by Ruby Ryan
It's the reason I hadn't told them anything this weekend, and why I'd joked away their questions about what I was doing with my life these days. It would be a mistake to tell them, the same way it'd been a mistake to tell everyone in Boston.
That kind of knowledge changed people.
And so it was easy to rationalize not telling them about the gryphon figurine in my pocket. Another secret added to an ever-increasing pile. And only when I'd decided so did the totem feel less intrusive in my pocket, cooling as if it were no longer on fire.
I floated through the rest of our day like a ghost. A short nap before lunch, then relaxing on the beach. We went to dinner, and everyone was more quiet than normal. That made me suspicious, like they knew I was hiding something from them, so I drowned out my dark thoughts with mixed drinks and became extra loud and boisterous to cover it up.
But even when we boarded our individual flights home the next day, the anger and suspicion still clouded my head. I huddled down in myself on the plane, constantly looking around to make sure nobody was staring in my direction. I had to protect this gryphon carving.
As my plane flew back to Boston, I ordered drink after drink and wished I had something to fight.
9
HARRIET
It was the longest week of my life for two entirely different reasons.
No matter how many polite emails I sent to my Department Head, she (or, more likely, her secretary) never gave me details about the topic of our meeting. And that only served to further confirm my fears about my thesis topic. I tried to ignore the looming meeting and get some work done anyways, but it was tough to find the motivation to work on an outline for a thesis that was soon going to be rejected. And although I spent six hours on Thursday researching potential backup topics, nothing seemed interesting enough to pursue. Nothing that was as good as my bee-elephant proposal.
I was paralyzed while I waited.
And that wasn't even taking Roland into consideration. At first, it was easy to put him out of my mind. He was gone for a week, which made things simple. I couldn't do anything until he returned.
But three days into the week, I couldn't get him out of my head. And I needed something to distract me from my thesis implosion. So I let my curiosity take over and did some good old fashioned snooping.
I did a reverse-lookup on his address, but only found information for a Carter Jackson, which I assumed was his roommate. A Google search for "Roland +boxer +Boston" turned up an 18th century man named Roland Todd, and a few dozen pages for boxer-brief underwear stores in the greater Boston area.
Then I called the bar where the fight had been. The bartender who answered transferred me to someone with a deeper voice and a Russian accent.
"Who's this?" he demanded.
"My name's Harriet, and I'm looking for someone. I hope you can help me. He was a boxer who fought..."
Before I could spit out the night of the fight, the man was barking at me.
"Woah woah woah sweetheart, we don't do nothing like that here. No ma'am. I don't know what anyone else told you, but we're just a bar and restaurant with happy hour drink specials Monday through Thursday."
"No," I said, "wait, listen, I'm not..."
"Never heard of bare-knuckle boxing," he said, and I could hear the worry in his voice. "Isn't that sort of thing illegal? Nope. Nothing like that at my bar..."
"Stop!" I said. "I don't care about any of that. I'm just looking for a guy I met that night. He was one of the..." I stopped short of saying boxer. "Uhh, he was a muscular redhead. Irish, with a thick accent. His first name's Roland."
There was a long pause on the line, and if not for the man's breathing I would have assumed he'd hung up.
"I might know someone who fits that description. Roland Dunphy. Who's he to you?"
Dunphy. I had a full name. Now we were in business.
"I owe him a drink," I said. "He's out of town right now. If you can tell me when he gets back, I'll leave you alone."
The man sighed into the receiver. "How do I know you're not some crazy stalker? Or that you're calling on behalf of some pissed off gambler who wants to break his knee caps?"
Jesus Christ. Break his knee caps? And I thought the boxing itself was violent.
"My name's Harriet Reckmeyer. He told me he was flying to Belize," I offered. "He flew out Saturday morning. I wouldn't know that if I was a stranger, right?"
"If you know all that," he said slowly, "the why don't you know when he's coming back?"
I took a deep breath. "He left in a hurry. I didn't have enough time to ask."
