by Aubrey Irons
“Has dad actually been to this place?”
Sierra snorts. “What do you think.”
“An investor?”
She rolls her eyes. “Don’t look at me.”
Walking inside is yet another step back in time.
This place is exactly the same - the memories of it all coming rushing back the second the lights and the smells and the sound of it all comes wafting over me.
To be fair, the floor is less sticky than it was, and you can’t smoke here anymore. Massachusetts laws may have changed long before I left home, but the patrons of O’Donnell’s back then were hold-outs. The last stand at the Alamo, with their God-given right to chain smoke Parliaments and Marlboro Reds in a haze of smoke on the line.
Things have obviously changed with Rowan running the place, but you can still get that linger of tobacco that’s seeped into the rafters and the walls.
The same jukebox with the same bizarre mix of country, 90’s R&B, and classic rock on blasts through the bar from the corner. The same Sox baseball posters with players that retired forty years ago still adorn the walls at not-quite-right angles. Okay, there might actually be more Red Sox crap in here since our brother took over.
There’s two giggling girls at the end of the bar, gushing with the bartender in the black t-shirt, the hair cut short on the sides and long on top, the tattoos on his arms, the charmer grin on his face.
I roll my eyes.
“Rowan!” Sierra snaps.
The bartender slash owner slash our brother looks up from the townie girls who look about nineteen, locks eyes with us, and grins hugely.
Oh, damnit, he’s going to-
“Oy oy! Ladies and gentlemen!” Rowan crows over the noisy bar. He reaches back for the old brass bell that hangs above the liquor shelves and starts to clang the hell out of it as I cringe and drop my face into my hands.
“Ivy Hammond is back in town!”
There are some drunken cheers from around the room, a few eyes from people who do actually know who I am - if even just by last name recognition in this town.
I cringe as Sierra rubs my shoulders.
“I mean, you knew he was going to do that, right?”
Rowan ducks under the service bar door and runs over, scooping me up and giving me a spinning hug.
“Hey, Slimy!”
I groan and punch him in the arm. “Ugh, don’t call me that.”
It’s not the nickname I hate, it’s who came up with it when I was twelve and he was fourteen.
Silas, of course.
“So!” Rowan hauls back over to the bar and ducks back under it. “What are we drinking!”
“Something that isn’t Mom’s God-awful sauvignon blanc, please.” Sierra mutters.
Rowan shakes his head with this dramatically contrite look on his face. “Sorry, Slimy, no fair trade free-union sun-warmed small distillery whatever here.”
I flip him off with a grin.
He laughs and holds up bottle of Jameson, and I make a face.
“Uck, meet me halfway at least.”
He laughs. “Beer, then? Or are you back to half-soy, non-gluten-”
“Beer is fine, dick.”
He chuckles as he reaches back for a cold glass from the fridge.
“What do want, Si-Si,” he nods at our younger sister. “Shirley Temple?”
“Har-har-har.” She rolls her eyes. “Vodka martini, dirty.”
Rowan raise a brow at her. “Remind me if you’re even old enough to be here again?”
Sierra turned twenty-one nine months ago, but I snort a laugh into the beer he slides in front of me at our brother’s inescapable need to get under people’s skin whenever he can.
“Like you’ve ever been concerned with legal drinking age?”
“Hey, I’m a responsible business owner now,” Rowan puts a serious face on as he straightens an imaginary tie.
“Dick.”
Rowan laughs as he grabs the mixing tins and starts to make her drink.
“Hey, responsible business owner,” I raise a stern brow at him. “Are they old enough to be here?” I nod at the two girls in strappy tank tops with bare stomachs and pierced navels that he was flirting with when we walked in.
Rowan nods seriously. “You know, that is a very good question, and I will certainly look into that.” His eyes twinkle as he grins.
“I take it this means I won’t be seeing Sarah this trip?”
“Sarah dumped him.”
Rowan waves a hand at Sierra. “Mutual decision.”
“His stuff was on the lawn,” she snickers.
Rowan glares at Sierra and I laugh. “Same old, same old, huh?”
He grins. “Yeah, well, you know how-”
Rowan’s face suddenly goes dark. “Oh, fuck, actually…shit.”
He looks at me. “Fuck, Ivy, I gotta tell you something.”
I give him a sour look, the glee of seeing my brother for the first time in forever suddenly giving way to the dark cloud named Silas from earlier.
“She knows,” Sierra says, shooting him a look herself.
Rowan’s brows arch up as he winces. “You saw him?”
“First thing off the ferry,” I mumble, taking a large sip of the beer in front of me.
“Thanks for the heads up, by the way.”
He gives me a rueful look. “You wouldn’t have come to Dad’s thing if I had.”
“Nope.”
“Sorry, Ives,” he mumbles, twisting the bar towel in his hands.
“Forget it, I’m over it,” I say quickly, shrugging nonchalantly. I look up to see both siblings looking at me dubiously and I roll my eyes.
“Guys, it was eight years ago.”
And I’m still hanging onto it, as much as I’ll deny it if you ask me again.
“You guys were close, Iv-”
“Rowan,” I shrug again, taking another big gulp of cold beer. “It’s not a big deal. He was my high school boyfriend. And I’m very happy with Blaine now.”
