by Fox, Nicole
“You belong to me, whore.”
The doors of the airport slide open. A new batch of people spill out onto the sidewalk.
I catch a glimpse of blond hair bobbing above the crowd.
Old habit kicks in. My eyes zero in on the man stepping out of the airport.
And I go still.
Because for the first time in as long as I can remember, I’m searching a crowd for that familiar smile…
And I’m finding it.
Tristan’s still talking in my ear, but I can no longer hear him.
The man who’s just walked out of the airport is the fucking spitting image of Cillian.
Older, yes.
But then, Cillian himself would be older, wouldn’t he?
Thirteen years have passed. The boy I knew would have turned into a man.
A man very, very much like the one who’s standing a few feet away from me right now.
Tristan’s breath scorches at my ears, but for once, I don’t care.
I need a closer look. I need this maybe-Cillian to make eye contact with me.
If only to confirm what I know in my heart to be true.
That it is him.
This is Cillian. It has to be.
Look at me! Cillian, please… Just look at me.
I say it in my head because Tristan has his hand tight around my throat and I can barely breathe, much less scream.
But it’s as if maybe-Cillian hears me loud and clear all the same.
Because he turns.
His eyes meet mine.
Light blue eyes, like the Irish sky right after a heavy rain. I feel the breath leave my body as recognition startles through me so fast that I seize up.
It’s him.
There’s no denying it.
Cillian O’Sullivan is back in Ireland.
A ripple of familiarity races through his eyes. I expect him to move towards me. To save me the way I’ve spent every night dreaming about for thirteen long years.
It’s a storybook ending I couldn’t have scripted if I tried. Right as my attempt to free myself from my nightmare fails, here comes the boy I’ve dreamed of to swoop me away and slay the beast.
He’s going to do it. He’s going to rescue me. I can feel it in my bones.
A smile—a stupid, dreamy smile, but goddamn it feels so good—spreads across my face. Warmth surges through my body and I couldn’t possibly care any less about Tristan anymore.
It’s over.
All this shit is over.
The blue-eyed boy and I are going to have the house we dreamed of soon—with chickens and cows and bees and love—and everything is going to be okay; everything is going to be beautiful and free of pain; everything is going to—
Then, at the last second, Cillian averts his gaze.
And Tristan wrenches my face right into his.
No.
No.
No.
This can’t be happening.
“You fucking slut,” he snarls, breath wreathed with the stench of stale beer. “I have friends all over this fucking city. Did you really think you could just sell the fucking ring I gave you and it would go unnoticed?”
The pawn shop owner.
Of course.
That’s who gave me away.
Tristan shoves me into the arms of one of the waiting cops. “Cuff her,” he orders.
Startled, I try to flail. But there’s no escape route available anymore. Two cops converge around me and suddenly, my hands are being bound together behind my back.
I don’t protest. I’m too busy looking for Cillian.
But he’s disappeared into the throng of people, not one of whom even bothers to meet my eyes anymore. As if the shittiness of my life is contagious and they’ll contract it if they look too hard for too long.
Just before I’m forced into the back of the cop car, Tristan grabs my face and twists it close to his again.
“There’s going to be consequences for this, my little whore,” he promises me in a violent hiss. “You’re going to rot in jail for the next few days. And while you’re there, I’m going to loan you out. Anyone who wants to can have a turn on you. Any man in blue. Hell, I’ll let a couple of the prisoners get a go as well.”
I look past him, still searching.
I was a fool to think he’d remember me.
But I know one thing for certain now. Something I’ve always questioned, because life has a habit of turning dreamers into cynics.
It tells us that something can’t possibly be sincere if it happens too fast.
Or too young.
Or too suddenly.
But now, I know.
Seeing him again after thirteen years has made it clear.
I fell in love with Cillian O’Sullivan thirteen years ago.
I never stopped loving him.
I never forgot him.
The question is…
Did he forget me?
27
Cillian
I’m here. I’m back.
The flight back to Dublin was fraught with a whirlwind of emotions. I’d done this before, of course, when I left Ireland for the first time. Some of it felt the same, but in reverse.
Unlike that first flight, though, I didn’t sleep for so much as a second. My mind stayed awake and active the entire time.
I thought about my parents a lot. About Ma and Da, ensconced in the O’Sullivan Manor without so much as a clue that I’m about to arrive on their doorstep.
But the person who most dominated my thoughts was her.
Saoirse Connelly.
I’ve purposefully refrained from asking Kian about her. I have a feeling he knows more than he’s letting on, but I decided I’d rather find out for myself.
Of course, I enter Dublin under the guise of a new identity.
Kian and I made sure to travel separately so that we’re not immediately linked together.
The Kinahans are everywhere and we didn’t want them tipped off about my presence sooner than they needed to be.
Come to think of it, we didn’t want Da tipped off sooner than he needed to be, either.