The man on the other end chuckled, and his voice was thick with sexual meaning. "Ahh. I get it now."
I felt myself blush, and was glad he couldn't see me. "Come on, dude. Just tell me."
"Alright, fine. I asked when he could be put back on the... schedule," he said carefully. "He told me he'd be back Saturday around noon, but would need a day before he was ready for... you know."
"Perfect!" I blurted. "Thank you so much!"
He'd already hung up, but I was too happy to care.
Once I had a general landing time, I looked up flights. There were no direct routes from Belize to Boston, and most of the options on Google Maps had connections in Charlotte or Atlanta. There were four flights from those two airports that landed at Logan around noon (11:50, 12:01, 12:05, and 12:10).
Armed with such information, I considered meeting him at the airport for a surprise. If roles were reversed, I'd love for him to do that for me. Grand gestures were always, well, grand. But the flights came in to two different terminals, which meant I had a 50% chance of guessing which was right. And even if I picked the right one, there was no guarantee that I'd actually find him. He wasn't short, but he wasn't tall enough to stick out. He could walk right by me in a crowd and I'd never notice.
All of that was probably for the best. I reminded myself that I'd only just met him, and aside from sharing a steamy sexual experience I hadn't spoken to him for more than a few minutes. Meeting him at the airport was probably coming on too strong.
Be cool, Harriet. Guys liked women who were chill.
Being chill was hard.
Time passed like a Hawaiian lava flow. With my thesis in purgatory until my Department Head meeting, I focused on my other classwork for the rest of the week. Jon and Jason were occupied Friday night, and I wished I had other friends to hang out with.
Saturday morning was the worst. I woke up at 6:00am like a girl on Christmas morning expecting to find a Fisher Price Kitchen Playset under the tree. I went for a jog around campus for the first time all year, just to do something other than wait. I took a longer shower. I listened to an audiobook about Jane Goodall, though I hardly heard the words. I made an early lunch, taking exaggeratedly slow bites out of the sandwich to draw it out.
At exactly 12:00 I pulled out my phone and spent ten minutes writing and re-writing a text to Roland.
HARRIET: Hey there, whenever you get home I'd love to catch up. Let me know if you want to grab drinks. Hope you had a good time!
The words flew away at the speed of light, and then the "Message delivered," notification appeared below the text. I nodded to myself, and started thinking of what to do to distract myself while waiting for his response.
The phone rang immediately. It was him.
"Hello?" I said, trying to sound aloof in spite of the bubbles floating through my stomach.
"What the fuck?" Behind Roland's voice was the din of airport noise. "How did you know when I was landing?"
"I, uhh..."
"Are you watching me?" He demanded. "Are you here right now in the airport?"
"Hey, buddy, it's Harriet," I said. "All I did was send you a text..."
For a moment all I heard was the sound of the airport terminal. "How'd you know when I'd land?"
"You told me last week," I lied. "I didn't mean to freak you out..."
"Shit," he said in a normal tone. "Forget that outburst. It's been a weird week. Y
eah, I'd love to grab a drink."
We agreed on a place and time and said goodbye. I don't know why he'd freaked out, but boy was I glad I didn't pick him up at the airport. The comment that the bar owner made came back to me: break his knee caps. No wonder Roland was so jumpy.
I told myself things would be easier in person.
*
I got to McAllister's Grill ten minutes early. I felt out of place wearing a summer dress in late February, while it was still almost freezing outside, but I didn't have anything else that had the right combination of casual and classy. The waiter led me to a table for two and I ordered a glass of water while I waited.
And waited.
I was the kind of person who was never late. Never. I would rather be an hour early to an event than five minutes late, that's how terrified I was of the debilitating embarrassment of inconveniencing others.
15 minutes passed, then 20. The waiter's polite check-ins became more and more humiliating.
Finally, I saw him come through the door. I stood and waved to get his attention, and he put his head down as he neared. He wore jeans and a T-shirt underneath his coat, instantly making me feel over-dressed, and he barely smiled when he stopped at the table.
