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I smiled and thanked him as I got out of the vehicle. As I closed the door and watched the car speed away as if he was running for his life, my confident façade melted, and I swallowed the fist in my throat.
“Shit,” I cursed quietly and walked towards the building. I was never afraid of a challenge and the hint of a little danger always thrilled me. But had I gone too far this time?
The colors on the letter signs of Clooney’s were worn and the steel frame appeared to be bent and rusted. An “O” was missing from the alignment and the “Y” had one of its ears broken off. The building itself seemed to have survived the Second World War, but now it appeared as if it would collapse at the slightest gust of wind. The place was spooky, and the driver was right: the area looked anything but friendly, apart from a few people in the neighborhood.
Step by step, I put one foot in front of the other, and the closer I got to the small building, the more golden-brown dust my white sneakers collected.
My heart pounded against my chest, and I glanced over my shoulder once more before taking a step forward.
I cautiously entered the place described by the man in the text message—the man who claimed to be my father, and as I carefully scanned the dilapidated shack that was supposed to be a bar, I suppressed the turmoil of mixed emotions that were fighting a war inside me.
What was I doing here?
No one knew where I was; neither my mother nor Nessa. Clooney’s was far from the luxurious side of New York—very far from the safe neighborhoods. I wondered why he, my biological father, arranged our first meeting in such a death trap.
I began to rethink my decision to come here. It wasn’t as if I owed him anything; the man had been absent for practically my entire life. He didn't care about me, and I wouldn’t have wasted a thought telling him that the feeling was mutual.
Annoyed, I shrug, ready to turn around and go back to civilization. But I pause. I had an urgent feeling to stay and get answers to questions I had never asked out loud.
I wanted to know what kind of person he was, why my mother never bothered to talk about him, and why he abandoned me. Did he not even have the slightest conscience to find out how his daughter was doing? Why was he so cruel that he didn't care whether I was dead or alive?
Determination drove me on, and I closed the cracked wooden door behind me. It squeaked so loudly that I thought it would fall off its hinges. Even the wooden floor creaked loudly under my weight. It might as well have given way.
I turned my head from side to side, looking for the one who had called me. Then I spotted him sitting in the corner. It had to be him. From what I had seen so far, there were only three life forms in the decaying bar—the bartender, me, and the man over there.
Well, except for the spirits of lost souls probably wandering about the place.I didn’t count them.
With a deep breath, I inhaled confidence and exhaled fear before approaching him. He was wearing a black shirt, black jeans, and a black cap on his head that covered half his face.
I couldn’t help the snigger that escaped my lips as I stood next to the table. “If that look doesn’t scream Doomsday, then I really don’t know what does?”
He lifted his head and the smirk on my lips faded as his green eyes bored into mine. I could almost see myself through them. What stunned me, though, was the uncanny resemblance I bore to this man, except for my blonde hair. People had always told me how much I looked like my mother. But I guess they only said that because they had never seen this man before.
“Grace.”
He said my name in a distinctive thick Irish accent, as if it were the antidote to an incurable disease, and gestured to the chair opposite him. “I'm Conner Farrel. Finally, we meet.
Please, sit down. I can't believe you came.”
“I did say I would come, didn’t I?” I mumbled as I sat down, making sure to keep my arms away from the table that looked like it was inhabited by termites.
“Yes, but... a man can have his doubts, you know I know that you owe me nothing, that you have no reason to be here. And yet here you are.”
“And yet I am, and that's because I'm not like you, Mr. Farrel. Unlike you, I don’t make promises and bail,” I said, putting on a fake smile. Granted, I didn’t know the whole story of his
relationship with my mother, but I knew my mother, and if she was willing to have a child with him after their separation, she had to have loved him at some point.
He sighed and bowed his head. “Grace, can we not do this at this time? There are some important and urgent matters we need to discuss immediately. I don’t mind telling you everything you need to know after we've talked about the reason why I wanted to see you here.”
“Wow!” I scoffed and laughed contemptuously. “You must be delusional. Did you think for a second that I was here because of you? Really?”
“Please, Grace, listen...”
“No, you listen. Let’s get something straight, and let's get it straight now. As you said, I don’t owe you fucking anything. I don’t like you; I don’t feel the need to connect with you; I don’t care to associate with you, capisce? I only came here to get answers. My mother doesn’t want to tell me anything, and I understand that. But if I don’t get answers from her, I’m sure I'll get them from you.”
“You know what? Fine.” To my surprise, he smiled and bared straight white teeth. It made him look younger, despite the wrinkles on his forehead and around his eyes. “If you want to talk about the past, let’s talk about the past. You sure are feisty, stubborn and the no-nonsense type, I see.”
I rolled my eyes so as not to show him how much his compliment affected me. “I suppose you could say that.”