Rowan holds my gaze another moment before he nods slowly. “Okay, okay, fine. No harm no foul then?”
I sigh, grinning at him. “No harm no foul.”
“Whiskey to celebrate?” He beams at me as he holds up the bottle again and I make a face.
“I’m in,” Sierra pipes up.
“Adults only, kid.”
She flips our brother off as he and I crack up.
“You guys go ahead, I’m going to call Blaine.”
“Yeah where is that guy anyways?” Rowan looks up from the two shots he’s pouring for Sierra and himself.
“Long story,” I wave my hand, frowning at the shitty signal on my phone.
“The back office actually has the best service,” Rowan says, raising his shot and clinking it against Sierra’s. “Quieter too.”
I leave my siblings to their whiskey as I push my way through the crowded bar towards the back hallway - past the “Yankees Piss Off” sign on the men’s room towards Rowan’s office. It’s quiet after I shut the door, and I’m dialing Blaine as I sit in my brother’s desk chair.
Straight to voicemail.
I frown and send a quick “Miss you!” text with a stupid little kissy-face emoji, and then sit back to stare at the phone. I perk up for a second at the little blinking dots that alert me that he’s typing something back, but after a minute, they disappear.
I scowl, my shoulders slumping as I get up from Rowan’s desk.
The door slams open.
“Alright asshole I fixed that keg line for-”
Silas pauses, halfway through the door to the office, and about a foot away from me, wiping the grease off his hands as his eyes lock onto me.
“-You.”
Chapter Ten
Silas
Well, so much for clearing my head.
This town’s too small, cause here she is all over again.
I’m wiping the grease and the grime off my hands from fixing the tap line I took it upon myself to f
ix when I first pulled up behind O’Donnell’s.
Ivy’s glaring at me, shaking her head. “I should get going.”
“Didn’t know you’d be here,” I mutter, my eyes locked on hers, dipping down over the swell of those lips, the curve of her jaw, the pulse in the hollow of her neck.
“It’s my brother’s bar, Silas. What are you doing here?”
Her brow wrinkles as she looks at dirty towel in my stained hands - this new clean, primped and manicured version of the small-town girl I used to know with skinned knees and torn jeans.
“Just fixing some stuff for Rowan is all.” I shrug. “Least I could do for him putting me-”
My mouth snaps shut the second I see the dawning realization on her face, but it’s too late.
Oops.
“You’re staying with my brother?” Her jaw drops, her look accusatory.
I shake my head. “No, not at his place with the whole Sarah thing going on.” I jerk my head behind me. “He’s got a cot in the back store room here I’ve been posting up at.”
She rolls her eyes. “You’re living at O’Donnell’s?”
There’s something cutting about the words that makes my jaw tense. “I’m not living anywhere in this fucking town,” I growl out. “I told you, I’m just here for-”
“Yeah, no, got it.”
She grabs her bag and the beer off of Rowan’s desk. “Well, I’ve got a lot to do tomorrow for the website,” she waves her hand absently as she glances at her phone. “Shoot for Instagram, some calls to make.” She pushes past me into the hallway, but I turn and snag her arm.
“Look, hang out for one-”
She whips her hair back as she whirls at me, her eyes pulling back to mine, her look fierce. “I don’t have time for grimy dives like this.”
“Hey, you used to love it here.”
We both used to love it here when she and I used to sneak beers up on the roof. And later, when we’d forget all about the damn beers when we’d get lost in each other’s lips.
Except that Ivy is gone, I can see that now. That Ivy wore ripped jeans and my old Sox t-shirts. This one’s wearing fucking heels in a place like this, and that skirt that looks entirely too good on that ass and those legs, with glamorous, bangly jewelry, makeup, and a scowl.
I never saw any of those things on the girl I used to know.
The girl I married.
That girl’s moved on.
“Yeah, well,” she waves her hand again dismissively, in this ridiculous “New York” way.
And then it hits me.
She hasn’t just gotten over me, she’s gotten over this whole damn town- all of it.
She thinks she’s better than all this now, with her stupid fashion crap, her insta-whatever, and all her fake online “friends” and “followers.” She’s forgotten all about the small-town girl I fell in love with all those years ago.
And it digs at me.
Because whatever happened with us, and that night, and then me leaving, this town is still home. This is the home that raised her, and this new big city social media queen version of Ivy is actually starting to piss me off.
“So are we going to do this every time we bump into each other?” I glare at her.
Ivy sighs dramatically. “Well I can’t imagine that’ll happen many more times since I’m leaving this town directly after Dad’s dedication.”
I roll my eyes. “I just figured we should at least talk like normal fucking people, Ivy.”
Her mouth goes tight, her eyes flaring. “About what, Silas? What do we have to talk about?”
“I would think a fair amount.”
“I already told you, I’ve moved past it,” she says, shrugging flippantly. “Yeah, it sucked when you left, but that was eight years ago, and believe me, I’ve moved on.” She holds my gaze a moment longer before she looks away. “I found someone else.”
She says it like it’s meant to cut.
It’s working.
