by Zahra Girard
He takes a step back, mumbling disgust.
“Sorry,” I mutter.
Wait, why am I apologizing? Fuck these guys.
Then, the one to my left reaches out and gingerly places his hand upon my shoulder.
“Are you all right, ma’am?”
I stare at him. I must look so dignified with my face still puffy from crying and droplets of vomit hanging from the edges of my lips.
The middle one speaks.
“Ms. Thomson, we’re here to take you into custody.”
My nerves are like a live thing, clawing around in side my head and causing havoc.
“Who are you?” I stammer.
In unison, federal badges come out and I don’t know if I feel better or worse.
“FBI?” I say. “Why are you here?”
The one to my right scans the road behind us, while the one to my left scans the road in the other direction. The one in the middle speaks.
“Right now, the most important thing is to get you somewhere safe. We’re not the only ones looking for you, and they’re close, too.”
He motions for me to follow, but I don’t move. I stare at the keys in my hand.
“What about the car?”
It’s a dumb question. I know it. But it’s Connors car. And it’s something I can remember him by if he’s actually dead.
“We’ll take care of it. Can we have the keys?”
I start to follow him, meekly, and I give the keys over to one of the other agents. He gets into it and starts it up.
“Be careful with it. It’s Connor’s car. It’s important.”
He loves that car.
The others usher me into the SUV, and I’m compliant. I’m numb. I don’t have any emotion left in me right now.
Doors shut. Engine starts.
We drive away in silence. I stare at the window and realize that, even though I’m not dead, I still don’t know if this is the better outcome.
* * * * *
They take me to a foreboding building, filled with stern-faced people who hardly spare me a glance.
They put me in a windowless room made out of concrete, with a mirror set into the wall that I know goes two ways.
They sit me at a metal table, in a metal chair, and leave me alone.
All alone.
No one says anything. No one asks me how I am. No one tells me what’s going on.
So, I sit, and I wait, and I cycle through every possible scenario in my head.
Connor’s dead. The MacCailins got to him. I’m going to jail for being mixed up in murder. I’ve been framed. Connor’s dead.
I don’t know whether I’m happy or afraid when a woman in a smart, dark suit, with hazel eyes and dark hair and a face that isn’t too unkind opens the door and sits down at the table across from me.
“Is he alive?”
She reaches across the table and takes my hand.
“Ms. Thomson, I’m Agent Richards —”
“Tell me if he’s alive.”
I lean forward. There’s an edge to my voice that surprises me.
“I’m not at liberty to say.”
The way she says it, like she’s doing a post-mortem on this great big mess that’s been the last few days of my life, tells me all I need to know.
I’m not numb anymore.
I’m breaking.
I put my face down on the cold metal table and I sob like every ounce of me is going to flow out through my tear ducts.
It’s messy, it hurts.
It’s love.
Love for a man I’m never going to see again. A man who died to save me.
I’ll never get to tell him thank you. I’ll never feel him hold me, or touch me, or kiss me.
A squeeze on my hand brings me back to the table.
“I know you’ve been through a lot, but I need you to focus. I want to assure you that you’re not under arrest. We are on your side, here. We just need your statement, we need to know what you know, so we can put the people who were trying to hurt you away for good. OK? Can you do that for me? Can you be strong?”
I honestly don’t know.
“I can try.”
I’ll do it for Connor. Whatever they need to know, I’ll tell them. As long as it puts away those pieces of shit MacCailins that tried to ruin my life.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Evelyn
The next few days are a blur that I’d rather forget.
Interrogations, lineups, arrest after arrest, and statement after statement after statement.
Added to all that? The wedding.
There was a moment Karen thought about calling it off due to all the trauma and the fact that Mark took a bullet. Then, Mark told her that the wedding sure as hell was going ahead, because he couldn’t stand the idea of dying without having the honor of being her husband.
It isn’t a rich wedding.
The ceremony is rather small, there’s maybe fifty of us at the church that Mark used to go to when he was a kid.
Afterward, there’s a reception at a nice bar down the street. Again, modest, but romantic. Candlelight, roses, mellow music by Louis Armstrong, Sinatra, Fitzgerald, and the like.
There’s an open bar with a few basic liquors and beer and wine. Nothing extravagant. They’ve both got plenty of debt and neither of them comes from money, but they’re in love and that alone makes it a wonderful night.
Even though I’m a bridesmaid and standing right next to Karen while she trades vows, says ‘I do’, and I even have a place at the table with her and Mark at the reception afterwards, I’m barely in attendance.
Not that I fuck anything up, thankfully.
It’s just that a zombie would’ve made a more attentive bridesmaid than me.
But Karen and Mark both tell me they’re so honored to have me there with them. They know I need this.
“How are you holding up?” Karen whispers.
I start out of my reverie. “I’m fine.”
“You should finish your wine. Relax. I know it’s hard, but just try,” she says.
