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I dragged my hand beneath my running nose and followed the paper to the hand that held it. Tattoos in black and white. A line of little starlings across a long pointer finger. A compass on the back of the palm. A snake wrapped around the wrist. The tattered edges of the leather jacket were as comforting as the fringe of a beloved childhood blanket. My eyes continued up the smooth, buttery leather to the faded collar. Tattoos peeked above it like flowers from a sidewalk crack. The eye of a beautiful woman. The tip of a fern. The hilt of a sword.
Along the strong jaw, beard tight and dark. Past the sharp cheekbones. Above the purple bags, signs of a lack of sleep, of nightmares when sleep finally did come. At last his eyes. Green in a sea of black. Looking down at me. A swirl of hesitancy and kindness, anger and tiredness, lust and helplessness.
Conor lowered himself to the sidewalk. He knelt just in front of me. Indifferent to the huffs of angry people who now had to go around a massive boulder. It was like they weren’t even there. It was only him and me. And the dirty, crumpled paper he extended toward me.
“How much are you selling them for?” he asked.
“What?” I croaked.
“The portraits,” he said softly, sweetly. It seemed he wanted to reach out to me. It seemed he wanted to draw me in close to me and never let go. But he stayed where he was. He did not touch me as he said, “How much for a portrait, Aurnia?”
His tone was patient, but insistent. I sniffled and answered, “Five euros.”
“I’ll pay $759.39,” he said.
I started to cry. So he knew. He knew the cash was gone. All that hard work, gone. The chance to save the business, gone.
“Conor,” I sobbed, “Conor, I’m sorry. I should have done something. I should have tried to stop him. I let you down. I let our family down.”
I gulped. I hadn’t meant to say that. I hadn’t meant to admit how much Dublin Ink had come to mean to me. My cheeks reddened as I ducked my face. I was a stupid little child.
Conor cleared his throat. I wanted to die.
“I don’t know much about families,” he said gruffly. “But I know they’re not perfect. I know it doesn’t require the people in it to be strong all the time for the family to be… For the family to be strong.”
I was surprised when a hand came to rest on mine. It wasn’t warm, his hand. It was rather cold actually. But when his fingers slipped beneath mine, when he closed his hand around mine, when he squeezed me gently, I couldn’t really remember what the big deal was about warm hands anyway.
“Come on,” Conor whispered.
He helped me to my feet and the city rushed around us once more. People passing with their own cares. People hurrying about without a second glance at us. People who wouldn’t stop. No matter what.
But Conor was there. My hand was in his. He had forgiven me. Or understood me. Or pitied me. Or loved me.
“How’d you find me?” I asked.
Conor nodded toward the bus station outside Gresham Hotel just a half block away.
“I thought you might run.”
“You told me to stay,” I said.
Conor nodded at me.
All he said in his deep grumble was, “I did.”
