Michael’s looked at Davis’s gut. The man was tall and lean everywhere except for his stomach, which had a small round swell to it. “Clearly.”
“Fuck you, little pissant,” Davis said congenially as he opened the brown paper bag with something akin to glee. “Come to Daddy.”
Exhaling in frustration, Michael reached into the back of the car for his own brown paper bag. Inside was a little plastic container with homemade salmon teriyaki and rice. Kiersten used to cook healthy meals for him so now he was learning to do that stuff for himself. He didn’t think he was half bad at it.
“Grow a pair and eat some real food, Mike.” Davis sneered at the rice, salmon, and salad.
Michael ignored his ribbing. He ate well six days out of seven. There was no point hitting the gym before work every day if he was going to eat shit like pastries and burgers. Michael respected his body. He gave it the fuel it needed to be strong. Even if it was torture sometimes.
“No comeback?” Davis asked. “Something’s definitely up with you. Is it Bronson? Word is out he’s bangin’ your ex.”
Michael liked Davis. He did. But the man had no fuckin’ filter or diplomacy. “I’m happy for them,” he muttered around a mouthful.
“So, what is it?”
He shrugged, not ready to talk about Dahlia or the fact that every instinct in his body told him to go to her now she was in Boston. They were like magnets. Always had been. “Night shift. Not used to it yet.”
His partner shrugged. “It takes time.”
“It’d be easier if you wouldn’t stop every five seconds for a pinwheel or a tonic.” The man was addicted to goddamn Pepsi.
“You know, I think you’d benefit from a fuckin’ pinwheel now and then. You moody little fucker.”
Michael smirked.
“Where do you think this asshole is?” Davis asked after a few seconds of quiet eating.
“Back to the girlfriend in Chelsea. My bet is she called him after we dropped by. He might think her place has the all clear for the night.”
Davis nodded.
They finished up as the rain calmed. “You’re already wet.” Michael shoved his garbage at Davis. “You can put this in the trash.”
“I had to get a neat freak, healthy-eating, gym-going motherfucker like you for a partner, huh,” Davis muttered under his breath as he got out of the car with the garbage. Michael knew some cops let shit collect in the back and on the floor of their vehicles. He wasn’t one of them. It sent a message you were a lazy cop, and Michael was anything but lazy.
“Bang a Uey,” Davis advised as he got back in the car. “Road’s quiet.”
Michael attempted to shove everything else out of his head (and by everything else, he meant Dahlia) and pulled out onto the quiet street to do a U-turn. He needed her out of his head so he could do his job.
Then he’d go home and probably have another dream about her.
Thing of it was, there was a part of Michael, an element he despised, that anticipated the dream. A part of him that whispered from down deep inside that he looked forward to the fantasy.
During the next ten days, I not only attempted to cram as much family time in with Darragh, Krista and the kids, and Davina and Astrid, I shadowed my dad. Worrying about him distracted me from the fact that Dermot was nowhere near ready to forgive me. Dad still wouldn’t talk about his divorce with Mom, and I knew him well enough to know he was inside his own head.
After all, I was my father’s daughter. We shared a very similar nature, and I knew he was silently stewing. There was nothing I could do but spend time with him and hope he’d eventually open up. The one thing I knew was that I was not leaving Boston until I was one hundred percent certain Dad would be okay.
As for talking to my mom, Dermot had put a pin in that. I was already nervous about doing it, but after his phone call, I decided to be uncharacteristically cautious. It turned out, in the end, it wasn’t me that forced our reunion.
It was Monday, late afternoon, Dad had left for work, and I was trying to keep my thoughts on the events of the day before, and not on anything else (say, Michael, who liked to intrude on my thoughts every five seconds!). Dad had invited Darragh, Krista, Leo and Levi, Davina, and Astrid over for dinner and to watch the Sunday game.
We’d laughed a lot and ate a lot, and it had been a great time. The boys always seemed to laugh when Darragh used a slang word, which led to us educating them in the language of our neighborhood growing up. There were words I’d forgotten, having lost them while I was living in Delaware. Like “bubbla” instead of a water fountain. That was adorable. How could I have forgotten that?
I’d also dared to ask about Dermot. Dad had kept me up to date on my siblings’ lives throughout the years, but I didn’t know much about Dermot’s life at the moment.
Last I’d heard he’d been dating a girl Davina not so fondly referred to as a “Masshole”—a slang word Darragh did not want his kids picking up on. She apologized but not for the sentiment. Apparently, this girl came from money, kind of a blueblood, and Dermot tired of her trying to hide him from her family. After nine months together, he broke it off. He was single again, living in a shitty apartment (my sister’s words) near Mom’s new place, and screwing everything that moved when he wasn’t working.
While Michael moved up the ranks, my brother, who had never been very ambitious, seemed content to remain a police officer. It sounded like my brother wasn’t having the greatest time in his personal life. When we were younger, I was the one he came to talk to about girls and relationships. Once again, I hadn’t been there when he needed me.