I reached across the bar and grabbed a cocktail straw so that I could cover my ears while still slurping scotch into my veins, a two-fronted defence, so to speak. It didn't matter, I told myself. I just had to get through the next twenty minutes. Flights these days were always double-, even triple-booked by the greedy airlines. There wouldn't even be room if I wanted to go to Albuquerque to finish what I started.
And that was the last thing I wanted to do—go to Albuquerque.
I kept drinking and tried to block out all the noise, but when the woman came back over the announcement system, it was as if she was prying apart my fingers with her own and shouting into my ear.
"Looks like we have plenty of extra space on today's flight to Albuquerque, folks. So anyone who was on standby go ahead and come on up to the counter to get your seat assignment."
"Are you fucking kidding me?" I turned around in my barstool to shout in the general direction of Gate C32.
People passing with their suitcases stopped to stare as I almost toppled right over to the floor.
"What the fuck are you looking at?" I growled and watched them all scurry.
It didn't matter, I repeated to myself as I turned around and threw back the rest of my drink. It didn't matter that there was room on the plane, because I didn't want to go to Albuquerque. I wanted to go to Dublin.
"We are now boarding our first-class passengers for Flight T299 to Albuquerque at Gate C32."
I didn't want to face my father. I wanted to keep running. I didn’t want to turn around to see the dark shadow that'd been following me all my life. I wanted to cover my eyes and hide. I didn’t want to measure myself against that standard. I wanted to shrink and cower and let it continue controlling my life.
"Groups one and two, go ahead and head on up for Flight T299 to Albuquerque. That's Flight T299 to Albuquerque here at Gate C32."
In running from my father, I ran from Abbi and Zara, too. But that was done. There was no coming back from that. No fixing that. I wanted to go to Dublin. I wanted to go to Dublin. I wanted to go to Dublin.
"All remaining groups, please proceed to Gate C32 for Flight T299 to Albuquerque, Flight T-2-9-9 to Albuquerque."
Albuquerque…Albuquerque…Albuquerque… The word rang in my head like the tolling of a bell no matter how hard I squeezed my palms against my ears.
"Folks, we're just about all boarded here. For any more passengers on Flight T299 to Albuquerque, please proceed to Gate C32 immediately. Gate C32 immediately."
I told myself I wanted to go to Dublin, but that wasn't true, no matter how many times I repeated it. The truth was I wanted Abbi. I'd always wanted Abbi.
"Fuck," I cursed.
The bartender began to reach for another glass as he glanced at me over his shoulder, "Same thing?"
"No," I said, climbing off the barstool and wobbling.
The bartender raised a curious eyebrow. "Something else then?"
"Nope," I slurred, throwing a few more bills onto the counter. "I've got to go to Albuquerque."
"Hey," the bartender called after me as I stumbled toward Gate C32. "I thought you were on the flight to Dublin!"
I dismissed him with a wobbly wave over my shoulder.
"Hell, I did, too, buddy."
Michael
I was somehow both drunk and hungover as I stepped onto the doormat outside my father's place.
After landing in Albuquerque I'd called him on a number I'd only gotten from Ma after begging years ago and asked if I could come by to see him. He'd said yes and an hour cab ride later I was there, just a knock away.
I'd imagined this moment countless times over the years, and not a single one looked quite the way reality turned out. For one thing, I never intended to show up reeking of scotch and sweating from just the start of what promised to be a raging hangover. I imagined myself in my finest suit, shoes shined, shirt expertly pressed, Rolex gleaming, and silk tie hanging straight as a ruler. Instead the best I could do before knocking was to try to smooth out some of the wrinkles of my pants, make sure my shoes were tied, and double-check that my fly was up.
I had wanted to present to my father the perfect image of a successful businessman on top of the corporate world, and there I was looking like a bank teller who just got hammered after getting laid off. My hair was a mess. My facial hair screamed less “impressive, well-educated, wealthy young man” and more “dude screaming about the end of times at a street corner”. To put a summary of my appearance succinctly, I looked like someone you would avoid sitting next to on the subway.
I was here to prove to my father that I was enough, and I didn't even look employed. I was here to display for him my very best, and I was at rock bottom. I was here for his approval, but even I would have slammed the door in my own face, I looked that rough.
Squaring my shoulders and lifting my chin was like putting lipstick on a pig, but it was all I could do as I knocked and waited for my father to answer.
My chest clenched in fear and apprehension and nervousness when the door creaked open and a face appeared in the sliver of darkness.
"Michael?"
I stared into the green eyes of my father for the first time since a young child and nodded shyly just like a young child. A thought of horror went through my mind as I looked at my own eyes on his face: did Zara look at
