by Charish Reid
He joined her with his fork. “What are you writing?”
“Nothing important,” she said after a hard swallow. She didn’t want to talk about her book with him. Not after she’d decided to base one of her characters on him.
“I’m also writing something not important,” he replied.
She sat up straighter. “Like what?”
“It’s a dumb paper.”
“An academic article?”
He exhaled harshly. “Not exactly, I just finished rewriting one of those. This is just a conference paper.”
Antonia nodded. “It’s been a long time since I’ve had to write anything for school,” she admitted. “I like to keep my master’s thesis far back in the recesses of my mind.”
He shot her a crooked grin. “What was it about?”
“It was fifty-something pages of nonsense,” she said recalling the all-nighters she pulled to get it done. “I wrote about Zora Neale Hurston.”
“I love her writing,” he said. “I usually assign my students her essay, ‘How It Feels to Be Colored Me.’”
The fact that he was so well-read was just as attractive as his naked torso sitting at the breakfast table. Of course he’s well-read, she thought, returning to her side of the plate. He’s a literature professor. “I wrote about her anthropological work.”
Aiden nodded in appreciation. “That sounds very interesting. Was it her field research in the American South or the Caribbean?”
He was actually listening to her. She had a fleeting memory of Derek and his phone. Always with that phone. “Mostly in the South. I found her folklore research exciting.”
“Ah yes,” he said. “That’s right. She was able to incorporate local color in her writing because of her research. I don’t think people appreciated it at the time, but it’s truly valuable work now.”
“Yes!” Antonia agreed. “That was part of my argument.”
“Of course,” he said, taking another bite. “You can’t talk about her fiction without addressing all of the grunt work she did. Reading about her gives me hope for Ireland.”
“How do you mean?”
“Well, we have our own language problems, you know. No one spoke Irish for the longest time, but it’s making a resurgence,” he said with a full mouth. “My little niece is going to a language camp this summer. I certainly didn’t have that growing up.”
“I didn’t know that. I know nothing about the Irish language.”
He tilted his fork at her. “And that’s what the feckin’ Brits wanted. It’s not the same as black oppression in the states, but we’re still rebounding from a lot of cultural thievery here in Ireland.”
Antonia had stopped eating at this point, leaning forward and getting an impromptu history lesson. “Really?”
“Well, if you think about it, there are some interesting parallels between the black experience and that of the Irish people.”
“None of that Irish slave nonsense, though?” Antonia asked.
He chuckled as he shook his head. “Oh lord no. Anyone who spins that yarn is trying to wind you up.”
“It’s a load of shite?”
He looked up at her, a curious smile played on his lips. “Yes, it’s a load of feckin’ shite.”
“Well go on with this idea of parallels,” she said.
“I think it’s the colonialism that still troubles both groups. In America, black culture and black English isn’t valued for itself, but has to be stolen and made a mockery of. And the idea of trying to reclaim something that’s been lost isn’t foreign to us either. Thousands of us had to leave this land during the famine, never to return to our home.” He paused to think, cocking his head to the side. “You could say that in our absence, Irish culture has been snatched and made a mockery of as well. On the other hand, while we know where we come from, there’s millions of African Americans who still wonder where in West Africa their lineage starts...” He trailed off, staring into space. “Hmm.”
“What?”
He didn’t answer her. Instead, he sprang from his seat and ran from the room. “I’ve just got an idea,” he said over his shoulder. The clock that hung above his mantel made her wonder if it was time for her to take her leave. If he actually had work to do, she didn’t want to stand in his way. Her mother always said “don’t wear out your welcome.”
She stood from the table, taking the empty plate with her. She’d at least wash a dish before she left. When Antonia entered the kitchen, she took a quick peek around the corner, to find him sitting on his bed scribbling something in a notebook. Her cottage had the same layout as his, she noticed. Only opposite. She squeezed dish soap on his plate and contemplated. That means my bedroom is on the other side of his wall. The thought sent a tingle through her belly. As she scrubbed the plate, she fell into deep thought. When did he eventually get home last night?
