I snuck out a service entrance in the garage instead of taking the Uber that Kieran had called, ignoring the Honda that was clearly waiting at the curb. Instead I walked home, ignoring the pain of the straps of my designer sandals dug into my swollen feet, ignoring the blisters that blossomed on the sides of my heels.
It took me five blocks to be able to walk and see at the same time, and five more to stop ugly-crying completely. I didn't know where exactly I was going, but eventually I found my way back to my apartment, where I tore off the beautiful blue dress and threw on clothes that felt more like me, less like I was playing dress-up and more like I was just Skylar, in all my horrible, imperfect glory.
In my favorite old jeans and a faded Harvard Law T-shirt, I pulled the remaining pins out of the hair and tossed them on my bureau before I twisted my carefully curled locks into a braid. With painful swipes across my cheeks, I removed all of the makeup, scrubbing my freckled skin clear so that it shined, ruddy from the crying and violence of my ministrations.
My eyes were puffy, my skin mottled between red and gray. I looked awful. I looked exactly how I felt.
My eyes caught the mass of shiny mahogany in the corner of my room: the piano from Janette. Its sheen mocked me––such a beautiful gift with such ugly intentions. Since Cape Cod, I'd actually started to play it, started to polish its surface, which was now stacked with sheet music. How could I have been taken in by her again? I was no better than my father.
With a strangled shout, I hurled the nearest, heaviest thing at the piano––a stone paperweight on my desk made of a blue agate geode. In certain lights, it sparkled just like Brandon's eyes when he was happy. When he looked at me with love. But the piano was a stalwart beast that barely retained a scratch; the geode cracked in half and fell to the floor in pieces.
I screamed into my pillow. I gazed around my bedroom, with its bright blue walls exactly the color of Brandon's eyes, the rumpled sheets that would probably still smell of his soap-and-almond scent, the stray pieces of men's extra-large clothing in my closet and in the dresser drawer I'd given him. I couldn't stay in a room I'd designed unwittingly to remind me of the man I'd just betrayed, the man whose heart I'd torn out and, in the process, torn out my own.
Just the thought caused another avalanche of tears. You shouldn't have broken my heart, he'd said, and God, I knew it. My own heart was like the geode, smashed completely, scattered all over Boston.
And worst of all, I'd done it to myself.
I yanked my purse off the back of my desk chair and pulled the leather strap over my chest. I stuffed my wallet into the bag, but decided to leave my phone, already full of messages from Jane, Eric, and Kieran, on my desk. I had to get out of here, yesterday, and I wasn't interested in anyone being able to find me.
I wandered around the streets of the North End for what felt like hours until I came to a nearly deserted diner near the highway, the kind of place that only old-time locals still went to because it was so far off the main streets. Gray and tube-shaped, it was grimy and empty––the only kind of place I deserved to be.
I grabbed a seat on one of the torn vinyl stools at the bar and ordered a coffee from the tired-looking waitress named Faye who had one of the thickest Boston accents I'd ever heard. When I took a drink, I scowled. It was weak and tasted like an ashtray, and I didn't even like coffee in the first place. So I took another sip, and then another.
The small TV above the counter had been turned to a local news station. A clip of Brandon popped onto the screen, and my heart twisted.
A low whistle came from Faye. She was older, with lines down her weathered skin and limp, graying roots showing at the scalp of her bottle-blonde hair. She watched the footage of Brandon on the red carpet with obvious appreciation.
"Could...could you turn it up?" I requested in a voice that still croaked a bit.
The waitress turned to me with a knowing smile. "Gorgeous, ain't he? Local boy too. I'd vote for that smile in a hot second."
She turned up the television to an audible level, and we listened together as the anchor narrated the events of the night:
“In a move that has been rumored for months, Brandon Sterling, CEO of Sterling Ventures and name partner of Sterling Grove law firm, has formally announced his bid for mayor of Boston. The DNC is expected to endorse the local businessman."
The screen cut to a brief clip of Brandon announcing his run to the roomful of reporters at the event I had just fled. My chest contracted. You couldn't tell he had just walked out of the room where I'd broken his heart, where I'd broken us. Every hair was perfectly in place, not a wrinkle, not even a crooked shirt cuff.
But I could see the slip of white paper barely sticking out of his jacket pocket. I could see the distance in his eyes as he made his announcement, and the dulled expression made my heartache even worse. I had done that. I had snuffed out that light in him that shined so brightly.
The anchor droned on.
"Despite an interview yesterday from Miranda Sterling detailing some of the recent troubles in their marriage, Sterling's relationship with his wife seemed to be as affectionate as ever as they appeared together after the announcement."
My face turned hot with fury as the screen cut to another clip of Brandon shaking hands with people in the room while Miranda stood by his side, her arm tucked easily into the crook of his. They looked so natural together, like they had done this time and time again. She was much taller than me, with movie star looks, likely perfected over the years with gentle nudges from a dermatologist, that matched her husband's. Together they glowed.
I wanted to vomit.
"Lucky bitch," the waitress murmured to herself as she watched the clip. She looked to me over her shoulder with a wry, raised eyebrow. "Am I right, or am I right?"
I couldn't speak, so I just nodded and took another sip of the ashy coffee. Lucky bitch indeed.
The anchor continued: "The announcement preceded an additional, surprising twist that Sterling intends to divest fully from both of his businesses in order to avoid any conflicts of interest."
Surprising to them, maybe, but not to me or anyone else close to his life. The clip cut away to pictures of Ray and Susan, who stood next to him with bewildered expressions. I wasn't the only one who was overwhelmed. I wondered how many times Brandon's tendency toward largesse made them feel like this.
