Page 21 of A Boy Called Lovesong

“Sir, I’m afraid you’re going to have to leave.”

Margot stood. “It’s okay, we’re going.”

“No! No, we’re not. I’m not finished yet.”

“Oh, I think we’reallfinished here,” declared Brad.

“The fuck we are! Sit down! Sit the fuck down, I’m not done yet!”

My own voice was ringing in my ears.

I somehow realized the front of my shirt, the rosary clinging to my chest, was wet with tears.

The entire restaurant had gone dead silent, even the whispers, as everyone stared in our direction. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the waiter signal to another wait staff at the front counter who picked up a phone.

Margot tried to pull my chair out.

“No, Margot! I said I’m not done.”

“Trust me, Noah. You’re done. Come with me now.”

“Or else what? Somebody will call security? Too late, I think they already have. There’s no turning back now, like just about everything else in my life. Love… joy… a lifetime of happiness. It all ended in a second, the second a bus came along and…” My voice faltered and the sobbing began to take over. “The second a bus came and took him away. Now he’s gone. Now…”

My chin sank against my chest.

My tears fell faster than my hands could swipe them away.

My chest heaved and it hurt.

It hurt.

So much.

“Now I have nothing. Nothing but rage.” I sniffed and raised my head. “If that’s all I’ve got… if the anger is the only thing left in his place… then I guess I’ll have to learn to love it. Right?”

There was a commotion near the door as two security guards hurried into the restaurant.

I felt one of Margot’s arms wrap itself around my shoulders while she hooked her other hand under my arm, helping me up out of my chair.

I stood unsteadily.

The guards approached, but Margot shook her head. “Please don’t. We’re leaving. We’re sorry for the disturbance, but we can see ourselves out.”

We left Brad and Mike sitting at the table.

We left the stunned stares of the other patrons behind.

And slowly Margot carried me out into the cool September day.

When I ran out of the tissue supply in Margot’s handbag, I used my sleeves. When there were no dry patches left on my sleeves, I used my forearms and hands until finally I managed to dam up the tears, gazing blankly at the East River from the park bench on which we sat.

Margot lit her fourth cigarette. “Wow. That was…” She exhaled a plume of smoke. “That was really something.”

“Well, you did ask for fuck-the-world attitude.”

“Remind me to rephrase that next time.”

“You think there’ll be a next time?”

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