“Tell me!” I shouted, pounding my fist against the door. “Tell me and I’ll go!” I shouted still even when there was no response. “If I’m a child, then tell me like a man!”
Like before, I listened with a pounding heart at the door. This time, I heard only silence.
So this was the end. The end of Dublin. The end of Dublin Ink. The end of Conor and me.
It was the kindest cruelty I’d ever known. I swore it hurt worse than an open-palm slap to the face. I cried because this wasn’t a wound I could place a Band-Aid over. I couldn’t dull the sting with some ointment or a pack of ice. I couldn’t watch the scab form, the scar fade from pink to white. Whatever healing there was for me would be out of sight, impossible to see, to judge. The gaping wound was inside of me. Maybe it would sew itself back together with time or maybe I would just keep bleeding out till there was nothing left of me but that hole.
There was one comfort, though. It was a small one, but it was something. I would take the interview. I would go. I would not fall to my knees before Conor and beg. I would not wrap my arms around his leg. I would not even reveal that I fucking knew it was him.
If he’d had his fill of me and wanted me gone, I would go.
I’d always been an orphan, even with a father. I’d always been alone, even with Conor.
I would go.