“Oh, you don’t have to do that,” Aiden said from behind her. “I don’t feed guests only to make them wash up.”
Antonia kept her eyes on the plate. His nearness, the whiff of his fresh soap scent, made her hands tremble slightly as she ran a sponge over the flat porcelain. She worried that it might slip from her hands if he didn’t move away from her. But Aiden didn’t leave her side. Instead, his arms surrounded her body, both hands resting gently on her forearms. He was trying to still her movements. Antonia froze as he took the plate from her hands and set it in the sink.
“I should go,” was the first thing she thought to say aloud.
One of Aiden’s hands stayed longer than intended. Antonia stared at his long, graceful fingers, at his pale thumb grazing her soft flesh, and fought the urge to rest against his muscular chest. Under the running water, Aiden slowly rinsed the dish soap from her hands, rubbing her fingers between his own. She stood there, hypnotized by the rough calluses of his palms slowly sliding across the back of her hands. Antonia let her eyes fall shut as warm pleasure washed over her body, starting at her fingers and landing squarely in her womb. She released a quiet sigh as a shiver ran up her back and left goosebumps on her arms.
“But we were chatting about literature,” he said in a throaty voice. His warm breath brushed the fine hairs at her temple as his arms bracketed her body with delicious restraint.
She sensed his lips were far too close; her breath hitched and she opened her eyes. “I’m sure we can pick this chat up another time,” she said in a shaky voice. Must control yourself. She willed herself not to appear rattled by this embrace, which may have not been an embrace at all.
He released her and stepped back. “I hope so.” She heard a trace of humor in his voice.
Antonia snapped out of her trance, quickly dried her hands off with a nearby dish towel, and moved out of the kitchen. She couldn’t bear to look at him at that moment. She was terrified of what she might see. Another man who looked at her with lust; a man who wasn’t Derek. What was she thinking? Her face burned with embarrassment. Where is Derek now? He was still in Chicago, unconcerned with her or her feelings. Why on earth am I afraid of this new man?
“Antonia,” he said.
Her hand was on his front door. She hesitated before turning back to him. “Sorry,” she said, meeting his gaze. Aiden cocked his head to the side and regarded her with curiosity. “I hate to eat and run...”
“Have a good writing day,” he said, shoving his hands into his pockets, pushing the waist of his already low-slung jeans, even lower.
She had to get out of there. “You too,” she said, forcing a smile.
“Yeah, well, talking to you was helpful,” he said, moving closer to her. “I might actually start my paper today.”
And her character, Bryon, was about to come to life. “Good!” she said a little too loudly. Antonia cleared her throat and opened the door. She needed some air. “I’ll see you around.” Only when she finally made her escape did An
tonia feel relief. The cold morning air hit her in the face and brought her back down to earth. She didn’t want to fly higher, closer to the sun that was Aiden. If she wasn’t careful, he could burn her up.
Chapter Twelve
This was a surprise that Bryon hadn’t counted on. Before him stood a very disheveled and very angry Augusta Sinclair, clutching a briefcase and phone in both hands. After all these years, she was still seething. He couldn’t help but smile.
“What brings you to the Windy City, Caesar?”
“Don’t call me that!” she snapped at him. She hated that nickname, but it always made him laugh. Even though it wasn’t quite her namesake, she had to admit that sometimes she could be a bit of a dictator. “What are you doing here? Ugh, never mind.” She turned on her heel and stalked toward the building that he also meant to enter. This is going to be interesting.
“Where are you headed in such a hurry?”
“Don’t follow me,” Augusta shouted over her shoulder. “I don’t want to talk to you.”
