Broken Enagement_A Second Chance Secret Baby Romance

by Gage Grayson

  No fucking way.

  “A bottle of Jameson,” I shout to the bartender and prowl back to my seat.

  I’m not a runner. I don’t fucking run away from life.

  In fact, I glare it right in the eyes and ask it, What the fuck do you want?

  There’s no point in running away anyway. I mean, what am I running from, exactly? I remind myself over and over and again that I’m fucking overreacting.

  Killian, you’re overreacting.

  It almost becomes a mantra.

  Back in my seat, I stare at everything and nothing. People all around me are having a good time.

  There’s jovial conversation, friendly banter, and lots of laughter.

  A joyful vibe fills the air, and I take a deep breath, trying to inhale just a touch of it for myself.

  I grab the bottle of Jameson and pour myself a glass. Then, I pick up the glass and down in with one large gulp.

  Before I’ve finished fucking swallowing, I fill the glass the again.

  By now, my eyes are glued to the door. I’m waiting for Rebecca to come back.

  The second glass goes down as fast as the first, and I’m onto my third.

  On my fourth glass, I remind myself I’m a worthy human being. My value doesn’t decrease because some other fuckhead can’t see it.

  And what does it matter, anyway?

  I mean, at the end of the day...it’s all bullshit, anyway.

  And with that thought, I gulp down my fifth glass.

  Fuck the lot of you. I don’t need you, any of you.

  33

  Rebecca

  Well, this is surely the last thing I expected to see.

  Not Killian taking down a glass of whiskey. That’s too fucking expected in any day ending with y, especially down at the local pub where they seem to have no issues enabling every one of his bad habits.

  Okay, one of his worst habits. It’s a fucking big one, but...

  Seeing Killian pour amber poison straight from a poorly-cleaned glass right down his throat is not what’s taking me by surprise in this moment.

  It’s the face he seems to be making after each swallow. And sometimes, in between—although there doesn’t seem to be many gaps.

  “Okay. Okay,” Killian weirdly repeats the word as he finishes his latest glass.

  The way he says it doesn’t sound to me like he’s saying okay, I’m done, that’s enough for tonight. His inflection seems to be saying, okay, I’m finished with that one—boy, this is hard work, but I’ve got a lot more drinking to do tonight.

  Killian raises his arm in a quick, subtle gesture—for him, I’m sure it’s enough for the barman to come rushing over with more whiskey.

  It takes a lot more for me to get anyone’s attention around here—but I’m not fucking Killian, am I?

  Killian takes a sip from his pint of Arthur, which I thought was meant as a chaser. A chaser for each sip I mean, not for each glass.

  And he fucking grimaces after that sip.

  Of fucking Guinness.

  It reminds me of my friend Steph’s twenty-first birthday, years ago.

  Even then, she’s not someone I saw make any sort of intense face for any reason. The only expression Steph was known for was a warm smile, or a wonderful look of empathy as you unloaded whatever petty drama was going on in your life.

  Yes, even at that age, that was something I could always rely on her for.

  But the evening of her twenty-first, at some bar in Silverlake, our mutual friend, Cathy, her eyes full of impish glee, had her own wise idea of buying Steph her first shot of whiskey.

  I don’t remember what sort of whiskey it was—not Jameson or anything like that, for sure—most likely, it was a shitty well bourbon that the bar got super cheap in bulk.

  Smiling politely, Steph held up the glass, looking at it as if it were some handmade piece of art Cathy crafted just for her.

  “Just take the fucking shot, that’s what it was meant for,” Cathy instructed our friend. “Just down the fuckin’ hatch, girl, that’s the way to do it.”

  Steph poured the shot down as advised, and what spread across her face, almost instantly, was one of the most pained grimaces I’ve ever seen. A few seconds later, Steph had recovered and joined us in our hysterical laughter.