"Evening," he said, peeling off his coat and sitting down. No hug, or even the kiss I'd been mentally preparing for. Just bam, here I am.
"Sorry for scaring you this afternoon." I sat down and smoothed out my dress under the table.
"Oh it's fine, I just had a weird instinct." He flashed a polite smile, which made his entire face light up.
But then it was gone, and he was back to looking... I don't know. Bored, or preoccupied. Sweat beaded at his temples like he'd sprinted here, and the flush in his face had nothing to do with the cold.
"Are you okay?" I asked, leaning forward.
"Why wouldn't I be?" he said with more than a little bit of snark. The waiter appeared next to us, and before he could say anything Roland told him, "Two whiskeys, mate."
The waiter nodded and disappeared. I wasn't much of a whiskey drinker--or any hard liquors, for that matter--but I wanted to be cool. Chill. Miss "Go with the flow" Harriet. That's what guys liked, and I didn't want to mess this up.
"How was Belize?"
He looked up at me, blinked, then gave a non-committal wave of his hand. "Was alright. Good time with my college mates."
"Oh?" I waited for him to elaborate, and when he didn't I added, "So you went with friends from college?"
"Yep. Been a decade since I've seen them. Was good to catch up."
"And I'm sure the weather was better than here," I smirked. "It looks like you've gotten some sun. Do you have to put on a lot of sunscreen? I have to re-apply every half hour or I turn as red as a tomato!"
He snorted at that, but didn't answer the question.
The waiter returned with the two shots, placing them in the middle of the table. Roland quickly upended one, slammed the glass back down on the wooden table, then did the same with the other. "I'll take a pint too. Any IPA is fine."
"Oh," the waiter said. "We have Sam Adams Rebel IPA, Sierra Nevada's Torpedo Extra IPA..."
"Any'll do," Roland snapped. The waiter blinked and turned to me.
I stared at the empty shots, feeling hurt. "I'll have a glass of house red."
The waiter nodded and disappeared.
I realized then that I didn't know anything about Roland. A decade since seeing his college friends meant he was in his 30s. I'd assumed he was around my age. And I only knew of his one hobby.
I cleared my throat and put on a new smile. "So. Aside from bare-knuckle boxing, what do you do?"
Roland shrugged one shoulder. "Eh. Not a lot. That's my main hobby."
"No," I clarified, "I mean, what do you do for a living? What'd you go to school for?" I leaned in closer and widened my grin. "Although from what I've seen, you certainly look good enough to make a living boxing."
I meant it as a compliment. Guys liked compliments, especially when it came to sports or their athletic ability. I expected him to talk about boxing, and segue into what else he did for work.
His reaction was not the opposite.
"The fuck's that supposed to mean?" He said, surprise plastered on his face.
"I just..." I began, but his surprise was morphing into anger.
"Why's everyone assume a man has to have something else?" he demanded. "Who says I can't do this and nothing else? Is this not good enough for ya?"
"No! I only meant..."
"Ya know," he said, "that's what I hate about this fucken town. All you geniuses at Harvard and MIT think everyone has to have something bigger. That whatever's on the surface ain't good enough. You have to have a Master's degree, or a Ph.D., or some big industry you're gunna be CEO of."
He reached for his pocket, then flinched, then returned his attention to me.
"So no," he said, gesturing at his chest. "If what you see here ain't good enough, then I'm sorry to be a disappointment to ya." He stared daggers at me, a long gaze that finally made me turn my eyes to the table, and then he nodded as if that's what he'd expected.
"Here's your glass of house red," the waiter said as he placed my drink on the table. "And a Rebel IPA for you, sir." He clapped his hands together. "Have we had enough time to look at the menu, or are drinks fine for now?"
I couldn't pull my eyes from my lap. All I'd wanted was to get to know Roland. That's how dates worked. If he'd only wanted to fuck me and then be an asshole, why'd he even agree to meet me tonight?
