Well, he must have been telling the truth.
23
Mac
I woke to an overcast, drizzly New York afternoon. Cold. Bleak. People walking the streets quickly, heads down, getting where they needed to go.
I watched them from the window of my apartment in Chelsea. It was a pre-war building, only five stories tall, made of brick and stitched together with a crooked line of fire escapes. The entire top floor was mine. Okay, technically the entire building was mine, but that was where I lived. When searching for an apartment, I hadn’t been able to find one that fit exactly what I had in mind. The only option was to make it myself. So I’d bought the building, hired someone to take care of the landlord bullshit, and set about crafting the upper floor to my desires. These included knocking down all the walls to form one giant apartment and installing everything I could ever want or need in a home. The ceilings were high, two-stories tall, and the windows looked out over Seventh Avenue.
I loved my apartment. It was my kingdom, I its King. But today it just felt empty. My footsteps echoed on the dark hardwood flooring as I walked from room to room, opening doors and peering in on empty bedrooms. I sat in the living room, but immediately got up again. I poured myself a drink at the bar, but then left it, ice melting into the scotch.
I’d gotten into LaGuardia late last night, a little after three AM. All the way to the airport, on the flight, in my private car on the way back to the city, my movements had been goal-oriented. My brain told my body what to do and my mouth what to say and otherwise every thought was silent.
Just one objective repeated over and over again: Get back home.
And I did. My driver, Dan, pulled up in front of my building. I’d gotten out, walked the five flights to the top floor, and closed the door behind me. Then I’d drank two scotch and sodas and passed out on top of my bed, still in my bloody clothes from the rehearsal dinner, and slept until noon.
Upon waking, I found that I could no longer keep the thoughts at bay. They invaded my mind, twisted and accusing, and no matter how hard I tried to beat them off, I was unable to ignore this simple truth: It was all my fault.
There was no denying it, no running from the facts. I’d fucked up. I’d fucked up the wedding. I’d fucked up my friendship with Sam and probably the rest of the Knights. And I’d fucked up with Alice.
I might not have actually had sex with Margot, but she hardly even mattered. The accusation, the revenge for denying her, was just a symptom of the sickness that I’d infected this entire week with. Sam would have believed me if I hadn’t insisted on messing up again and again.
And why? Because I was afraid. I could admit that now. Not for Sam, but for myself. Afraid of being screwed over and left like Sammy Dedric. Afraid of losing all my friends again. Afraid of dying alone like my da.
But there was a world of difference between eighteen and thirty-one, and Sam was a smart man, way smarter than any of the boys back in Ireland. I should have trusted him. I should have seen how happy he was with Beck.
I just hadn’t understood. But I did now. Because now I knew what it felt like to fall in love. I knew the desire to see and touch and hear and smell that somebody, that ‘one’, every hour of every day for the rest of my life. And now that I had a taste for it, I wasn’t sure I could go back. But I also couldn’t move forward. Because Alice was, after this last selfish blow, done with me. If I saw her on the street, she’d walk the other way.
I pressed my forehead to the cool glass and stared down at the light rain starting to hit the pavement. I only had myself to blame, a feeling that was as unfamiliar as it was frustrating. I knew how to deal with others who brought chaos onto my doorstep. But how did I go after myself for screwing over my life, my friends, and my love?
I racked my brain, trying to come up with a way to get Sam’s forgiveness, but I had the unsettling feeling that it was all too late. My prophecy had been self-fulfilling. Now I had to accept the fallout and the blame. Now I—
My phone rang. I checked the caller ID, annoyed my misery was being interrupted. It was my doorman.
“What?” I barked into the phone.
“Your car is here, sir,” Anderson said.
“My car? I didn’t call for a car.”
“The driver said it’s for you.”
“Well tell him to go away.” I slammed the phone down and returned to pacing.
Maybe I should go away too. Get out of the city for a bit. Delegate my work and travel for a while. I had the money. I could go anywhere. Do anything. Though ideas for ‘anywhere’ and ‘anything’ were turning a blank. Try as I might, every time I looked into my mind’s eye, all I saw was Alice and that angry, disappointed look she had the last time I saw her.
I fought the image, but couldn’t conjure any other. So I leaned into it. I remembered Alice. That competitive aggression as she played tennis atrociously, seemingly unembarrassed by it in the slightest. How she’d met my challenge in the steam room, stripping after only a moment of hesitation. And so many moments from our night out in Tuzas — her nose scrunched as she tried scotch, dancing wildly in the rave, her long hair flowing behind her on the back of the motorbike. And then, later, as we took those damn horses down the beach. I could hear her laughter echoing in my ears, the way she looked over her shoulder with wide, brown eyes and her mouth curled at the sight of me. How she’d moaned under my tongue and clutched my chest as I’d pushed my cock inside her. The smell of her — springtime and happiness and laugher and—
The phone rang again. I strode across the room and answered so aggressively the device strained under my grip.
“What.”
“Sir, I’m sorry. The car won’t leave until you come down. The driver is very strange. Should I call the police?”
I stewed, all my pain and frustration boiling to anger. “No. I’ll handle him.”
Good. This was exactly what I needed. Somebody to yell at, maybe to fight if I was lucky. I took the elevator, pacing in the small box like a lion, muttering obscenities.
I strode out of the elevator, stormed past Anderson, and burst out of the door. There was a limo waiting at the corner, every window tinted. I walked around the front to the driver’s side and banged on the glass with my fist.
“Who the fuck sent you?” I demanded.
The window rolled down. Yeah, come on, punk. You won’t leave me alone? I’ll make you leave me alone. I—
“Damn, Mac, take a breath, bud. You look like you’re about to blow a valve.”
My jaw actually dropped. It was Twain. He was grinning and wearing a tux, his wedding tux, along with a chauffeur’s hat tilted at a jaunty angle.
“Twain?” I asked in disbelief for the second time that week. “What the hell are you doing here?”
But he was already rolling up the window. As he disappeared, he jerked his head to indicate behind me. “I’ll let her do the explaining.”
I turned. The limo door was opened and, like out of a dream, there she was. Alice was dressed in her bridesmaid’s dress, light blue, simple, bunched at the waist and falling to her ankles. Her auburn hair was down and loose. And her eyes were apprehensive.
“Mac…” she started.