Spot Conlon let his legs dangle off the edge of the pier, as he stretched out and stared at the graying sky. Even if he flexed his foot he couldn't reach the water below, but there was something about the crisp air and the smell of water that reminded the man of home.
The waterfront Spot had frequented in Brooklyn as a boy during the oppressive summers had been long forgotten by industry and only housed small merchants. Nothing like the Port of San Francisco. During the day, the port was busy and loud in the constant thrum of a city. But come dusk the piers emptied and the movement stilled and it was just the docks and water. It was reminiscent of Brooklyn in a way that made Spot figure that was why he stayed so well past his shift ending.
In the waning light, he held up a single sheet of paper right over his eyes. He read the three sentences over for the hundredth time since he had received the letter back in New Mexico. His left hand itched at his pocket, where he had at least three cigarettes with the matches. A quick flick of a wrist and the flame might burn the memory away.
"Do you want to tell me what it says?" Kelly's voice was tentative, soft in that annoying fashion of understanding. Without looking Spot knew that Jack was still at least ten paces from him, stopped within earshot but far enough away that he could pretend to slip away without physical harm coming to him. But Spot knew Jack would never venture far, he'd bet the dollar sewn into his jacket that Kelly would never go far enough away to lose sight of him. Overbearing busy body the man had always been.
"What are you doing here?" Spot sighed already tired of the conversation. He dropped the single sheet onto his chest and blinked up at the first stars in the sky.
Jack loudly ran his tongue over his teeth and sucked in a breath. Spot imagined he was probably scratching at the back of his head, in that nervous gesture of his from childhood.
"David's probably waiting on us for supper." The smell of smoke let Spot know that his friend had lit a cigarette. Spot flicked at the single sheet of paper on his chest, thinking again of setting it on fire.
"Buttercup Tate has vanished." Spot croaked into the darkness descending around him. A creaking followed in the silence and the scent of smoke grew as Jack Kelly sat down, still ten paces away. Spot lit a cigarette and the men sat in silence until it was fully night.
"Is it from her?" Jack finally asked.
Spot let out a hollow bark of a laugh.
"Chesapeake."
Jack took a long drag of his cigarette and began tapping one of his feet. The irritation it stirred in Spot was almost enough to inspire the man to move, almost.
"When was the last you heard?"
"More than half a year." Spot pulled his feet up from over the edge. Before they had arrived in California, maybe even before they had arrived in New Mexico. Jack remembered how touchy Spot had been while they traveled before the Timbers farm about how connected he still felt to Laces. He had never asked after BC, not any more than Spot might give in a passing moment and Jack suddenly felt guilty about his lack of concern for his friend.
Spot pressed his glowing cigarette into the letter in his lap. The paper started to burn and Jack shifted forward only slightly when Spot seemed to not move to dispose of it. But Spot flicked the burning sheet into the ocean waters.
"What did it say?" Jack repeated.
"She's left with not a trace to her. I've never known Buttercup Tate to ever be found when she's not wanted to be. I believe her last letter was a farewell." Spot recited the words dully.
Jack let out a high pitch whistle, the kind where he was sucking in a breath and letting out a curse. Spot rolled his head to look over the distance between them.
"She had agreed to marry me." He whispered. Jack nodded, he hadn't forgotten even if it had been a year before. Spot Conlon had always had a bit more courage than he had, though Jack Kelly would deny it until his dying day. Spot had asked without hesitation for what he had wanted in a way Jack couldn't even imagine now. Jack kicked out his foot, closing the distance between them to only five paces.
"What did that last letter say?" Jack asked back softly, carefully enough that if Spot wanted to pretend he hadn't heard he could. Spot took another drag of his cigarette blowing the smoke at the tip of Kelly's shoe.
"She recounted a story about the first time she met me when we were still in Manhattan."
"I was always in Manhattan." Jack teased lightly.
"You aren't now, are you?" Spot snapped. Jack let out a worried huff but gestured for Spot to continue his story.
"I didn't remember nothing about it. But she did, I'd knocked into her somewhere downtown by the square in front of the book shop. She didn't know then how she would continue knocking into me, sometimes on accident and sometimes on purpose. But…"
Spot pushed himself up to sitting with his back to Jack. Jack carefully and quietly stood up before prompting.
"But?"
"Everything's changed." Spot sighed. There was a resentful set to his shoulders for a moment and an angry tinge to the words but Jack Kelly knew what mourning looked like in a Conlon. He strode forward, reaching down an open hand to help his friend stand.
"Did she write what's changed?"
Spot took the offered hand and shook himself out as he sprung up. He flicked his finished cigarette into the calm lapping water below.
"That may be the distance had finally broken the spell. She thought she might have imagined the promise she made. That we might never be back, or that things hadn't been what we thought." Spot shrugged helplessly. Jack led the way through the narrow streets and steep hills.
They were quiet as they traveled along with the cable cars and among the city dwellers out for the evening. It was bustle and noise that felt comforting and familiar, heat and rush of people all around them.
"She has disappeared before." Jack ventured as they neared their destination. Jack had been seeing Buttercup Tate one of many times she had disappeared before. She'd even been Spot's girl one of the times she disappeared. She had always come back or been found.
"But we never have before," Spot replied back immediately. There was clarity in his claim, an understanding of how their situations had changed, and a resignation to the truth.
The men had arrived at the Little Shamrock, where they frequently took evening meals together. Jack thought of a thousand things to say, dismissing offering weak comfort that he might be the first Buttercup Tate had said goodbye to or the put upon airs of righteous anger. But he settled on the only thing he would think of to do if this had happened to him.
"Should we go back?"
Spot startled visibly at the question, turning his head sharply to stare at Kelly. It was Brooklyn looking for fear or hope in the question.
"I don't think we even know her real name." Spot mused slowly, taking his time to think over the question he had asked himself many times. It was the first any of them had spoken it out loud, the first time he had heard it outside his own mind in a year.
"Do you want to go back, to find her?" Jack pressed, an anxiety building in him as he recalled only one other name, Sophia.
Spot stared at Jack. They were no longer boys, they hadn't been since long before they had even left the city. But in matters of the heart, Spot knew, Jack Kelly might forever remain a boy. Jack had read too many dime novels, believed too much in being the hero of the story, and just maybe had his own undeniable story with a girl. While Spot remained ever practical, seeing the end of the fight before he joined it. For months he had lived with the knowledge that Buttercup Tate was gone, and he had found his peace.
"She isn't there. She doesn't want to be found. The string has been cut between us, I think." Spot shoved his hands deep into his pockets, hunching his shoulders forward.
"And she asked you not to go looking?" Jack guessed, trying to steady his own breathing.
"I've never known Buttercup Tate to be found when she doesn't want to be." Spot smiled sadly, reciting the words from before as Jack opened the door and the men stepped into the blustering noise of pub.