The coverage cut to another clip from Brandon's speech, in which he spoke carefully and clearly, his voice radiating confidence and poise:
"If I'm going to do this, I'm going to do it right. I must remove all ethical obstacles in my path, anything that might call into question my dedication to making Boston a better place for everyone. As anyone who knows me will say, when I do something, I give it everything I have. So from this moment forward, I serve the people of Boston, and no one else."
There was a smattering of loud applause, and Brandon flashed the crowd his trademark smile just before the clip cut back to the anchor. She pivoted to another news story, and I turned back to my coffee, my chest hollow and numb.
"You okay, hon? You look like you're having a rough night."
Faye tapped her scraggly fingernails on the stained countertop. There were only a few other people in the diner: an obviously inebriated couple crowding one side of a booth and an off-duty construction worker who looked even more tired than I did.
I sighed and nodded. "I'm fine."
Faye looked like she didn't believe me, but just refilled my coffee cup. "Can I get you somethin' to eat? You look like you could use a bite or two."
In fact, my stomach was growling again, but I couldn't have eaten a thing. I just shook my head and drank my coffee, relishing the bitter, stale taste. I toyed with the silver cuff still hanging around my wrist, more solid than the rest of me felt. I pulled it off and ran my thumb over the gold-embossed inscription:
One man loved the pilgrim soul in you
It was fitting really. I'd looked up the poem it came from so many times that I had it memorized. It was one of the many beautiful pieces of poetry that Yeats had written for Maud Gonne, his decades-long unrequited love. He chased her for almost twenty years, during her marriage to another man, even to the point where eventually he proposed to her daughter just to get to her. It was a mad love, the kind of love that lasted a lifetime.
I'll never stop chasing you, Brandon had once told me. He had given me this bracelet after I'd put him off again and again. The quote, a bit from a poem where Yeats warns Gonne of the regrets she'll have, referred to the uniqueness of his adoration for her. That he saw her as no one else. And that one day, she'd realize it and wish she had acted differently.
I didn't need to wait until I was old to have those regrets. I was completely and utterly filled with them. Now it seemed that the tables had turned. I'd be the one loving Brandon's pilgrim soul. I'd be the one pining for someone else my whole life while he moved on to bigger and better things.
~
The night sky was completely black when I finally shuffled up the stairs of my apartment, well past midnight. I took comfort in the fact that I could continue my wallowing alone. Eric and Jane would be gone, off to bid their farewells at the airport before Jane left for Chicago.
But as my head peeked over the landing of the third floor, I caught sight of a pair of men's black leather shoes and black pants through the weathered wood railing. Momentarily, my heart surged. Brandon.
"There she is. How you doin', Red? Thought you'd never get here."
And just like that, my heart fell to the bottom of my stomach. There was another person who called me that sometimes. The voice, thick with Brooklyn twang, raunchy in its slow, thick-lipped drawl, made my skin crawl.
Three more pairs of feet appeared next to the originals. I looked up. The round, sweaty face of Victor Messina leered over the railing, his half-smile pushing into the layers of fat that surrounded a set of tobacco-stained teeth.
"We been waitin' around here for a while, sweetheart," he greeted me. "Now, now, don't run off, baby girl," he said as I took a few steps back.
He pulled aside his jacket to reveal a paunch that piled over the edge of a handgun tucked into his waistband: a nine-millimeter Glock, the kind I'd seen before, toted by neighborhood gangsters and on homicide specials.
"How-how did you find me?" I asked, my voice unsteady as I gripped the edge of the railing, tensed like a rabbit. Run, a voice inside my head screamed. But the gun was big and black, and I was stuck.
"Oh, it wasn't so hard," Messina said, smacking his thick lips. "You made a mistake, see, challenging Katie like that. She don't like bein' challenged so much. She'll get even with you later."
He chuckled with his henchman, as if they were both sharing some recalled memory of Katie Corleone, one that was almost certainly not appropriate for most people to know about. Every muscle in my body pulled taut.
"She mentioned your man, and imagine my surprise when she told me he'd been on the cover of a magazine last month. And now he's runnin' for mayor?" The gangster clicked his tongue, causing the collection of skin under his jaw to wobble. "Now that's power."
"I'll––I'll call him," I volunteered, my voice tripping over itself. "He'll give you whatever you want, I know he will."
Victor nodded in agreement, and his friends nodded as well, their fat heads bobbing in terrifying unison.
"Oh, I'm sure he will, honey." But his eyes glinted like steel. "Which is why you're gonna come with us, Red."
Maybe it was the look in his beady eyes. Maybe it was the thought of having his ham-shaped fingers on me. Maybe it was the basic realization that if I did go with Victor Messina, I might not ever come back. But my fight-or-flight instinct switched on.
"No," I said.
My feet started to work before my brain did. Moving on pure instinct and adrenaline, I fled down the stairs, ignoring the gunshots that slammed the plaster behind my back. Messina's and his thug's heavy footsteps slammed on the cracked marble stairs, but not as quickly as mine. GET OUT, my brain shouted at me, over and over again.
There it was: the heavy brass door that would lead to my cobbled street, and then to Hanover, to crowds, to police officers, to safety. I sprinted towards it while Messina and his thugs hammered down the last flight of stairs behind me.
Hand outstretched, I almost reached the door.
And then I tripped on a broken tile. And I fell.
"Get her."
Before I could even start to struggle, the last thing I saw was Messina's angry, bloated face stretched into a vengeful smile.
"Got ya, sweetheart," he stated clearly, before slammed the butt of his gun to the back of my head.
Then I saw nothing at all.
~