The Mechanic

FORTY THREE

I hugged myself tight and stared out the window, drinking in the glittering lights of New York city in the middle of the jet black night. For an ordinary person, the view would be breathtaking. Lovely. Refreshing.

But I couldn't see it that way.

New York was the city of ambition and dreams for many. A city where everything seemed possible. A city where you could be anything or anyone you wanted to be.

It was true. The streets had this unexplainable vibe, like you would feel unstoppable. Probably because none of the people here would stop and smell the roses, or glance up at the sky to check how pretty the clouds were.

Everything in this city moved fast. Time, days, bicycles, people, even dogs. Everyone was running after something. Deadlines, cabs, train rides.

The city would swallow you alive if you wouldn't follow its pace.

Just like what happened to me.

Years ago, I went to New York to look for my father, who didn't even recognize me when we met because he was high as hell. That was mainly the reason why New York never appealed to me.

But when I moved here with Harry, I swallowed the bitter memories I had in this city. I was thinking, maybe it was time to let go of those cruel memories. It was time to start over. Time for a clean slate.

But the slate wasn't clean enough to start with. Mine was, but Harry's? He just covered his slate with paint, hoping it would conceal the sketches of his past that he couldn't erase. The paint worked for a short time, but eventually, the unerased sketches slowly surfaced, colliding with the new drawings, the old lines meeting the new lines. The past bumping with the present.

My lips trembled again. My argument with Harry echoed in my ears for the nth time, bringing me this suffocating pain that only pushed my eyes to cry like shit. My eyes already hurt. My temples were pounding. I didn't want to cry anymore.

But here I was, tears streaming down my cheeks.

My phone buzzed on the nightstand. Wiping my tears, I quickly grabbed it, thinking it was Harry. Despite our heated argument, I was still worried for him because he was with Hunter.

The text didn't come from him. It came from Zayn.

I opened his message, wondering what he had to tell me at ten in the evening.

Hi, Jade. Haven't heard from you for a while. Hope things are well. 😊

For unknown reason, his text made me smile a little. I thought he hated me, or was still bitter or something. We agreed to be friends after he practically saved my ass in the bar, but I never talked to him again when Harry saw us together. It was an awkward night. Also, when I left for New York, I didn't get the chance to say goodbye to him. I dropped by at their gallery but only Liam was there. I didn't wait for Zayn anymore because I'd be late for my flight.

After thinking for a few seconds, I finally came up with a decent reply.

Hey. I'm good. How about you? How's the gallery?

I wiped my wet cheeks. Yeah, Jade. You're absolutely good.

I'm fine. Gallery is still alive and kicking. 😎👌

I didn't know what to say anymore, so I just sent him a short That's good

Shitty reply, I know.

I put the phone down. He would definitely not answer.

But it buzzed again.

Facetime? 🙄