Reckless Years

by Heather Chaplin

  I can’t even tell you how racked with guilt I feel. But then, something else too. As we leave Stag’s Head, it’s horrible, I know, but I feel a little spark of excitement in my chest. You haven’t lost yet, I think. Got him. A foot in the door.

  Later

  Through the taxi window, I see Kieran waiting for me in his doorway. He’s got one arm up against the frame, the other hanging loosely by his side. From half a block away I can see how strong and lean he is. I find myself flushing with desire, followed closely by shame.

  The taxi stops in front of his house. Kieran leaps across the sidewalk and opens my door. He’s all smiles, talking to me, talking to the taxi driver. “Here you are, girl. Was starting to worry about you—thanks for bringing her, mate. You find the place all right? Okay. Good. Good. Ta!” He insists on paying the cabbie and grabs my bag, waving me away with his free hand when I try to protest. “Don’t be ridiculous, girl,” he says. “Come on, come in. Come see my house.”

  I’m not sure what to make of this change. Was Stag’s Head a bad dream?

  Kieran leads me into his house, talking all the way. There are the kids’ rooms, that’s his bedroom, come up the stairs, here’s the kitchen, want a beer? Make yourself at home, sit down, I’ll bring it to you.

  The living room has blue walls, a Christmas tree flickering with Christmas lights, a stereo, stacks of CDs, and a burgundy-colored couch in two sections against the wall. “I’m a bachelor, as you can see”—laughter, the sound of the refrigerator door opening, a bottle cap being popped off—“but it’s mine.” He’s in the living room with me now, handing me a bottle of beer, throwing himself into a corner of the couch. “Been on my own for five months now. Actually having my own space, girl”—he makes a kind of whistling sound between his teeth—“well, I don’t need to tell you what that’s like, do I, girl? Mad stuff altogether.”

  I laugh. I’m so relieved, I could drop to my knees.

  I can’t help myself, though. I say, “Kieran, I don’t understand. You seem so much more relaxed now. You seemed so tense before.”

  “I was just off work then, girl. Now I’m home.”

  I think, this is more than the difference between home and work, but I don’t pursue it. I’m too relieved. Instead I jump up. “Kieran! I have a present for you!”

  Kieran rubs his hands together, cries out, “Amazing! I love surprises.”

  I pull a package wrapped in red tissue paper from my bag, hand it to him. “I got this for you in Hawaii since you said you’d always wanted to go there,” I say.

  It’s a lie. I bought it off the Internet when I got home. But he’ll never know.

  Kieran pulls apart the wrapping with a big smile on his face, holds the T-shirt up in front of him. It says “Hawaii” over a 1970s-style image of a surfer riding a wave. “Look at you, girl. Aren’t you magic? I love it.”

  I’m thinking, finally.

  “Should I try it on?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Kieran stands up and pulls the T-shirt he’s wearing off—in that way guys do, with one hand grabbing the fabric from behind the neck and pulling it over his head. I think, he’s showing off his body. And then I think, oh my God, his body.

  “Well, girl,” he says. “How do I look?”

  “You look fantastic,” I say. “I’m so pleased.”

  Kieran comes and sits down right next to me on the couch. “Thank you, Heather,” he says. And then he leans toward me and I don’t know whether he’s going for a peck on the cheek or a full-on kiss until I actually feel his lips pressing against mine.

  Half of me is thinking, finally, finally. The other half of me is thinking, don’t do it, Heather, if there’s one thing you know it’s pain. And this man is in PAIN.

  But I can’t resist him. Or I don’t know, maybe that’s why I can’t resist him.

  I feel his arms encircle my waist. I wrap my arms around his neck. He runs a forefinger down my cheek, leans his forehead against mine. “Picking up right where we left off, aren’t we, sweetheart?” he says. I nod, too shy suddenly to speak. He lays himself down on the couch and pulls me on top of him.

  Saturday, December 8, 2007

  Email:

  Summer, I slept with Kieran last night. I wasn’t going to, but then I did. I said, “Kieran, let’s go slow.” He said, “why?” And I said, “because I’m in a foreign country and you seem really tense.” Then he said, “well, we don’t have much time, girl.” And that really hurt. But then it was like a fog descended over me and my vision got blurry. I was wet, Summer. I was so wet. Why does he have this power over me? Then he kept saying, “Yeah, baby.” Like it wasn’t actually me there but rather some fantasy partner in some amateur porn he was filming in his mind. And Summer—he told me to lick his balls. I don’t know what to make of this. He said those exact words—“Lick my balls, baby.” Please tell me, has anyone ever said that to you? Is that normal? It felt like a slap. What happened to the man who rhapsodized about my skin in the moonlight? I feel so ashamed when I think about it. Not of doing it—because I did, and actually it was fine. But the way he said it. It was so impersonal.