  That’s still a treasured memory of mine, but seeing nearly the same grimace from Killian, repeatedly, for seemingly no reason at all at this point, is putting new, unwelcome dimensions on that grimace.

  Much of the time I’ve spent with Killian, both years ago and now, has been intimate in many ways. But that doesn’t mean I know him.

  Obviously, there’s a gap between how well I know Killian physically, and how well I know him otherwise. Tonight, I’m learning just how wide that gap is.

  If I want to close that gap, I have a lot of catching up to do.

  That’s a big if, and it gets bigger with every goddamned grimace he makes.

  “Is the Guinness harsh tonight?” I ask.

  I don’t know what response to expect. A laugh would be nice, at least for breaking some of this mysterious tension. Another fucking grimace would be something, I guess.

  All I get is a shrug.

  Followed by another gulp of Guinness.

  Followed, a few seconds later, by yet another sour face. It looks like he’s trying to hide it a little, now that I’ve called him out on it.

  His latest scowl is followed by a bit of a clue. I’ve already figured it wasn’t the taste of the alcohol that was inspiring Killian’s pained expressions, and his eyes traveling to the left somewhere confirms that his mind is on something in another part of the pub.

  The joint is crowded tonight—it could be a lot of things.

  Maybe there’s some other woman he’s seeing, maybe another woman he has a baby agreement with. Maybe she’s another American, too, and they met in Dublin when he was there to sign his latest publishing contract, and now she unexpectedly showed up at his local pub...

  Fuck it—I take a look over there myself.

  Okay, I wasn’t expecting to see all these grimaces from Killian tonight—why would I? However, I should’ve expected the reason for it by now.

  There’s Brian Flanagan, standing by the bar, half-leaning against it elegantly, absorbed in conversation with two women who’ve clearly made their way to the bar just to talk to him.

  Fuck, I never knew posture could be elegant, but then, I never knew Brian Flanagan was such a charming presence in person. Thinking about it, it might be the reason behind his success.

  I’ve read a couple of Flanagan’s books, and I’ve figured there may have been some other reason behind his success than his writing.

  Some of it is okay, but he’s not in the same league as Killian Walsh, even though they’re considered peers.

  Admittedly, wrapped up in the moment with Flanagan just a few minutes ago, I was so impressed that for a moment his writing became better in my mind.

  The spell, for me, is already broken. I mean, he’s still obviously an attractive, stylish, pleasant, delightfully gregarious...

  Killian slams his pint glass down on the table as if he could hear my thoughts. Not hard enough to break it, fortunately.

  “Careful there, Mr. Walsh.” A bartender I’ve never seen before is there to deliver Killian’s whiskey. “I don’t know if your next royalty check’s going to cover a new table.”

  “I told you to call me fucking Killian.”

  The statement itself is kind of funny, but Killian’s tone of voice is frightening the living shit out of me. The fact that this is the first thing I’ve heard him say in ages makes it even worse.

  “Well, Fucking Killian, please restrain from slamming any more of our pint glasses, at least until you have a new best seller.”

  “Keep bringing the whiskeys, Rowan, and stop bringing the fucking lip.”

  “How much more whiskey do you really think you’ll be needing tonight, Fucking Killian?”

  There’s a flash of
shame in Killian’s eyes as he registers the question from this Rowan guy—who, I’m deciding, I like very much.

  Well, I’d like him more if he didn’t bring Killian the whiskey at all, but on the other hand, I’m not sure why I even give a shit anymore.

  “Fuck this.” Killian takes the whiskey down in a single swallow, turns his head to where Flanagan is standing, and very slowly turns back to the table. “We’re getting the fuck out of here, Rowan, since you clearly don’t need our business.”

  “Well, Mr. Fucking Killian, I don’t know how we’ll survive without providing you any more free drinks tonight, but I can’t make you stay if you don’t want to.”

  Rowan leaves, maybe wisely, with that last quip, and Killian almost falls out of his chair before bumbling over to the exit.