I realize I’ve been staring into my untouched glass for the last ten minutes. I pick it up and take a sip, not because I want to, but because it seems like I should.
“I’m trying. And I’ll be ok. It’s just a lot, you know?”
Karen nods. She gets it. Heck, she lived through part of it.
“Tomorrow night, Mark and his dad and a couple of his cousins are going out for dinner. Kind of like an induction into being a married man or whatever. I don’t get it — it’s a guy thing. You want to come over? There will be movies and tons of ice cream. The time for dieting is over.”
It sounds tempting. Just having some peace and quiet and someone to be around that’ll listen if I feel like talking could be just what I need. Plus, ice cream.
“I might take you up on that. I’ll call you tomorrow?”
“Sure. Whenever. We can order some takeout and sit around in our sweatpants and awful movies. It’ll be great.”
There’s a clink as a highball glass filled with brown liquor lands on the table in front of me. I stare up at the waiter walking by and reach out, grabbing him by the sleeve.
“Excuse me? I didn’t order this.”
The only reason I’m concerned is I did not see any whiskeys on the menu and I don’t want to end up costing Karen and Mark more money than they’ve already put out.
Karen and I both look to the waiter, who gestures back towards the bar. “Some gentleman ordered it for you. Though it looks like he might’ve left.”
I pick up the glass and give it a sniff.
I recognize that smell.
I sip.
Teeling Vintage Reserve.
He’s here.
“What is it, Evie?” Karen says.
I don’t answer. I leave the glass on the table and I’m on my feet, charging through the crowd to the bar.
The bartender sees me coming from a mile away and he doesn’t look happy to see me. Proba
bly thinks I’m just some drunk about to cause trouble.
“Can I help you?” he says, in a way that he’d rather I go back to my seat.
My fingers are tingling and my mouth is dry. “The man that ordered the Teeling Reserve… where did he go?”
The bartender looks towards the front door and I run off without even saying thanks. Bursting through, I charge out into the cold Boston air.
There’s a lone man in the distance, at least a block away.
I run towards him.
“Connor, wait,” I yell.
He stops and I clear the distance between us in no time.
“We shouldn’t be talking, Whiskey Gal,” he says.
It’s him. I knew it. I felt it.
“Why not?”
“Because it’s not safe. Because it’s not part of the deal I made.”
“What did you do, Connor?”
I can hear the hesitation in his voice when he answers. His words are slow, deliberate. “I went to them, and I told them who I was — though, they already knew, since I’m that good,” he grins. “And I made them a deal. I’d tell them everything I know, I’d give them the MacCailins, I’d turn myself over to them, as long as they protected you. I had to keep you safe.”
We come together. Our hands clasp, our fingers twine. I look into his eyes. And I see it.
“There’s more you’re not telling me,” I say.
“Ah, lass,” he says. After a heavy sigh, he continues. “You’d think taking down a serious criminal organization would be easier. Turns out it’s not. And it means I have to disappear for a while.”
My lip quivers. My heart does, too.
“But I just got you back.”
With one finger, he stills my shaking lip. He kisses me. Gentle, light.
“I couldn’t leave without saying goodbye. I told you I would keep you safe. I have a lot of work and a lot of atoning to do to make that happen. I love you, lass.”
Fingers untwine, hands part, he steps back.
“I love you, Connor,” I whisper to his back as he turns around.
I want to follow him.
I want to chase him down and grab hold of him and make him stay. Having him come back, having him show up only to leave again, it hurts.
It hurts more than thinking he was dead.
I watch him leave. Until he’s just a black speck in the distance.
He’s truly gone.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Evelyn
It turns out pain makes for pretty good writing material.
Not as a journalist — The Boston Times cuts me loose soon after Karen and Mark’s wedding.
They tell me I’m too involved in too much shit, basically. Even though the keep the overall story quiet, seeing as how Greg was on the MacCailin payroll, word still gets out that I was a bad girl and wrapped up in the mob business. Which isn’t a good career move.
At least Greg gets fired, too.
I know the feds will be calling on him, sooner or later.
I get a job in a coffee shop and a part-time gig writing for a small, local paper: the Cambridge Chronicle.
It doesn’t cover the bills, but it makes me happy.
My book covers the bills.
I put my pain into it. It’s about my connection to one of the biggest mafia busts in Boston’s history.
I leave a couple minor details out, like most things Connor and I did in his apartment, because my parents are going to read it, after all.
But the manuscript is juicy enough to get me a pretty big advance.
And it helps me move on.
Life keeps going.
I work hard, I climb a bit higher up the ladder, I start to find happiness.
Most nights I spend revising my manuscript. Most days I sling coffee at a little shop and write about whatever I want for the Cambridge Chronicle.
“You ready?” Tanya, my manger, says as she’s about to open the door of the coffee shop — Serious Java — to the customers who are already lining up outside.
“Course I am,” I reply.
Tanya unlocks the door and moves to take her place behind the register.
Life’s simple, now. But it’s good.