  I hear him moving around upstairs. Please write back.

  Later

  Kieran makes us eggs and fried tomatoes. It’s total silence in the kitchen except the sound of him cooking—pans out of the cabinets, eggs breaking, a knife cutting into soft fruit, oil sizzling. I sit in my chair, feet tucked under me, drinking coffee, watching him, trying not to take up too much space.

  He smiles at me for the first time when he deposits our food on the table. I breathe out. He’s eating, looking for the sports section and telling me about the day ahead. He’s got a friend coming over to hook up speakers for the party he’s having tonight, then he’s off to watch a soccer match with friends before the show at Temple Bar Music Center he’s also got on the roster. I’m thinking, why again are you having a party while I’m here? And why are you going off to watch sports on television while I’m here? He clears his throat and says, “That girl I told you about in my letter, she’s probably going to be there tonight. And I am not—” he holds his hands up in front of him—“I am not going to tell her about you. That is the last thing I need.”

  I have just taken a mouthful of egg, but when he says this, it refuses to go down my throat. I think, he’s not even soft-pedaling here. I can’t say anything back because the egg is stuck on my tongue. I find myself thinking, maybe I should get up and spit in the sink. Would that be too disgusting? Could I do it without him noticing? Confusion reigns in my mind. All I can think is, don’t let him see you’re suffering. I would like to say, fine, sounds good to me, but, because of the egg, I can’t. So I just nod in what I hope is a cool, strong, and independent manner, and then I get up and leave the room.

  Half an hour later

  “You know what? I’m ticked off.” It’s me talking—talking loudly, not screaming, but heated. I’m talking in a heated manner. To Kieran. “This whole other-girl thing? I would never have done this to you. If you had come to New York, I would never have slept with you and then expected you to hang out with someone I was seeing the next day. That is rude.”

  I’d sat in the bathroom being cool, strong, and independent by myself for a while and then I had thought, you know what, I am tired of always staying silent. And I’d marched back up the stairs into the kitchen.

  “Do you hear me?” I say. Because Kieran has his back to me. He’s washing dishes at the sink. “Do you hear me?”

  Kieran turns around slowly, and when he does, there is anger on his features like I have never seen on anyone except Josh. He throws the dish towel he was using onto the counter and points a finger at me, and the next thing I know, he’s nearly shouting at me. It’s as if he’s in the middle of a slightly different conversation than the one I thought I just started. “No! No! I will not have this,” he is saying. “I have done nothing my whole life except take care of people, and I will not take care of you too. I cannot hav
e this right now!”

  I take a step back. In my mind I’d only gotten as far as marching bravely up the stairs. Now I don’t know what to do. And I get the strange sensation that Kieran may be talking to other people besides just me.

  “Why did you sleep with me last night?” I cry.

  “Goddamn it!” Kieran’s got his hands in his hair now. “I knew I shouldn’t have. I promised myself I wouldn’t even touch you!”

  It feels like he’s swiped at me with a razor. Why wouldn’t he have wanted to touch me?

  “Well, you did!” I shout.

  “Well, too bad!” he shouts back. “I’m selfish and hard-hearted right now. What don’t you understand? My daughter, my wife, my mother—and now you! I’m done taking care of other people! Do you hear me? I’m done!”

  I find myself thinking, who is he talking to? And then, that could be me talking. There is such anguish on his face. All the anger that was sustaining me evaporates. I understand exactly what he’s saying, not the specifics of course, but the feeling—the desire to do exactly as you please for once; the ferocious need to protect your freedom after years of enslavement to other people. Care Less About Other People 2007. Turns out it runs both ways. I feel myself visibly deflate.

  “She lives here,” Kieran cries. “And you’re leaving in three days. What do you want from me?”

  He’s right, I think. What do I want from him? Why am I here?

  “I get it,” I say. I’m deflating so rapidly I might as well be an old balloon hissing its way out of the sky. “Of course you’re selfish right now. That’s how I’ve been too since the separation. It’s not wrong of you. And your daughter. I understand. You should absolutely do whatever pleases you right now. I totally get it.”

  Suddenly, I feel so tired, as if I might fall asleep right there on the linoleum floor.

  Kieran is staring at me. He looks suspicious, like he thinks I’m faking him out and is waiting for me to spring on him.

  “I’m just gonna get going,” I say. In my mind, I exit the room and am gone before he’s even regained his balance. But I’m so tired, it feels like my eyes are shutting on me. My exit is less than graceful.

  “I’m just”—I gesture downstairs—“I’m just gonna lie down for a few minutes. If that’s okay. And then I’ll go.”

  Kieran is still as a statue, still in fighting stance, still staring at me. I stumble out of the kitchen. My eyelids are closing on me. I can’t be awake anymore.

