But if I didn't look up as I grabbed my razor, my shampoo, my comb, that man didn't exist. If I didn't look up, I could imagine myself as I was before I saw those green eyes. I could imagine a confident, self-assured, ruthless businessman in control of himself and his future and his happiness. I could imagine me without the knowledge of a daughter.
That's the way it had to be.
I tossed the bag of things from the bathroom into the suitcase and called the lobby for a cab before dialling Harry Princeton's number. It was 4:52 in the morning, but I was important enough to receive an answer no matter what time of day.
Harry's voice was groggy from obviously just being awoken, but I didn't even give him the luxury of banal pleasantries to allow him a chance to wake up. I jumped straight into it.
"Harry, I'm leaving the States," I said. "I'm returning to Ireland where I will conduct the rest of our business remotely."
In my mind there was nothing more to say so I went to hang up, but Harry managed to clear the sleepy cobwebs from his head just enough to call out a confused protest.
"Michael—"
"Mr O'Sullivan," I snapped.
"Mr—Mr O'Sullivan," Harry quickly corrected. "I'm sorry, excuse me, but you're—
you're leaving?"
"Yes."
I assumed that had been made abundantly clear by my just saying that I was leaving.
Harry stumbled over his words for a moment or two before asking, "It's just that we haven't concluded everything yet. This is—it's just abrupt. Is something wrong?"
I pinched the bridge of my nose as my temples throbbed. Everything was fucking wrong. Fucking everything. It was wrong that Abbi didn't tell me I had a goddamn child. It was wrong that I met her like that. I spit out a laugh, as if what happened could even be called meeting. It was wrong that I was running away from it.
It was wrong that it was the only thing I could think to do.
"The conclusion of our business can just as easily be conducted long-distance as face-to-face, Mr Princeton," I said coldly as my eyes flicked toward the red numbers on the clock on the nightstand. "Now I really must be going."
"Mr O'Sullivan, I don't understand!"
My self-control shattered as I burst out in anger, "And it's not for you to understand, Mr Princeton. It's for you to say, 'Yes, sir' and shut the fuck up. It's for you to obey, not inconvenience me with your blabbering questions. I am in control here. And I am doing what I wish, what I fucking wish. Do you understand me?"
My chest was heaving as my fingers gripped the Blackberry so tightly, I feared I might snap it in two.
"Yes, sir." Harry's voice was meek and quiet. "I'm sorry. Yes, of course we can finish things remotely. Of course, Mr O'Sullivan."
Pain lanced through my head like a spear and I shook from head to toe. The bed looked so tempting. To just sit for a moment…to rest my blistered, aching feet…to rest my head on the pillow for just a second or two…to allow my eyes to sink shut for just one quiet minute… I was tired. I was so tired.
The call from the lobby thankfully saved me from the dangerous siren song of the bed. I shook my head to refocus.
"My cab is here, Mr Princeton," I said mechanically. "Goodbye."
I hung up and retrieved my suitcase from the bed. I crossed the penthouse and grabbed the door handle. But instead of feeling the uncaring cold of the metal, I felt beneath my fingers the warmth of faded paint. I froze, flashes of memory hitting me like large, cruel pieces of hail from which I had no protection.
I was young. Too young to remember anything but vague shapes, fuzzy colours, murmured voices as if from under water. I saw my fingers reaching around the corner in my childhood home. I saw the hallway to the front door. I saw the indistinct square of yellow from the porch light.
I remembered peeking around the corner just enough to see him at the doorway, my father.
I was far too young to possibly remember what he was wearing, let alone what he looked like. Though the hallway was blurry, the floor and the walls and the door around him unclear, he became distinct: a suit, a suitcase, sandy-blonde hair, a clean-cut, sharp jaw, and green eyes.
With fingers wrapped around the corner, head peeking out, I watched him grab the door handle. He didn’t hesitate, not even for a moment. I watched him leave, the door closing behind him, never to reopen.
My own father left when I was young, leaving me with nothing but vague, blurry memories and a pain in my heart that was quite the opposite.
As I stood there at the door I imagined the memory I left my daughter would be much the same. She wouldn't remember the living room, the couch, the rug, the television; that would all fade and become obscure to her memory. But she would remember me leaving.
She would remember her fingers brushing against the soft material of her pyjama bottoms, and that would be the closest she would ever have to my touch. She would remember how little I gave her.
And she would remember me leaving.
The phone in my penthouse rang again; it was the lobby calling again. My cab was here. It was time to go.
I went to the phone and picked it up.
"Yes, I know," I said. "I'm coming."
Abbi
