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Did he just refer to my daughter as “it”? All the same, I knew I couldn’t face my child right now without her seeing the defeat and utter desperation on my face.
In the end, I didn’t take an hour. I took three.
Walking aimlessly through the city. Weaving in and out of crowds. Disappearing in the mass of human bodies. New York made me feel anonymous and small, and for a fraction of time, I wasn’t Dylan—single mom, waitress, the second, problemchild of Zeta Casablancas—I was just another face. Storiless and enigmatic. Someone who wasn’t invited to an interview across town just to get humiliated. Someone who maybe had her shit together. Someone who could’ve had a degree and a job and maybe even a boyfriend.
At around three thirty, I called Kieran. He answered with his usual greeting of, “Have you changed your mind about marrying me?”
“Kieran…”
He ignored me. “My agent just told me he’s fixing me up with a Hollyoaks actress who was a contestant on The Weakest Link for charity and got kicked out in the first round for thinking Australia had a border with Slovakia and Switzerland. Should I kill myself?”
I sighed, slumping against a building. “Kieran.”
“That’s a yes.”
I said nothing.
“Oh shit, you’re quiet. You’re never quiet.” His tone changed. “I know what this means. Who am I killing?”
I told him about the interview. About my aimless wandering. About how I now knew my place was not in an office doing marketing or an admin job. I wouldn’t be able to handle it. The fakeness. The politics. Spending my entire day in an air-conditioned box just to keep the capitalistic blaze burning.
“I feel so bad for Grav,” I groaned. “She has a clueless mom and a father she’s never met because he’s too much of an asshole to care about her.” The words rushed out of me. “She’s never going to have anyone to fall back on if I don’t pull myself together.”
Thick silence came from the other end of the line before Kieran spoke. “You need a drink.”
“No shit,” I scoffed.
“No, like, you need to restart your brain. You are obviously going through a small panic attack.”
“I knew it,” I cried out. “My skin is breaking out in hives. What do I do, Kieran? I’m five seconds from taking you up on your fake-marriage offer I’m so stressed.”
“First of all, thank you,” he said sarcastically. “Second, there’s a bar not far from your new building. The Alchemist. They make the best cocktails. Listen to me carefully now, Dyl. I want you to go there, order yourself the Roku Koori Negroni with a piece of carrot cake, meditate for a few minutes, and think about what you want to do with your life. Nothing is off the table. Don’t be practical. Be passionate. Even if you think it’s too late. Even if you think it’s too hard. Then call me and let me know what it is, okay?”
“Okay,” I panted. “Okay.”
DYLAN
Iarrived at the Alchemist ten minutes later. It was a trendy bar two blocks down from my apartment. I felt bad for leaving Rhyland with Grav all day. At the same time, I knew they were okay, or he’d have called me.
The bar was full to the brim, crammed with sweaty bodies and grinding couples, most of them clearly out-of-towners. The tang of smoke, sweat, and expensive alcohol crawled into my nostrils. I snagged the only available stool at the bar and ordered Kieran’s fancy drink and carrot cake. He knew this place, which meant he frequented it with my brother, Rhyland, and maybe their friend Tate. I tried not to think about how everyone around me had this glamorous, debauched, in-the-know lifestyle while I’d been stuck in a tiny Maine town serving over-fried eggs and watching Peppa Pig.
The bartender, a woman with a shaved head, two sleeves of tattoos, and a black crop top, slid my cake and drink across a sticky bar. “Enjoy.”
“Is it always so crowded in here?” I looked around. I hadn’t contemplated bar work in New York, but the tips must be through the roof.
“Happy hour.” She grimaced, her jestrum piercing sparkling. “It can get pretty overwhelming at times.” The sheen of sweat making her face gleam confirmed her observation. Her eyes were dull and unfocused.
I instinctively shot out my hand to clasp hers. “Hey, are you okay?”
She nodded. “Yeah.”
I closed my eyes and tried to imagine my perfect career. I remembered Kieran’s advice not to be practical, to be passionate. It came to me like a mirage, with vivid clarity.
Me. In a doctor’s uniform. Making a change.
Ushering an injured child on a gurney. Into a theater.
Performing surgery. Steel hands. Cool-headed.