"I thought you were done with walking."
"That was days ago," she says. "I'm good as new."
"It's two miles."
"That's fine. It's a beautiful night."
Shrugging, I tug on her hand, and we stroll away from the theater. The streets are fairly quiet at this hour, most tourists gone inside for the night.
"You didn't think that story was sad?" she asks.
"I wasn't really paying it attention," I admit.
She's quiet for a moment before asking, "Are you okay?" Her eyes are on me. I can feel them, but I don't look her way. "You seem… off."
"In what way?"
"I don't know," she says. "It's hard to put my finger on it. I'd say you were depressed, but that's not really it. You're not sad. You're just… not really there."
"I'm thinking."
"Thinking?" She gasps, grabbing her chest in mock horror. "You? Mr. Less Thinking, More Feeling?"
I smile at her humor. It's nice to have her so at ease, but it unnerves me that she caught the change in my demeanor. I've been feeling off all day. I let myself be me again, let myself slip back into old habits, succumbing to old desires, and lost sight of the here-and-now, and the reality is our little bubble can't last forever, can't remain in tact once we step foot back on American soil. I can't be this man there, can't be this man and still survive the life I've chosen to live. I've made promises to Karissa, whispers when we were alone in the dark that are going to be hard to keep come daylight.
We walk in silence for a while, just strolling along.
I expect her to ask me what I'm thinking about, but she lets it drop.
We're still a mile from the hotel when her footsteps slow. I can tell she's tired, her feet hurting from the shoes she's wearing. I stop, offering her another piggyback ride.
This time, she accepts.
She squeals as she hops on, her arms tightly around my neck, hands clasps together at my chest, and her legs around my waist. Her hip is right on my wound but it's barely noticeable, nothing more than some soreness. She rests her head against the side of mine as I carry her. She's light, and feels so right clinging to me.
I think I could carry the woman forever.
Her breath is warm against my ear as she laughs, whispering after a moment, "Do you think we could get married here?"
I damn near drop her.
My grip slips, her legs sliding, but her hold is so tight she keeps herself from falling. I clutch ahold of her again, pulling her up, steadying her. Before I can even think of what to say to that, she continues.
"I don't mean, like, right now, but someday."
My words are tentative. "If that's what you want."
I carry her the rest of the way to the hotel, not putting her down until we reach the front door. She drops back to her feet, laughing.
I haven't ever heard her laugh so much as she has this past week. She's happy, happier than I've ever seen her. Despite it all, despite knowing the man I am, the man I have the potential to be, she finds it in her heart to be happy with me.
That's something I never want to lose.
Something I never want to destroy.
But I have a feeling, when we get back home, her happiness may not last as long as I hope.
And later, after she's asleep, when I stroll out onto the balcony and dial Ray's number, hearing his voice when he picks up on the first ring, I'm sure of it.
"I don't like what that girl's turned you into, Vitale."
No hello.
No warm greeting.
He's unhappy.
Maybe rightfully so.
But I know now, no matter what I do, I'm going to lose one of them. I'm going to disappoint either the woman who loves me, who breathed life into me, or the only man who ever really gave me a chance.
Either way, I fear, will be the end of me.
Custom made and tailored to my frame, my suits all fit me like a glove.
I have fifty of them, every single one a similar shade of black. Most people, looking in my closet, would think they're all the same, but I can tell the differences. Different weights and different fabrics, some for winter and some for summer, a couple with vests, most with three-button jackets and the rest of them with two. I rotate them, rarely wearing the same suit more than once a month.
They've survived years.
Some have lasted decades.
I bought my first black suit nearly twenty years ago. Until then, I dressed like an average kid from Hell's Kitchen—jeans, t-shirts, sneakers. You couldn't have paid me back then to put on a tie.
But I had a funeral to attend.
I needed a suit.
The fabric was heavy, or maybe that was just my heart. I felt constricted, weighed down like my body was made of concrete, my insides a block of stone that the world was steadily chipping away at. I was suffocating, but there was something strangely reassuring about the sensation, something soothing about wearing the dark, heavy suit, like a coat of armor, keeping the world from stealing any more pieces of my soul.
I put it on that day, and I never really took it back off.
Not for a long time, anyway.
I'm wearing it again, the first suit I bought. The chest is a little snug, but it still fits me almost like it did back then. It's strange, thinking I haven't physically changed much, but I feel like a vastly different man. Instead of wearing it like armor, it feels like it's rubbing me raw, exposing parts of me that I've kept locked away.
Kelvin is working the door at Cobalt. He nods at me when I step inside, averting his eyes right away. I stroll past him, into the main bar area.
Ray is sitting by himself in his usual chair, swirling scotch around in his glass.
Wordlessly, I step toward the man, sitting carefully in the seat beside him. The waitress glances over, not even bothering to ask before bringing a bottle of pale ale over, still sealed.
"Alone today?" I ask. It's a rare occurrence, Ray without someone to keep him company.
"Not anymore," he says, looking at me. "The guys are, well... and Baby Doll had something she wanted to do."
Reaching into my pocket, I pull out my keys and pop the bottle cap off, tossing it aside.
Ray watches me, raising an eyebrow. "I see you've found your keys."
"Yeah, they showed back up."
"Funny how that happens," he mutters, sipping his drink. "Just when you think something's gone..."
I shrug casually, taking a swig of beer when he trails off. "They're just keys."
He's not talking about the keys anymore and we both know it. We sit in silence, drinking, the air around us tenser than I remember it ever being between us. I'm not sure how to diffuse it. I don't know what he wants. An apology? An explanation? He'll get neither, but I don't think he really expects either one.