This was the only thing I'd had to look forward to all week.
"I'm sorry," I said, and the tremble in my voice made it difficult to say more. I stood and grabbed my coat. "I won't bother you again."
I tried to leave calmly, but after three steps I was fleeing like the restaurant was on fire, tears streaming down my cheeks.
10
ROLAND
"Fucken hell," I muttered as Harriet left.
I'd spent all day preoccupied with the gryphon carving. I got home as fast as I could, locked myself in my room without so much as a "hello" to my roommate Carter, and placed it carefully on the bed.
I stared at it like I was fucken Gollum from Lord of the Rings and it was my precious.
That analogy wasn't far off. The gryphon had a strange power over me, an aura that drew the eye and wouldn't let go. It felt good in my hands, smooth and heavy. I constantly rubbed my thumb over the teardrop ruby set on the beast's neck, admiring every facet.
Then I did some testing. I was a regular scientist that afternoon. Placing the carving on the bed, I backed away from it. Only for a few feet at first, but then farther. The living room. The front door.
And the farther I went? The more it hurt.
Hurt. Actual, physical pain. Like the pressure in the room was building, making my joints and ears ache. And every time I returned to the carving, it subsided.
Before I knew it, it was time to meet Harriet for drinks. I was excited to see her, deep down underneath the overwhelming emotions tied up with the gryphon carving. And as I got ready to go, and shoved the carving in my pocket without thinking, I wondered why I was doing it. Why I needed to take it with me.
Was it all in my head? Was I going bloody mad?
Like a drug addict who insisted he could quit whenever he wanted, I needed to know for myself. I carefully wrapped it in a blue-and-red Linfield Football Club scarf, placed it in my bedside table drawer, and backed away like a hostage leaving a bank.
I was stronger than this. I couldn't let a fucken figurine control my brain.
I got two blocks down the street before the discomfort became true pain. Sharp like a kidney punch, enough to make me hunch over while I strode down the Cambridge street. But I was a stubborn man, and I had the bit between my teeth then, so I trudged along and insisted I was man enough to ignore it.
I got halfway to McAllister's before I had to stop in an alley and vomit.
There wasn't much in my sto
mach since I hadn't eaten all day, but what I had I gave to the brick wall next to a dumpster. Somehow, that only made me feel worse. I waited there, hoping the agony would end, and when it didn't I continued on, half blind with pain.
I barely saw Harriet at the restaurant even though she was two feet in front of me, gorgeous and charming in a cute, awkward way. But I couldn't think about her, because the entire time it was like a thousand needles were stabbing into my skull. I was sweating. I should have just told her I was sick.
And then she'd said the last thing she should have.
I was an asshole, but she'd hit on a touchy subject. What I did for a living. And there we were, at that moment where she'd learn the truth about me and resent me for it, quicker than I'd expected this time, and in my pain I couldn't stop myself from lashing out.
And now I felt like an asshole, because that's what I was.
The waiter still stood there with his mouth open. Unable to bear the agony any longer, I pushed back my chair and rose.
"Sir, will that be all?" he asked.
"Yeah, sure," I said, grabbing a card out of my wallet and tossing it at him. The register was near the front door, and I followed him that way, but when he stopped to ring up my bill I kept going.
"Sir, your card..." he said when I opened the door.
I growled, "I'll get it later," and retreated into the cold night.
Harriet was nowhere to be seen, which was fine because I wasn't after her now. I needed to fix whatever was going on with me and this goddamn carving before I passed out. I gritted my teeth as I headed back to my apartment, and with each step the debilitating pressure in my skull faded.
When I was halfway home I pulled out my cell phone and found a name in my contact list. "Boris."
"Roland?" the manager of the underground bare-knuckle boxing circle answered. "I'm glad you called. I wanted to tell you about a girl, Harriet something. Have you talked to her?"
"God fucken damnit," I growled, "why does everyone know everything about me today?"
