered that of the Balsam. The scent of home, of memories, of warm skin in cotton sheets, of lavender fields in springtime. It was everything I loved dancing together until the notes merged into a solo performance.
My eyes scanned the cobblestone streets, patrons moving in slow motion as I searched the crowd with an insatiable hunger.
It did not drift.
It did not move.
It just stayed.
“Arik!” I heard shouting to my right as my name echoed over the Christmas music playing from a small ice-skating rink just beyond the tree.
My feet dragged the snowy cobblestone as I made my way to the bar where Byron stood, holding the door open for me. To my satisfaction, the scent only grew stronger as the warm air flowed outside.
“How the hell are you?” Byron asked as he gripped my shoulder.
I made my way past him and through the open glass door, the warmth of the bar nipping at my frozen cheeks as my eyes grew accustomed to the dim space. “You know…same old, same old,” I quipped, trying to keep my composure as the scent tightened its hold around me.
Byron held his hand out, guiding me to a rickety, black-lacquered picnic table at the front corner of the bar. Two amber-colored beers sat sweating on the table next to tall beer glasses as they awaited our arrival.
Despite the shoulder-to-shoulder crowd, all I could feel was her—overwhelmed and tired, slightly irritated.
I had heard about this before during my travels and time spent with others like me.
The concept that one day the world would stop spinning and a scent would pull you in like a magnet.
I had held my hand in front of my face to shield my laughter upon first hearing this folklore.
And now…
Now I found myself thousands of miles from my home, in a crowded bar, chasing a scent like a lunatic.
“Thank you for this, old friend,” I said to Byron as he slid an orange envelope across the table and into my hands.
Byron’s voice cut through the chatter of bar patrons as he poured our beers into the respective glasses. “No worries. It’s the least I can do for you and Sam…and Sam Junior, of course,” he quipped. “Sweet kid…such a shame.”
The glimmer of holiday lights that hung above reflected off Byron’s name tag, displaying a name I had not heard him use before. I chuckled. “Wow. Re-naming yourself? How very Madonna of you.”
Byron’s brows stitched together as his head tilted to the right, struggling to understand my joke. Finally, he followed my eyesight until his boisterous laughter filled the air around us.
“Oh, this! Yeah…. It’s been a hundred years. It’s okay to have an Irish name again. Back to my roots!”
I laughed, lifting the beer to my lips as hops and citrus danced across my tongue. “You know, I really am a wine man.” I shrugged as my tongue cleaned the bitter taste from my bottom lip.
Byron leaned back, his eyebrows raising as he spoke. “Well, sometimes you gotta try something new. Makes you appreciate your favorites when you go back to them.”
Without thought, I rolled my eyes at his asinine justification. “Oh, did you come up with that bullshit yourself?”
He laughed, his voice filling the space as he went on and on about his nearly one hundred years of life and all the wisdom he had gained—but all I could hear was her.
Breathing.
Laughing.
My eyes scanned the bar, watching her move through the crowd with a tray of drinks. I rested my fist under my nose, my eyes narrowing.
I could feel Byron examining my expression. He took a sip of his beer and set the heavy glass down, a thud vibrating through the wooden table as he spoke. “I’ve seen that look before.”
I took a deep breath, silence filling the air as I remained locked onto her, physically unable to look away.
Byron’s head swung to the right as he searched the room, attempting to locate the object of my apparent infatuation. He looked at me again, before finally locking his eyes on her—and then he spoke, softly—almost begging. “No. No, Arik.”
He snapped his fingers directly in front of my face, pulling my glare back to him as his head shook. “Please…she’s too young. She’s in college. She thinks she’s in love with this fucking entitled prick.” He paused, his voice lowering. “Her dad is sick…”
My eyes narrowed as I processed his words, my hands balling into fists in my lap. “And? You know what this is. Do you think any of that matters? Stops anything?”
Byron rested his elbows on the table, his thick beard settling atop his steepled fingers. “If you take her now, she will end up resenting you. She won’t have an education, or a career, or a family. She will wonder what her life would have been like…”
He paused as his eyes searched mine for understanding. “You have to trust me on this one.”
Who the fuck does he think he is? Telling me—me—what to do?
I struggled to process his words as they fought the monster in my mind that knew she was mine—instinct and inevitability versus rationale and reality. “You do realize what you are asking of me, correct?”
Byron’s eyes looked down at the table as his eyebrows raised. “Yes. I do know.”
“The feeling of being torn apart slowly, day after day, for as long as we are separated.”
My jaw clenched as I imagined the pain rippling through my body. I was a mere twenty feet from her and already felt the burning deep in my core. My head cocked to the side as a sense of loss shot through my core and began to feast upon me.
“You remember that little problem you had in Boston in the sixties?” I questioned.
Byron lifted his glass to his lips, muttering as he took a sip, “For fucks sake, don’t remind me.”
A smile crept upon my face as my eyes locked in on her once more. She was back behind the bar, pulling a pint for a young man, her eyes sparkling as she laughed. “You owe me one, Byron,” I whispered, my voice low and sinister as his face hardened.
He looked past me, the snowfall behind the window catching his eyes. He turned his head over his shoulder slowly, looking back at her as she placed clear, lime-wedged cocktails upon a table full of rowdy women in athleisure. He sighed.