I write about what I want, I make enough to get by, I support my family.
“Morning, Jeff,” I say from behind the espresso machine to our first customer.
He’s a regular. Triple-shot breve latte, every time.
“Morning, Evelyn,” he says.
By the time he hands his money over to Tanya, I’ve already got his drink finished.
Then, the next regular comes in. Espresso Doppio for Richard. Then it’s an iced chai for Mackayla.
Cup after cup goes by in a steady rhythm.
I chat with some of the customers. Simple things, like how their day’s going, or what grade their kid’s in.
My shift ends, and I fold my apron in the back and I head across town to the single-storey offices of the Cambridge Chronicle, which we share with an accounting company consisting of three older men named Mitch, Henry, and Howard.
They’re nice guys.
I settle at my desk, grab my work mail, and start on today’s story. It’s nothing big. Just an update about contract negotiations between the dockworker’s union and a shipping company.
Hours later, my phone buzzes and a little picture of a kinda-cute guy shows up on my home screen with a winky face above it.
His message is short: Drinks later?
Karen made me do this.
Dating. Dating apps. That whole thing.
I’m not a fan. But it helps me move on, too. Even though it’s hard.
Smiling, I reply. Yes. How’s six sound?
Looking forward to it. There’s a place called Galbraith’s downtown. I’ll see you there.
* * * * *
There he is. David.
I recognize him from his profile picture.
Thankfully, it isn’t too inaccurate a likeness. Sure, his hair was a bit thicker, but he’s actually in shape.
And he’s an architect. And a regular, normal, guy. Not a hired killer. His dress shirt, tie, and vest combo is just OK in a very bland sort of way.
Still, I feel nervous even though I’ve done this online dating thing a few times since Connor.
Karen signed me up for it. A few months is long enough time to recover, according to her. Also, the fact that I’ve spent the last seven Friday nights staying in, eating takeout and Ben & Jerry’s, has her worried.
“Evelyn?” He says at first as I approach. “Hi, I’m David.”
“Hi,” I say, and I give him a light hug and feel profoundly awkward.
“You look lovely,” he says as we separate.
He stands up and pulls back a chair for me.
I sit.
“Thank you,” I say.
“I hope you’re ready for a treat. I read about this place in Food Experience magazine. They have a green pea hummus that is supposed to be divine.”
“Oh, is that so?”
I think I like hummus. But with peas?
David seems so excited, like he’s been waiting all day to tell me about this place and talk about his hummus, so I decide to try and keep an open mind.
“Yeah, they grow the peas locally. They’re a heritage variety from England that the chef helped revive. They’re supposed to be Jonathan Swift’s favorite kind of pea.”
“Wow, that’s neat.”
It isn’t.
But I humor him because he seems like a genuinely nice person.
Our server comes and I order a vodka martini and David orders a microbrew and then we go over the menu and I listen as David prattles on about artisanal-this and heritage-that. I try and stay involved in the conversation but, by the end, I just let him order for me because it’s all just so tedious.
He seems to really care about this shit.
Yeah, there’s no chemistry, here. I’ll be looking for the exit before too long.
I finish m
y martini before the food arrives. Then I order another drink.
“Whiskey?” David says, eying my glass.
“Yep,” I say.
“You know, that’ll clash with the tabbouleh on your palate.”
I sip my drink. “Oh well.”
My drink doesn’t go well with the food on our table. But it’s not the only thing clashing tonight.
I knew before I even sat down that David wasn’t the kind of guy for me.
Still, I play nice because he’s so nauseatingly kind.
I talk a bit about myself. About being a journalist. About my family back home. I leave out the bits about Connor, because I don’t want to make David feel inadequate.
I listen to him talk about hi work. About columns and square-footage and arches and biomimicry.
It all feels so… empty. Nothing about him — even his obvious passion for the food and for what he does — excites me.
He pays the bill and we walk together out of the restaurant.
“I had a good time tonight,” he says as our breath fogs in the night air.
“It was nice. Thank you for dinner,” I say.
Then, just like all the others, he leans in.
Just like with all the others, I turn my head and his lips meet my cheek.
He pulls back, confused. “Did I do something wrong? I thought you said you had a good time.”
Just like I do to all the others, I’m going to let him down.
“I did, but I don’t feel any sort of a spark, you know?”
The edges of his lips turn downward, his brow furrows, just the slightest. A nice guy, now a little irritated. Watch out, world. “Spark? Really? You know that’s not what makes a real relationship.”
Condescension is so attractive.
I can tell where this is going to go, and I know I’ve got to de-escalate it a bit. “Look, you’re a great guy, and I am sure you’re going to make some woman really happy someday. But, I’m sorry, I’m just not in a dating kind of place right now.”
He huffs and folds his arms across his chest.
I pat him on the arm. “I had a really good time tonight. Thank you, David.”
Then, I turn and leave, heading the other way down the sidewalk and half expecting to hear him start following me. But he doesn’t.