Airport security waves me through with no problems. Once I clear customs, I find myself walking towards the sliding doors.
One last barrier between me and the city I was born and raised in.
My heart expands as I step through into the balmy Irish sunrise.
I close my eyes for a moment. Breathe in the air.
It fucking feels different here.
This is the return I was hoping for. This is the salvation I needed. This is the—
“Oi!”
“Ma’am!”
“Stop her!”
“Get back here!”
A cacophony of voices explodes, ruining my feel-good moment.
I open my eyes.
And then I sense a commotion occurring only a few feet away from me. There’s a group of cops converging on the scene.
I stiffen and blanch—Did the Kinahans know I was coming?
But then I realize that no one’s paying me any attention. All the cops, the pedestrians, everyone is staring at the woman in the middle of all the chaos.
And that woman?
She’s looking right at me.
Clear blue eyes. Wild red hair. A tight, fiery clench to her jaw.
No.
No fucking way.
It can’t be.
I close my eyes again and turn away.
It’s not her. It can’t be. The coincidence is too insane to be real.
I spent the entire flight thinking about her. It makes sense that my mind has manifested a mirage of her to taunt me as I step foot on Irish soil.
When I look back up again, I see a redheaded woman being put into the back seat of a cop car.
She’s cuffed and rigid with tension. Her back is to me, so I can’t see her face.
She looks so much like the first and only girl I’d ever loved.
But it’s not her. No fucking c
hance.
Why would Saoirse be getting cuffed and thrown into a cop car like some goddamn criminal?
I swallow the burning need to move forward, to peer into the car, and catch a glimpse of her face. Mostly to prove to myself that it’s all in my head.
Instead, I turn and walk away.
* * *
The car’s waiting just outside the airport.
Kian’s already in the back seat when I slip in beside him.
I don’t recognize the driver. But then again, I’ve been gone a long time.
I do notice how he glances at me every few seconds, though. I can practically see the gleam of curiosity in his eyes.
The prodigal son returns. It’s newsworthy, I suppose.
“Home,” Kian says at the exact same time I say, “The Free Canary.”
“The Free fucking Canary?” Kian asks, looking at me as though I’ve gone completely mad. “Seriously?”
“Just a quick pit stop,” I explain. “I need a drink.”
“We have a fully stocked wine cellar and several bars all over the manor,” Kian points out. “And Ireland hasn’t run out of liquor since you left home, believe it or not.”
“Come on, kid,” I argue. “I’ve been away thirteen fucking years. Give me a chance to adjust. Before going back… there.”
The fight goes out of Kian’s eyes as he eyes me cautiously.
“Fuck,” he groans under his breath. “You asshole.”
I grin. “Atta boy.”
“We’re only staying for one drink,” Kian tells me. “That’s it.”
“Yes, sir,” I reply, saluting him dramatically. “You’ve really fallen into your role, eh?”
“Bite me, wanker.”
I smirk as we roll down the streets of Dublin. I stare out the window, trying to soak it all in.
There are many things that have changed. Many things that have stayed the same.
I feel a little tug of irritation and regret every time I see a new building, a new sign, an up-and-coming apartment building. As if none of this should have happened without my explicit permission.
But I take comfort in the stuff that’s still exactly how I remember it.
The old pubs. The gardens dotted amidst the concrete jungle. The people.
“I can’t believe we’re going back to the scene of the fucking crime,” Kian says, shaking his head in disbelief.
“No one will expect me to ever go back there,” I reason. “We’ll be safe.”
“You were always a fucking dreamer.”
I twist my neck towards him. “Careful,” I say. “You’re starting to sound like Da, too.”
“Fuck you, mate.”
I smirk. “I tell you the truth because I love you.”
“Is that so?” he drawls. “Well, allow me to return the favor. You want to go back to the Free Canary because it’s the last place you were truly happy.”
I freeze with the shock of his words.
They’re so fucking true that it actually takes me by surprise.
“Yeah,” Kian replies with a curt nod. “I know things.” His voice is dark. Guarded. But his eyes are searching my face for confirmation.
“How?”
Kian shrugs. “I’m good at reading people. And I’ve had years to analyze what happened that night. Years trying to dissect that incident, to try and figure out why you did what you did.”
“Was it worth it?”
I try to figure out if there’s bitterness in his tone, but if there is, I can’t hear it.
I don’t have to think about my answer, though. “Yes. It was worth it.”
Kian nods. “She must have been something.”
“She was fucking everything.”
We fall into a restless silence after that.
I can sense the fast-moving twist of Kian’s thoughts. He reminds me of so many people at once. He reminds me of Ma on her good days. Da on his bad ones.
He reminds me of Sean when he was happy.
* * *
When we get to The Free Canary, it’s as if we’ve gone back in time. I start to feel like that eighteen-year-old kid again, poised for the adventure of a lifetime.