  I follow, trying halfheartedly to catch up.

  Truthfully, I’m fine with leaving the pub at this point. But I’m not ecstatic about spending more time with Killian.

  “Nice to see you didn’t abandon me,” he mutters when I finally catch up with him outside.

  I say nothing.

  What I wouldn’t give for a taxi right now, or a friend to call and pick me up. But here in the open air, on this path, it’s too easy to storm off somewhere.

  On top of that, it’s getting to the point I should probably make sure Killian gets home okay.

  But, goddamn it. This is all starting to feel too fucking familiar: the fear of what his mood is going to be like from one moment to the next, or what’s going to set him off, or even what’s really upsetting him.

  That’s the worst part about this now familiar situation. Even if he’s in a fantastic mood tomorrow, you don’t know when that storm cloud is going to float back in again.

  Maybe Ireland is just the same as anywhere else.

  34

  Killian

  I’m still fucking pissed as we finally arrive at the cottages. I want nothing more than to be far away from Rebecca right now.

  Emotions that I haven’t been familiar with in a fucking time are fucking surfacing, and they won’t be pushed back down. Hurt, anger, jealousy…I don’t even fucking know anymore.

  All I know is I need a respite. I need the solace of my own fucking home.

  There’s more whiskey waiting for me there, and I can hear it calling my name. I don’t even want to think tonight. I just want to be numb, and Jameson is the perfect solution for that.

  Doing the gentlemanly thing, I walk Rebecca to her front door.

  “See ya.”

  That’s it, and I’m ready to fucking leave.

  I hate those two fucking words together, but I said ’em.

  It’s the most careless, heartless goodbye in the English language—a goodbye I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy.

  But I let it leave my lips, because I’m ready to leave myself, and I don’t have the patience for the usual pleasantries.

  Why even be fucking pleasant anymore? Why try to engender more warmth between us?

  That’s what got us here in the first place.

  Now look where the fuck we are.

  I turn to head home, thinking I’ve made my easy escape already.

  Just a few short steps and I can say bugger off to this goddamn night.

  “Okay, Killian, my curiosity’s just getting the better of me now. What the hell is your problem?” The tone she takes makes it clear she’s on the defensive.

  Internally, I groan.

  So much for that easy escape, Mack.

  “Problem? I don’t know what—” I’m not putting much effort into this feigning ignorance business.

  “Stuff it,” she cuts off my rambling excuse for an excuse. “You’ve been in a shitty mood since before we left the pub.”

  Well, she’s in this for the long haul.

  Fuck.

  “I don’t remember asking for a wife, Rebecca,” I snarl. “If I wanted someone to nag me, I’d have suggested we get married instead of simply having a baby.”

  “I’m not nagging—”

  “Yeah, you fucking are,” I reel around on her, my hands stuffed firmly in my pockets. “What do you care what’s wrong? Who says anything is wrong?”

  “Because I care about you.”

  Oh, that’s rich.

  “Who asked you to?! Certainly not me.”

  I’m being a right arsehole and I know it. Unfortunately for Rebecca, I’m drunk off my face, and I don’t give a shite what comes out of my mouth.

  “Well, I am having your baby, Killian, and that’s kind of a big deal.”

  “Yeah, it’s a deal. Exactly right. One you agreed to. To have a baby. Nobody asked you to care or involve yourself in my life beyond that.”

  “So you’re saying you don’t care about me?”

  “That’s not—” I stop myself short. I honestly don’t know what the fuck to say. “Let’s not have this conversation right now.”

  “Let’s not? So when’s a good time?”

  “Christ, Rebecca! I don’t know, but it’s not now!” My voice is coming out in an aggressive growl, as though my inner demons are finally coming out of hiding to confirm their existence.

  The more we argue, the more pissed off I’m getting. I can literally feel the anger bubbling out and getting ready to spill over.

