And she wasn’t finished.
I turned off the lights, checked the locks again, and stood at the window, watching the street like someone might already be out there.
Waiting.
CHAPTER 1
ETHAN-EARLY MAY 2001
Bostonin the summer had a way of forgiving you. In 2001, spring arrived early, warm and bright, like a promise no one thought to question.
The afternoons slipped into the low eighties, sunlight stretching long across the city after months of colorless days. It felt safe then—steady, predictable.
Looking back, that might have been the most extraordinary thing of all. Because nothing that followed that year would ever feel ordinary or safe again.The air went soft after dark, salt drifting in from the harbor, the city loosening its tie like the rest of us. Sleeves rolled up. Jackets abandoned over chairs. Music spilling into the street every time a bar door opened.
It felt like anything was possible then.
The panic of Y2K had come and gone, a false alarm that left us laughing at ourselves, relieved and a little braver.
The new century had finally begun, and 2001 felt like its first clean page—unmarked, unwritten, waiting.
People made plans with confidence, talked about the future like it was guaranteed, like time itself had promised to cooperate. We were ready to write our best chapters yet, certainthe story ahead would only get bigger, brighter, and better. And for once, you wouldn’t be surprised if it did.
We pushed into the bar just after six — Mark first, already laughing, Chris behind him, Beth trailing with that careful half-smile she wore when she wasn’t sure she belonged somewhere yet. Dan held the door.
Sticky floors. Brick walls. Neon beer signs buzzing. The Red Sox game on a tiny TV over the bar with the sound off.
No glowing phone screens. No heads bent over texts.
Just bodies and voices and clinking glasses.
Early 2000s loud.
The band in the corner tuned up — bass humming low enough to feel in your ribs.
I slid onto a barstool ordered my signature Red Bull and vodka and caught myself in the mirror behind the bottles.
For a second, I didn’t recognize the guy staring back.
Chin-length hair, highlighted from too many weekends in the sun and perfected by Franco—the gay colorist in Quincy who convinces me I need foils. Clean collared shirt. Khaki chinos. Vineyard Vines belt paired with leather boat shoes. Glasses that cost more than my first month’s rent.
Teeth perfect (with help from my dentist’s blue light and medical grade whitener.) Skin tan. (My monthly gym membership incudes free tanning bed use.)
An expensive watch catching the light when I lifted my beer. (My ex, Erin insisted when I got my first job out of college that it was a ‘must have’ accessory.)
I looked like someone who belonged in the Seaport.
Like someone who’d always belonged.
Not like the kid who used to change oil in his driveway and count tips to buy groceries.
Ten years in Boston will sand you down like that.
Polish you.
Teach you how to sell the version of yourself people want to buy.
“You look like you’re about to close a deal,” Mark said, nudging me.