He had to jog to catch up with her pace. She was close to stomping holes into the city’s pavement with each angry step. He moved ahead of her to grab the door. “Look, honey, I have no idea why our paths would cross after all of these years, but hell...if you’re still sore about what happened in 2010—”
Antonia’s hands hovered above her keyboard. Bryon’s character appeared before her as an interesting mix of “dick” and “good guy.” Brusque and crass, but endearing and great for a laugh. It felt right to her. It seemed like a mix of the men who were currently in her life. Derek was definitely a dick, smooth and sly, a man who could keep his lies packed away in the dark. Aiden was still a bit of a mystery, but from what she saw, he was endearing. His masculinity frightened her and kept her on her toes, but he seemed great for a laugh.
Now seemed like a good time to take a break and talk to someone else about her concerns. Octavia was the only person she knew who was up this early considering the new time difference. She saved her work and wandered back to the bedroom to find her phone. Along the way, she walked through the kitchen, catching the status of the washing machine. On her afternoon hike, Antonia had tripped and fell into what felt like a bog. She’d spent her long, miserable walk back to the cottage in wet, muddy pants. She peered through the circular glass pane at the wet clothes that still spun in clear water. That’s weird. It was still running after even after her hour-long writing sprint, which seemed well past what her muddy jeans needed.
As she continued to her bedroom, she tried to remember which setting she put the machine on. After she retrieved her phone, she ran back to the kitchen. Did I put it on the wrong setting? Antonia panicked, she didn’t want to break anything in a cottage rental. She didn’t know how much a washing machine cost in euros. What if I broke it?
With her phone in hand, she wondered who she could call. Antonia instinctively dialed her sister. Her sister in another country. When Octavia picked up on the second ring, she yelled, “What do you do about a washing machine that’s been running for over an hour?”
“Good morning to you,” Octavia’s calm voice said.
“Hi, sorry, things are great in Ireland,” Antonia said, staring at the still-spinning machine. It didn’t even look like it was ready for the spin cycle.
A note of concern threaded her sister’s voice. “Are you sure?”
“I mean, apart from my neighbor and this machine, yeah.”
“What’s wrong with your neighbor? Is he a racist?”
She didn’t want to alarm her sister, whose main concern was that she remained safe while visiting another country. “No, no, nothing like that,” she assured. “He’s uh, very friendly actually.”
“Creepy friendly?” Octavia demanded.
“No! It’s not like that,” she said, trying to pull open the washing machine’s door. It was stuck and would be until the machine eventually stopped. Whenever that would be. “He’s nice, very nice, I think. And really handsome and it’s just a whole thing. Never mind, I was going to call you and talk Irish pleasantries, but I think there’s something wrong with my washing machine.”
Octavia sighed. “How long has it been running?”
“Close to an hour and a half maybe?”
“What setting do you have it on?”
Antonia checked it again. “Wash, I think. It’s got, like, a million settings.”
“And how can I help you?”
Of course she didn’t know how her sister could help her. She just needed someone to talk to. Antonia was lonely in her five-person cottage, stuck in her writing, and unsure what to do in another country. “I need you to talk me down,” she said, hearing the weariness in her own voice.
“Well, I can do that,” Octavia said. “But, you’re going to have to talk to the rental guy about the machine.”
“Thanks.”
“I got your long email before I went to bed. It sounds like Derek tried to screw you over.”
“He did screw me over,” Antonia corrected, as she walked to the door and slipped her sneakers on.
“I said what I said. He tried, but you rebounded.”
“Why would he do something like that?” Antonia asked, leaving the house. Outside, it had warmed up enough for her to walk to Mr. Creely’s house without a jacket. Aiden’s car was gone. It brought her some relief to know that he was away. “Do you think he did it on purpose?”
“You did tell him what your plans were, so yes. Maybe he thought that would be a parting blow,” Octavia said. “He knows what makes you anxious and insecure. I imagine abrupt change is at the top of that list?”