  This is turning into a goddamn lover’s quarrel, and we’re not fucking lovers. We’re two people who sleep together for fun—to satisfy each other’s desire.

  And yes, to have a baby, because I wanted a fucking deadline extension.

  How fucking absurd.

  Her eyes go wide momentarily, and I can sense the hesitation in her body language.

  “Y-You’re scaring me, if I’m honest, Killian.” She’s fidgeting, twisting her fingers together.

  That statement hits me harder than I expected. I’m scaring her?

  There’s no reason to be scared, for fuck’s sake.

  You’re simply taking this entire thing too far, Rebecca.

  The very fact that she can see through me to those tucked-away corners that I’ve shut everyone else off from is the very reason that I want to just end this shite right where we stand.

  “That’s fucking ridiculous.”

  “It’s not. Your mood changes at the drop of a hat. One moment you’re smiling and joking and acting like an actual person who dares to get some joy out of life. The next you’re brooding and drowning yourself in Guinness and whiskey with dark storm clouds following you everywhere. Do I even want to know why that is?”

  “It’s ridiculous. This is turning into a lot more than it was supposed to be. I didn’t ask for a goddamn therapy session. I simply want to be left alone.”

  I don’t want any more intrusions on my life. She’s already wormed her way into areas that I swore she would never reach.

  My life is fucking simple. I want to write, I want to drink, and I want to be alone.

  What I don’t want to have to do is answer to anyone else other than my publisher, and even that’s pushing it.

  For fuck’s sake, that’s enough fucking pressure as it is. And I hardly even have to go there in fucking person.

  “Look, I’m beginning to think this whole fucking thing was one colossal fucking mistake.” I look up and release a long breath. It’s brisk enough that the air escapes in a dense, shapeless fog.

  How very fitting.

  “That’s because you’re a fucking coward. It’s so easy to run away, but to take responsibility? That takes balls. Balls that you apparently don’t fucking have.”

  “I’m going home, Rebecca. And not because I’m a coward, but because this isn’t what we agreed on.”

  “Things change, Killian.”

  “Not this. Not my intentions. This was simply a way to make you a mother and borrow time until my next deadline. If things are changing, they’re changing on your end, not mine.”

  It’s only when I see the tears forming in her eyes that I realize I’ve gone too far.

  But you know what?
She needs to hear this.

  She needs to realize that having my baby doesn’t entitle her to any further rights in my life.

  “I’m leaving,” I say again, but my feet are firmly planted on her front porch.

  “Then fucking go already!”

  I make my way down the stairs when the door slams behind me.

  Then I hear Rebecca’s sobs.

  Good job, you selfish prick. Good job.

  35

  Rebecca

  The sky is bleak.

  Staring out the window, I can’t help but notice what a dreary fucking day it is. The usual charming fog that dances among the rolling hills is nowhere to be seen.

  It’s just dull. Bleak and fucking dull.

  The same as everywhere else in the fucking world.

  Yeah, this is what happens when I get mixed up in these fucking situations. I end up feeling fucking sorry for myself.

  And I shouldn’t. I should be angry at myself instead—angry for getting into a fucking situation like this now.

  And I’m way behind on my project, too. But at least I have something to try and occupy my time.

  It’s better to just throw myself into my work and forget about everything else. That’s what I came here for in the first place, right?

  To get away from my past. To start anew.

  Maybe that’s still possible.

  I look down at my easel.

  The illustrations are finally coming together now that I’ve decided the exact direction I want to take.

  They’re sophisticated and filled with color and vivid details, yet they fit the storyline so perfectly.

  Animals and landscapes form beneath my very fingers as they flit across the pages, bringing the author’s words into impressionistic pictures.

  One catches my eye though, and I don’t even realize it until the illustration’s nearly complete.

  That vase, those flowers. They look so much like the ones...the flowers on his nightstand.

  That thought alone makes me want to scrap the drawing, even if it’s part of the story.