I glanced at the ocean. “Bar Harbor, remember?”
“Last I heard, you were still in Nashville,” he grumbled.
That was more than two months ago.
“It doesn’t matter,” I said. “Because yeah of course I can quit. My boss knew I was temporary from the start. I can pack up, leave tomorrow morning, and be home by dinner.”
“Okay.”
My chest felt heavy. “Does Mom know?”
“Would she care?” he asked. “She hasn’t called me in two years. Asking for money that I don’t have.”
“Things are tight for her too, Pop,” I said, always needing to defend her at least a little. It wasn’t easy. She’d made some bad decisions in her life. And the memory of Pop’s grief after she left us was basically imprinted on my brain. But still. She was my mother. She was her own person, and charming as hell, so it was hard to stay pissed at her for too long.
Pop grunted a bit, which was his usual response when I said things like that. “Whatever. Listen, I’m gonna be glad to see you. Real glad.”
I could hear him trying to be casual. I rubbed my forehead, actual guilt in the pit of my stomach now. I knew why Pop had called. Was damn glad he did. But I still didn’t know how I was going to help this situation.
I squashed that concern, though, like I squashed any negative emotions. Life was too short, and much too fun, to dwell on bad shit. Of course I would come. A month back home could be good. I would see Pop, see Mateo and Rafael, hang at The Red Room, drink at my old haunts. It was the most exciting city in the world with some of the most beautiful women. And as long as those beautiful women were fine with my temporary stopover, I’d certainly enjoy myself.
“We’ll figure this out,” I said. “We’re a team, remember?”
We ended our call, and I took one last lingering look at the Atlantic Ocean. Rubbed a hand across my jaw as I glanced back into the shop. Waved a hand at my boss to get his attention. Quitting was easy for me, and I’d done it a hundred times before.
As my mom liked to say, ain’t no shame in wanting your freedom.
4
Max
I set the stand down on my bike and tugged off my helmet, placing it under my arm. I stared up at my second home: The Red Room.
Six buildings down from it was the apartment where Pop still lived. I’d grown up on the third floor—just me and him for half of my childhood.
This block in the East Village was full of shoppers and pedestrians now. I caught a few raised eyebrows at my bike and my leather. But I shrugged it off. This was my home.
Or at least, it had been.
Seven years. Felt like the blink of an eye to me. I’d held down twice as many jobs, lived in ten different towns and cities in eight different states. Now, staring at the dodgy-looking building where Pop had raised me, seven years of homesickness reared its ugly head, just in time to wallop me across the fucking face.
My old apartment looked old. Even The Red Room looked old. Pop never said anything about that, although our phone calls weren’t really long or emotional. That’s why him calling me home meant things were worse than I feared. The man was stubborn and private. He didn’t like to bother people.
And I never thought to ask him anyway.
A moment later, Pop walked out the front of The Red Room, and he was exactly as I’d remembered from seven years ago. There was that feeling again—like a faded bruise that hurt when you pressed on it. Because as I watched him walk toward me, he looked a little more shrunken. Which was weird because I was taller than him by six inches at least, but in my memory, he was a fucking giant.
“Good to see ya, Maxy,” he said as he walked up. He was still bald, still covered in faded tattoos.
“Aw, Pop.” I grinned, pulling him in for a bear hug I knew he’d pretend to hate but secretly appreciate. “It’s been seven years, let me hug you for fuck’s sake.”
“You’re smashin’ my face.”
“Good.” I gave him an extra hard pat on the back before releasing him. He was red-cheeked and surly-looking, but the twinkle in his eye was the one I remembered from being a kid. He was proud of any little thing that I did. Period. “You look real good.”
“Stop bullshitting me,” he grunted, although his mouth tipped up into the tiniest of smiles. “New bike?”
I turned back to my baby, a black-and-red Harley, a gleaming classic ride that brought me more joy than I thought possible. “Ain’t she a beauty?”
“You’ll be making a lot of folks jealous at The Red Room when they see it.”
“Just my style.” I shrugged, tossing him a grin. “So why don’t you take me up to the office before I head home to unpack my stuff? As long as you’ve got the room.”
He nodded, avoided eye contact. “Left your room just like it was.”
My chest pinched the tiniest amount. “Cool. Thanks, Pop.”
He waved a hand, dismissive. “I, uh… didn’t have a chance to organize anything in the office. It’s a little messy.”
I followed along, stepping into the dimly lit cavern of The Red Room. Before Pop started managing this place thirty-five years ago, it had been at the center of the city’s punk and new wave scene, along with venues like CBGB. After he took it over, it stayed true to its roots, rotating through bands both famous and up-and-coming. It looked exactly the same—from the old bar, to the posters on the wall, to the stage set at the perfect height for crowd surfing. There was a band I didn’t recognize setting up and running through a sound check. The immediate blast of chords and guitar twangs and cymbals clashing together was as familiar as a bedtime story.
We made our way up the narrow staircase and into the small office that looked out over the stage through a big window. This office had been my playground, my time-out spot, the place where I did my homework while Pop worked at the big, messy desk. As I stepped into the room and looked around, it was still messy, dusty, and covered in paperwork and old receipts. There was an old, shitty desktop computer. Two giant wall calendars with fraying edges were taped to the wall, Pop’s scratchy handwriting indicating which bands were playing when.
Was this feeling homesickness? Nostalgia? It felt like yearning mixed with sadness. And I didn’t do sad.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Always.” I shrugged, kicked out a chair with my boot, and fell back into it, dropping my bag and helmet on the floor. “Just shocked you haven’t done anything different to the office. I think that stack of papers over there’s been around since I was in tenth grade.”
“I got a system,” he said.
“Yeah, I know.” I grinned, clapping his arm as he sat in the chair across from me. “I’m happy to see you, Pop. I know I meant to get home last year for Christmas, but then things didn’t work out.”
I was halfway across the country, in Colorado, and between the weather and the cost of a holiday ticket, I never pulled the trigger on doing it. Which I figured was fine. Pop’s giant family all lived in Jersey, and he spent his holidays there. He was never alone.
But I wondered if he was ever… lonely.
I’d spent the weekend of Christmas in bed with a beauty named Jessica in a snowed-in cabin in the mountains with a roaring fireplace.