It’s a thought that’s stabbed at me for years, knowing there’d be someone else after me. It was knowing she’d move on eventually and find someone who saw how incredible she was and loved her. And even if they didn’t love her as much as me, hell, they’d at least fucking stay.
At least they wouldn’t turn out to be exactly the criminal she never wanted to be with and live up to every shit expectation the rest of this fucking town had for them.
And I’m no saint. It’s not like I’ve been some sort of celibate monk for the last eight damn years. But none of the others ever meant a damn thing. Basic needs were met, some nice words spoken, some fun times had, and that’s it.
I never let a single damn one of them inside. Because no one ever came fucking close to holding a candle to what I had here all those years ago with this girl standing in front of me, glaring at me while Journey belts out over the bar stereo.
“Right, the surfer.”
She narrows her eyes at me. “What, are you stalking me?”
I bark out a laugh. “You’ve got like a million fucking strangers who follow your shit online, and you’re worried about someone you actually know seeing your boyfriend?”
“He’s not a surfer,” she mutters. “He’s more of a digital nomad.”
I roll my eyes. “Sounds very romantic.”
“It is.”
I shut up.
“Good,” I finally say, my words crisp and my teeth grinding at the thought of her having something like that with whoever this prick is. “Good for you.”
“Yeah, good for me, Silas.”
The women’s bathroom door suddenly swings open, and two girls who I recognize from trying to run wingman for Rowan the other night tumble out, giggling. The brunette catches my eye, grinning as she recognizes me.
“Hey stranger!” She gushes with this annoying wink, stepping right up to me and running a finger up my arm before giving Ivy a stink eye.
“I didn’t even know you were here!”
I frown. “Yeah, I’m- look, I’m sort of in the middle of something.”
“Come dance!” The friend who Rowan was trying to charm the other night says with a booze-soaked smile on her face.
“Maybe later.”
I ignore them as they giggle and trip their way back around the corner to the bar.
Ivy’s lips go tight as her brows shoot up.
“It’s not like that,” I mutter.
She smiles thinly, rolling her eyes. “I’m sure its not.”
“Ivy-“
“Silas, it’s exactly what it looks like because you became exactly what everyone said you’d be.”
I can feel my brow furrow. “Oh? And what’s that, sweetheart?”
“A townie.”
She spits it out like it’s this dirty word and I snort. “Got news for you, Ivy. We’re both townies.”
“I left.”
“Yeah, so did-”
I snap my mouth shut, but Ivy barks out a mirthless laugh.
“Doesn’t look like it helped though. Here you are, right back in this fucking bar.” She nods at the backwards baseball hat on my head that I borrowed from Rowan. “You’ve got the townie Sox hat on and everything. Oh and picking up girls like that?”
She jerks her head at the bathroom door.
I fold my arms over my chest. “You done?”
“Hardly.”
I take a step towards her and she moves back, her back against the hallway wall behind her.
“Please, continue. What other wonderful stereotypes have I managed to live up to?”
“Being the thieving liar you were always going to be.”
“I never lied.”
“So is that a ‘yes’ on thieving?”
I say nothing.
Dead on the money.
It was petty shit here, back when we were kids. It was lifting candy from Conlin’s drug store, a bottle of warm beer or two from the loading dock of this place. That all changed with the heist that night, eight years ago.
That’s the night I went from junior varsity to the big leagues in the blink of an eye and the flash of a gun. And I’ve been playing the game ever since, working all sorts of jobs for Declan’s people over in Dublin.
The thing is, I’ve only been great - truly great - at two things in this world.
Taking things that don’t belong to me, and loving Ivy Hammond.
…You could maybe lump that second one into the first.
Ivy snorts at my silence. “Yeah, exactly what I thought.”
“I never lied to you,” I growl, feeling my pulse jump up a notch.
Her eyes dart across mine, her teeth rake across her lip.
“You told me you loved me, Silas.”
Her words are quiet, but icy.
“You told me forever.”
The color rushes into her cheeks, as if she’s embarrassed to admit she remembers that.
I sure as fuck have.
“You told me ‘I do,’” she almost whispers.
I step into her suddenly, pushing her right back into the wall behind her as my hands land on either side of her.
Fuck.
It’s both totally different and exactly the same, being this close to her.
It’s her scent.
She’s got new shampoo, new perfume, and new clothes. But people just smell a certain way, even if you can’t explain it.
And she smells like home.
She always has, and goddamnit, she always will.
She bristles as I close the distance between us, a shiver visibly running through her. Her pupils go wide, her sweet, soft lips part.
And I’m right back to being a kid again.
I’m right back to kissing her on the pier, in my truck, on the roof of this damn bar.
“Step back,” she whispers, her lip trembling and her eyes locked on mine.
“Excuse me?”
She slowly shakes her head. “Step away from me, Silas.”
No fucking way.
Because as much as she’s getting under my skin, and as much as I want to call her this uppity city girl who’s left this small town her rearview mirror, I’m drawn to her like a fucking magnet. I’m glued to those eyes and dying to taste those lips. Being this close to her is like being starving and coming across the best meal you could ever imagine.
Being this close to her is like coming home.