Octavia knew her well. Like any reasonable person, Antonia appreciated a good plan. No one likes for their world to be turned upside-down. She’d lost her job and her wedding in the same 24-hour period. It was enough to make anyone a little tight. “Still, it was a real dick move,” she muttered.
“Oh, of course,” her sister replied. “I’m just saying that even though he threw you a curve ball, you’ve managed to sidestep it beautifully.”
Antonia’s face lit up with a smile. “You think so?”
“Definitely. Everything from here is smooth sailing,” Octavia said in a tone designated for her toughest patients.
“I don’t know about smooth sailing,” she said, returning to realism. “I haven’t told you about this village.”
“Lemme guess,” Octavia said with a chuckle. “You’re the only black person there?”
“Yes,” Antonia said in an exasperated voice. “My god, I don’t think I’ve ever been this alone.”
“Think of this as your James Baldwin experience,” Octavia offered. “He left a terrible America to experience Europe. It gave him some time to reflect on his life back home.”
Antonia stopped in her tracks, only a few feet from Mr. Creely’s front door. “What made you think of Baldwin?”
“Because you used to study him. He was part of your scholarship in grad school, right?”
Antonia shook her head. “Yes. Right, it’s just...” She looked at the handwritten note on Mr. Creely’s door: Gone to Letterfrack. Will return this evening. “Shit.”
“What’s up?”
“Shit, shit, shit,” Antonia repeated. “The owner, Mr. Creely, isn’t here.”
“No need to panic,” Octavia said. “Just go back to your place and unplug the machine.”
“Hey stranger!” said a man’s voice from the road. She turned around to see Aiden sticking his head out of his car window. She gave him a reluctant wave. “Creely’s not there; he’s in Letterfrack.”
“That’s what the sign says,” Antonia called back. She didn’t bother hiding the sarcasm from her voice.
“Anything wrong?” Aiden asked.
“My washing machine is acting weird.”
“Give me a minute and I’ll help you wit
h it,” he said, rolling up his window. He didn’t bother sticking around for her refusal. He was pushy as hell. Sure, he was helpful, but goddammit, he was pushing himself squarely into her vacation.
“Who was that?” Octavia asked.
“The man from next door,” she muttered.
“Oh, well there you are. Saved by a helpful gentleman,” her sister teased.
“Should I leave you on the line to hear him mansplain what I did wrong.”
“Absolutely not,” Octavia said. There was running water on her side. “I’m going to take a shower and head to work.”
“But it’s your day off.”
“I’ve got some insurance filing to do. But good luck with the wet clothes.”
Antonia rolled her eyes as she walked back to her cottage. She knew when she was being pushed off the phone. Like their mother, Octavia had no social graces when it came to ending conversations. “Yeah, thanks.” Aiden was waiting on her when she rounded the corner. He was at least wearing a shirt, which was something to be thankful for.
“It’s been running for a long time.”
“How long?”
She was sheepish as she approached him. “I don’t know, like an hour or so.”
“I don’t know if that’s too alarming.”
“Okay,” she admitted. “Close to two hours, I suppose.”
His poorly disguised smile widened. “Okay?”
Antonia crossed her arms in front of her chest. “Can you help me or not?”
He laughed in reply. “I’m sorry, but you’ve used a washing machine before, right?”
“Our machines are a hell of a lot more efficient in America.”
“You’re in Ireland now, darling,” Aiden said with a shrug. “We have a different idea of efficiency.”
She sucked her teeth and looked away. “Well I’m sure I can just unplug it myself.”
“I’m sure you could,” he said while wiping his tear-filled eyes. “Let’s see what we can do.”
“Yeah, well, I’m sure I can manage a plug,” she said, turning to open her door. “Thanks for the laughs, Aiden.” She knew she was starting to sound childish, but this was the most dissatisfaction she had been able to show toward a man in a long time. She quite liked not being so congenial all the time. Although, Aiden didn’t look too turned off by her sharp tongue. If anything, it seemed to have the opposite effect on him.