I continued measuring, photographing, sketching, and Lauren didn’t look up from her phone. Reciting numbers aloud and noisily retracting my tape measure didn’t draw her attention, and when I had more data than necessary, I said, “I’m good. We can probably—”
She whirled around, her hands on her hips and forehead wrinkled. “What’s your middle initial stand for?”
“What?” I heard the question; I really didn’t want to answer it. Lauren stared at me, and somehow this one inquiry was the test. I groaned and crossed my arms over my chest. “Listen. I don’t let this out much but you’re nice. I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.”
“What are you? Eleven?”
“Thirty,” I said. “Now, you first.”
“Olivia. Your turn.” She gestured, urging me to answer.
“Antrim.”
She stepped closer, shaking her head. “What was that?”
“Antrim. My mother, she came here alone from Ireland when she was fifteen, and gave all six of us ridiculous Irish middle names, all starting with A. I got stuck with Antrim. I frequently draw the short straw.”
Lauren nodded, her eyes cast downward at the dingy concrete flooring. She was carrying on a full conversation with herself, complete with raised eyebrows and head shaking.
“So like I said, I’ve got everything I need, and—”
“Don’t you want a night off? Maybe some time away from me?”
My gaze swept over the mill’s interior, as if I’d find something in the empty space to diffuse my exasperation. Why the fuck would she think that?
“No. Definitely not.” I scratched my chin, not wanting to ask the question but knowing it was necessary. “Do you?”
She studied her scarf, the fabric twisting around her fingers and then unfurling. “It’s a thing, a big thing, actually. Tonight. My friends, Amanda and Stephanie, they’re both moving in the next few weeks, and we’re having a party for them. And…” She sighed and tore her eyes away from her scarf. “And you could come. With me, that is. For a drink.”
I didn’t know what to make of meeting her friends when she barely agreed to see me today, and I didn’t know whether drinks meantdrinks, but I knew Lauren was predictably unpredictable. No rational order to be found.
But at least I knew she wasn’t seeing some random guy tonight.
“I think I will come with you.”
*
Fifteen miles ofpavement always did me good, and tonight was no exception. As usual, it tied off my lingering annoyance with Angus over the Bunker Hill properties and other stresses from the week. It helped that Patrick’s ass was parked in a British pub in Cambridge that broadcast his favorite soccer leagues, and not bitching about my route choice.
Back inside my loft, I grabbed a beer before stepping into the shower and spent a few minutes drinking under the water. It would have driven my mother crazy, and if she had lived to see me drinking in the shower, I’m certain she would have taken one of her wooden spoons to my ass because of it.
The places where my mother should have been were everywhere, but it wasn’t the big moments—graduations, birthdays, holidays—that haunted me. It was the everyday moments, when I craved her spaghetti or needed to know the right gift to send for the birth of an old friend’s baby, when I felt it the most.
The thought lodged in my throat, and I choked down the remnants of the beer. I dried off and headed for the den, knowing I owed Erin a response.
Her emails flashed across my phone all day, along with a torrent of calls and texts from Shannon about getting my shit together on the Bunker Hill properties before Angus went postal. Patrick wanted status reports on the brownstones, Sam needed me looking at a foundational decay issue, and Riley was very concerned about getting my take on his Fantasy Football league. All said, I had nineteen missed calls, thirty-two texts, and fifty-one emails from my siblings.
From: Erin Walsh
To: Matthew Walsh
Date: September 25 at 17:03 CEST
Subject: RE: Matt’s mental breakdown
Since you haven’t updated me on chica, I presume you’ve decided to climb Mount Washington together, or swim to Quincy Bay, or whatever you athletic types do, and you’re living happily ever after.
(have I mentioned that I find that bizarre—isn’t life difficult enough without choosing to climb things?)
