Page 55 of Beyond Protection
"She's good?" Eamon asked. "Your mom?"
"At ceramics? She's incredible."
"I meant—" He paused, choosing his words. "With everything. The coming out. The attention."
I thought about my mother at my coming-out press conference, sitting in the third row, hands folded in her lap. So still she could've been carved from stone. Afterward, she'dhugged me—brief, tight, Japanese restraint meeting Irish blood—and said,I'm proud of you.
Four short words. That was it.
"She showed up," I said. "That's what she does. She doesn't... she's not loud about it. Not like Ma. But she's there."
"Sounds like enough."
"Yeah, it is."
We reached the end of the alley. The gum wall loomed ahead—famous for all the wrong reasons, brick covered in layers of chewed gum like diseased modern art. Tourists loved it. I'd always thought it was gross.
Eamon stopped walking. Alone for the first time all day.
Rain beaded on his jacket. One drop caught in his beard. I watched it slide down to his jaw.
He was close enough for me to smell the coffee and rain on him. Close enough to see his pulse in his throat.
An electric charge passed between us, like the moment before lightning strikes, when the air is tight and strange.
Eamon's phone buzzed. He pulled it out. The screen glow made his face shine blue-white. I watched his expression shift—neutral to something more complicated.
"What?" I asked.
He didn't answer.
"Eamon. What is it?"
He turned the phone toward me.
The stalker sent him a message.
Subject wore the blue Columbia hoodie today. Fourth time this week. Repetition suggests disrupted sleep patterns. Progressive deterioration documented. The market vendor—the ceramics—good instinct. Maternal aesthetic influence noted. But the crowd exposure is unacceptable. Too many variables. Too much stress on the system.Adjusting the timeline accordingly. —V.K.
P.S. The grey coat fits the season. You didn't even look at my face.
My lungs stopped working.
"Eamon." My voice came out strangled. "The woman. The one who bumped me."
His face went white. Then red. "What woman?"
"In the crowd. Grey coat. She—" The realization hit like ice water. "She said 'sorry' but she wasn't sorry. She wanted to—"
"Touch you." Eamon's voice was flat. Dead. "She wanted contact. And I didn't—" He looked at his hands like they'd betrayed him. "I was standing right there and I didn't—"
"You couldn't have known—"
"That's my job. Knowing." His breath came faster. "Reading the room and seeing threats before they materialize. And instead I was thinking about—" He cut himself off.
About us. About the ceramic shop. About buying me cider.
"They touched you, Mac." His voice broke on my name. "They put their hands on you, and I was standing six feet away scanning the wrong fucking direction."