“Listen…I’ll take care of her, keep an eye on her.”
I tilted my head, my fingers brushing my lips, my voice dripping with a threat. “One day, I will collect.” My eyes locked on Byron’s as he froze. “And you will facilitate.”
Byron nodded, silence hanging between us as I folded the orange envelope and tucked it into the inside pocket of my black wool trench coat.
“Then we are in agreement,” I said, pressing my hands against the table as I stood. My outstretched hand rose before me as I waited for Byron to reciprocate.
He stood and stretched his hand out, meeting mine as we shook, eyes locked.
“This isn’t what I expected from this meeting, ya know. Two old friends grabbing a drink. And now—” He stopped.
I cut in, my whisper doused with a shrillness that made Byron pull his hand back from my grasp. “And now you have asked me to endure the unimaginable, so you must excuse my dissatisfaction at present.”
Byron nodded, his eyes turning back to her once again as he zipped his coat. “I’ve got to get back to Boston tonight…but I’ll be back next week.”
My jaw clenched as I watched him down the last of his beer.
“Arik, she will be fine. I have friends—practically family—here in New York. They’ll keep an eye on her in between my visits.
She’s kind of a shut-in. It won’t be hard.
Apartment, school, here, parents’ house…
” Byron rattled off quickly, as if he was trying to both catch his train in time and appease me.
I nodded. A part of me felt sick leaving her in the hands of strangers, while the other part of me knew that my reputation preceded me, and heads would roll if anything were to happen to her.
Nothing motivates better than fear.
“You ready to get out of here? I…I think it’s time,” Byron asked, his brow low.
I turned toward the bar where she stood, raising my chin as I answered, “You can leave. I need to say goodbye…” My eyes shot to him. “For now.”
Byron’s head hung low as he exited the bar, the frigid winter air brushing the back of my neck as I made my way to the bar. She was rushing between patrons, sliding cocktails and beers across the waxy counter as I took my seat.
I sat quietly, my collar high as my eyes locked onto her.
Finally, she stood before me, a smile across her face as she took a deep breath, as if it were the first time she had breathed all night.
“I like wine, what do you recommend?” I asked, my gaze locking into her as she brushed her sweat-laced hair behind her ear.
“I recommend the merlot,” she quipped as her hand wrapped around the base of a large wine glass that sat stacked on the bar top to her right.
“Merlot it is.” I smiled, keeping my chin low in my collar.
I let my hair fall forward in my face, the waving tendrils still damp from snow. She took a step back and bent forward, disappearing from my gaze momentarily. I found myself leaning forward only to find her under the bar top where the wines were stored.
“Here we go,” she said with a smile as she gripped the cork with her hands and freed it from the grasp of the dark bottle. “Merlot.” She poured, her eyes watching the dark red liquid as it filled the glass between us.
I took the glass in my hand and swirled the liquid, watching the legs elongate as it settled. My eyes met hers as the golden flakes danced just beyond the honey brown that stared back at me.
“Cheers.” I nodded to her before bringing the glass to my lips. She stood silently, glowing under the bar lights as she awaited my reaction to her recommendation.
I licked my lips, looking down at the glass as the flavor consumed me. “Italian…” I raised my eyebrows.
Her lips parted, chin dropping as she spoke. “How did you know?”
“Well,” I said, my tone rising as I leaned into the back of the heavy barstool, “I know my wines.”
I winked as I pressed the glass to my lips again, my eyes studying her. “You know,” I continued as I set the glass between us, “you really know your wine. You should think about getting into the wine business.”
She looked down, a smile creeping across her face before she rested her hands on her hips with amusement. “Oh yeah?”
I felt the corners of my lips turn upward as I contained myself. “Oh, yes. Certainly,” I said with a chuckle.
Her eyes dropped to the counter as she began to wipe the surface with a dish towel, cleaning the spots and spills of the evening as she replied, “Well, I’m studying to be a teacher, so I don’t know about that.”
I finished the last of my wine and set the glass down between us. My hands reached inside the warmth of my coat for my wallet before taking it out and setting a hundred-dollar bill between us.
Her eyes flicked to the large bill before wrapping her fingers around it. “I’ll get your change.”
I held my hand out. “No. No change.”
She stared at the bill in her hand, her eyebrow raising. “Oh…I mean, the glass was only eleven dollars…”
I stopped her, putting my hand in front of me and lowering my voice. “Just promise me you will think about it.”
She stared at me, brows stitched together as she mumbled, “Yeah…I mean…I guess. I can think about it.”
I smiled as I stood from my seat, legs heavy as I pushed the chair in. I turned from the bar, only to stop and turn toward her once again. “Oh.” I rested my hands on the bar top and leaned in. “What is your name?”
Her eyes lit up as she folded the bill into her apron. “Claire.”
Claire.
Every ounce of restraint I had radiated in my body as I spoke. “Very nice to meet you, Claire.” I paused, soaking her in through my gaze. “See you again soon.”
Before she could respond, I turned toward the door and made my way out into the cold once again, allowing my resolve to turn to steel as I settled with the burning sensation that only grew stronger as I walked away.