To Build a Home

33 | New York

"Sorry, I have to go," I had said. I raced to the door before she could say anything else to completely ruin me.

Noah and Anna were in the kitchen when I stepped inside. He had waddled down the hall at the sound of the door and called out my name when he saw it was me. I took him in my arms and hugged him because I knew if I looked at him, at those crystal blue eyes, curious and so much like my father's, I wouldn't have been able to leave. But my brother didn't want me there and I had to honor that. Let life get back to normal around there, as much as it could. I would be the uncle that visits and that would be enough. And he could always crash on my couch when he needed to escape to the city, if he grew up to be anything like me.

So I had kissed him and put him down on the rug in the foyer. I had told him I'd see him soon and that I loved him. Anna came down the hall, confused and concerned. I assured her Darren would explain everything. I went upstairs, packed my things in a hurry, and ordered another carshare to take me to the rental place. I could hear Noah screaming as Anna changed his diaper, crying that he wanted me to do it. I waited at the top of the stairs until the crying had stopped, paying close attention to any sign of the sound of tires outside. But Darren never showed. Noah was in his high chair eating chicken when I had left.

I went back to work a few days later, avoiding my guilt over leaving, and eventually fell into a routine: a long walk to the train through the park in the morning, a full day of work I actually knew how to do, a different takeout restaurant every night. The gallery was busy, gearing up for a fall lineup of artists, ending with my show in November. In between assisting visitors and keeping Cynthia and the other artists happy, I'd work on planning my own show. I had to decide which photos to feature, where to place them, the theme for the evening, the mood.

I never had a chance to take more photos in Pennsylvania, so the few that I had captured those days walking around job sites with the antique store camera would have to do. There was the one of Amelia's gutted laundry room with the backdoor open, the contrast of the bright blues and greens of her yard framed by the dark room full of piles of broken wood; Mrs. Roberts on her white porch and drinking hot coffee as she watched the crew carry in boxes of tile; Sadie tearing down a wall at the cottage under the chandelier; Noah reaching for the tire swinging from the large tree in the backyard; Darren's legs hanging from the tailgate of his truck, his boots caked with mud.

Every day Cynthia introduced me to potential buyers and made me keep a handful of unframed photos in the back of the gallery to show them my work. I knew it was her way of promoting the show in November, to drum up some interest in an unknown artist, but it felt like she had taken me on as her own personal project. This spotlight on me made it difficult to run on autopilot, which is exactly what I wanted. Instead, I had to be perky and interesting and charming for customers. It made me that much more exhausted when I returned to my empty apartment and slumped down on the couch. I was usually asleep before ten, my internal clock still on Windber time.

My friends sensed this and insisted on taking me out. It was a Friday night a few weeks after my big return to the city when we ended up in Hell's Kitchen in a large group outside a bar called Industry. I had only seen a few people before that and each time I had to relive my summer in Pennsylvania, regaling them with the tale of hooking up with my childhood crush over and over. I had reduced the story to sex and fun to make the retelling bearable. But I was happy to be at a loud bar with music and drinking and dancing, which would make intimate conversations a little more difficult.

For some reason, the bar wasn't crowded yet. We ordered drinks and I sat on the end, avoiding most of the group. They talked about their art and their love lives, what they had for dinner that week, and the assholes at work. I was one of the only ones who had a day job that was still somehow related to art, though we all knew I earned a lot less than the rest of the group, which is why I never had to pay my tab. I had a couple of drinks while everyone chatted.

I was waiting for the bartender's attention to order another glass of the house red when a man offered to buy it for me. He introduced himself as Eddy. He was wearing an expensive suit with a purple tie, probably out after work, and I accepted. He ordered a scotch and a wine I didn't recognize.

"Oh, I'm drinking the house red," I corrected.

"Will you trust me on this?" he asked.

He flashed a smile, so sincere and private in a room that was quickly filling up around us, that I couldn't help but blush. I nodded and he reordered the fancy wine. We didn't say much as we waited, just looked around and sipped at the last drops of our current drinks. He occasionally looked back at me and smiled. The drinks arrived and we said cheers. He watched as I tasted it and I could tell he was pleased with himself.

"Good, right?" he asked. "Can I offer you advice? When a handsome stranger offers to buy you a drink, don't order the house red. Order the most expensive wine they have."

"Are you the handsome stranger in this scenario?"

He laughed. "I just spent a lot of money, can't I be handsome just this once?"

I liked him immediately. He was self-aware and had a sense of humor. "What do you do, handsome stranger?"

He told me about life as an attorney, helping people start their businesses. It was a lot of contracts and paperwork, but he told me how his father had started a small business and that one day, he'd like to move out of the city and help people like his father. He told me about the lake close to where he grew up in Virginia where they would go swimming as a family, and later, where he'd go skinny dipping with cute boys he met on the internet. I guess every town had their version of a trolley graveyard. I liked hearing about his past and the life he had now, the one he wanted for himself later.

I was lost in the movie of his life, trying to imagine myself in it, maybe, when I received a text from Darren. My heart began to race when I saw his name on the screen, but I didn't open it. Instead, I placed the phone face down on the wood bar and tried to return to the movie with the lake and the attorney with the sincere smile. But as he talked, I thought about the text. What could Darren possibly have to say? He hadn't said anything since he had called my name, over and over, outside the lawyer's office.

Finally, I opened it. He didn't say anything. It was a picture of Noah. He was pointing at the camera with chocolate ice cream all over his face. I could tell that he had been crying from the way his eyes were red and he looked tired. The ice cream must have been the only way to console him. Maybe he had stubbed a toe or wasn't allowed any more TV time. Or maybe he missed me.

"I'm sorry, I have to go," I said. "Thanks for the drink." Eddy tried to ask me if everything was okay or he asked for my number, I stopped paying attention to anything but my thoughts. I ran out of there so quickly that I didn't even say goodbye to my friends.

I walked up 9th Avenue towards my apartment, with more than fifty blocks ahead of me. But I didn't stop. I kept walking and sweating in the New York summer heat. Is this what it was going to be like? All of the major events of Noah's life sent through text messages, Darren rubbing it in my face that he was there and I wasn't? I thought of all the small moments I'd miss, the ones that weren't photo-worthy, but were just as critical to who Noah would grow up to be. His face, not the first time he heard the story of how his parents had met, but the second or the third time, when he already knew how it would end but he wanted to hear it anyway.

I was walking past what seemed like the tenth barbershop, ready to toss my phone in a garbage can, when I saw someone a few feet ahead of me wearing large red headphones and more layers than was appropriate for September in New York. I don't know why it stood out from the crowd of several other people walking up and down the sidewalk, but I quickened my pace and tried to catch up. When I was about a foot behind him it was unmistakable––that hair and that backpack. It was Charlie.

Author's Note: I just wanted to take a moment to thank everyone for their votes and comments! You'll never know how much it means to me that you love this story and these characters as much as I do. Thanks for reading <3

Should we talk about Charlie?!