Of course, the adventure had turned into a nightmare.
But that’s the risk you take when you decide you want excitement.
The alternative is boredom.
And I’ve never signed up for that.
Kian doesn’t leave me a lot of room to walk in slowly, to take it all in like I want to. He marches me into the building, up the stairs, and to the bar.
Looks a hell of a lot worse than I remember. My patronage must’ve really been keeping the place afloat back in the day.
It’s pretty fucking early, though, so the bar is quiet, mostly empty.
Just a couple of drunks in the back booth and one lone bartender manning the fort. The guy’s got a full ginger beard and ranging eyes that stare a little too hard and linger a little too long.
“You two starting early today?” he asks in a strong brogue.
I’m acutely aware that my accent has faded hard with time. I’ve never been embarrassed of that until right now.
“Two pints,” I say instead of answering the question.
“And make it fast,” Kian adds.
“Jesus. When did you get to be so fucking uptight?” I demand.
Kian doesn’t betray a thing he’s thinking. “Around the time my two older brothers took off without a backward glance and left me to deal with the shit that was meant to be their responsibility.”
Well, shit. Fair is fair.
From a certain angle, there’s a lightness in him that reminds me of myself.
But that last statement betrayed a brooding storm that’s pure Sean.
Maybe I’ve been naïve to assume that Kian just understood things implicitly. He was only ten when I left. When Sean left, too.
Neither one of us gave him the goodbye he deserved.
Neither one of us gave him a goddamn thing, actually.
And I highly doubt that Da held his hand through what must have been a harsh transition.
As for Ma, there’s no telling what she might’ve done. She could be compassionate. She could be patient. Even kind.
But her softness was short-lived, and her moments of tenderness were fleeting. Which meant she rarely tolerated it in others.
In that way, my parents are perfect for each other. Probably why their marriage has lasted as long as it has.
“There were many backward glances, Kian,” I tell him gently. “Many.”
“If you’re gonna tell me you had no choice, then save it,” he says, taking a sip of his beer with forced detachment. “I don’t need to hear it.”
“I didn’t want to leave Ireland.”
“Yeah, yeah. Spare me.”
“I thought you understood.”
“Doesn’t mean I wasn’t mad,” he replies. “Doesn’t mean I’m not still mad.”
“At which part?” I ask. “Losing your brothers? Or becoming the heir?”
“Both. All of it,” Kian acknowledges.
“You’re better suited to it than Sean or I ever were.”
“No. No, fuck you, you don’t get to do that,” Kian snaps. “I’ve got enough riding on my shoulders without you adding pressure. The two of you got to leave. But I don’t have that option. I’m all Da has now.”
I can feel the frustration emanating off him in waves.
“Except you do have an option,” I remind him. “Da can’t control you.”
Kian looks at me. And that one look tells me a lot.
It tells me he’s grown up fast and hard.
He’s a hardened man who never had the chance to be a boy.
“That option involves disappointing our parents,” he replies. “And I can’t do that. They’ve lost too many children already.”
And there it is.
The one thing that sets him apart from our father. He’s got the classic steel-edged toughness—but it’s temp
ered with compassion.
“I’m proud of you, Kian,” I tell him, putting my hand on his shoulder.
He seems uncomfortable with the contact, but he doesn’t shake me off.
* * *
We linger for a while, even though it makes Kian wildly uncomfortable. But I’m content to sit here and soak in the memories.
The sun is high in the sky by the time he finally insists on us leaving.
“We should get going,” he mutters.
“Fine, you stuffy bastard.” I glance towards the bartender to ask for the bill, only to realize that he’s already looking straight at me.
How long has he been watching us?
How long has he been listening?
“You sure you two don’t want another round?” he asks.
“Positive,” Kian says firmly, tossing a few bills on the bar top and heading for the door.
I take in the bartender’s surly appearance. Something’s not right about him, but I chalk that up to the unfamiliarity.
All the people of my past are gone.
“Do you know a Gabe Atkins?” I ask him suddenly.
“No. Should I?”
“He used to work here,” I explain. “About thirteen years ago.”
“I started only five years back,” he replies. “Never heard of a Gabe anybody.”
“Right.” I nod. “Cheers then, mate.”
I leave and follow Kian back outside where the car’s waiting for us. There’s no avoiding the inevitable any longer.
It’s time to go back home.
“Has it changed much?” I ask. I don’t have to explain what I’m talking about.
Kian shrugs. “It’s been updated, I suppose,” he replies. “You know Da likes to renovate, keep shit modern. His office is the same, though. Time can’t touch that place.”
“How about our parents themselves?” I ask. “Have they changed much?”
Kian smirks. “What do you think?”
We leave it at that.
28
Cillian
I make the driver take the long way through the city. Kian’s not happy about it, but he indulges me. I stare out the window and drink up the sights I’ve missed down to my bones.