  Later

  It’s cold in Kieran’s bedroom. I have all the covers piled on top of me, even over my head. I’m curled up in the tightest ball I can get myself into. I keep falling into a deep, dark sleep and then waking up with a start not knowing where I am. I have no idea what time it is, but it’s already dark out. I have such a sinking sensation in my stomach. I want to get up and make another go at a dignified exit, but this hideous dark sleep keeps pulling me under.

  Later

  I awaken to voices upstairs. It must be the guy with the speakers. It’s pitch dark in this room. I feel like I’ve shrunken in size—like somehow the bed has gotten bigger and I’ve gotten smaller. Or maybe the bed has floated out to sea and the vast expanse I feel around me is the ocean. I should get up and leave. But I can’t move.

  “Heather? Heather, girl.” It’s Kieran. He’s sitting on the edge of the bed. I can barely open my eyes to look at him. “Listen, girl, it’s all going to be okay,” he’s saying. “Please don’t leave. I’ll sort everything. I want you to come tonight. I want you to be here. We’ll work it out, I promise, girl.”

  “Okay, Kieran.” My eyes are flickering. It’s painful to keep them open.

  “I’m going to my football match now,” he says. “But please make yourself comfortable. Do anything you like. There’s tons of food in the fridge. Will you eat something, girl? You’ve barely eaten since you got here. And then come out tonight. Okay, sweetheart? Will you come?”

  “Yes, Kieran,” I say, but I’m thinking, if everything is going to work out, why are you going to a soccer match instead of climbing under the covers with me? I’m pulled back into this dark, oceanic sleep before I even have time to get upset about it.

  Later

  A ringing sound pulls me awake. It takes me a while to figure out what’s making the noise or where it’s coming from. Finally I realize it’s my phone and I scramble for it. It’s Kieran. Behind him I hear people talking and glasses clinking. “I’m checking on you, girl!” he shouts through the noise. “Are you coming? Did you get my texts, sweetheart? Do you need directions?”

  “I’m coming!” I shout back, even though it’s just me alone in the dark house. It’s past nine. I’ve been asleep all day. I scramble around in the cold, pulling on my skinny jeans from Topshop last year, a black tank top trimmed with lace, and my black platform shoes. I pull my hair back in a ponytail and apply red lipstick. I realize this is exactly what I wore the night I met Kieran, except now I have to belt the pants.

  In the taxi back to the city center, I make a deal with myself. I say, if you don’t have fun, you can leave. But you have to at least try. By the time we’re getting near Grogans pub, where I’m to meet Kieran, I’m feeling quite good about myself. I think, fuck it. I am going to enjoy myself tonight. I’m on an adventure. You can’t expect adventures to be smooth sailing. I’m not gonna let some guy run me boo-hooing out of town. If he wants to be with some other girl, fine, that’s his problem. Plus, by the time I get there he has texted me like five times to make sure I’m not lost. So, okay then.

  As I get out of the taxi, I see him standing by Grogans side door smoking a cigarette, surrounded by people. He’s wearing a blue short-sleeve shirt over a black long-sleeve shirt and he’s moving around in that liquid way I remember. I can’t let myself think how attractive he is, because if I do, I’ll hop back in the taxi and ride away. I saunter over, pretending to look at him but actually looking at a spot just over his head.

  Kieran is like another person. He’s got me by the arm and is introducing me all around. He’s off to the bar to buy me a pint. He’s saying, “This is Heather,” to a plump woman up from Galway. And she’s saying, “Heather, I’ve heard so much about you, what a pleasure! I’ve been dying to meet you.” And I think, you have? You were? There’s a French couple and a Dublin woman named Kathryn with papery white skin and gleaming red hair. I decide my best policy is to studiously avoid Kieran. Make him suffer. So I slide into the booth with his friends and jump into the conversation and pretend like he’s not even there. You want cool, strong, and independent? I will show you cool, strong, and independent.

  By the time we’re at the club where the band is playing, Kieran is checking in with me every couple of minutes, asking if I’m good, do I need a drink, am I having fun. And I’m always like, yup, yup, fine. When people start dancing, I go out on the floor with them, leaving Kieran on the sidelines. When he tells me he has to head back to his house to get ready for the party, I say, “I think I’m going to stay awhile. I’ll see you later.” When he’s gone, the girl from Galway puts her arm around me and says, “Kieran told me I’m to take very good care of you.” So, okay then.

  When we get back to Kieran’s place, the party is just getting started even though it’s already past one in the morning. There’s a DJ in a tracksuit spinning in the living room, while people watch, waiting for that moment when suddenly it’s time to dance. People are sitting around the kitchen table smoking hash, rooting through Kieran’s fridge for beer. I’m sticking to my policy of total self-sufficiency, though I do keep one eye on Kieran’s movements. And you know what, he’s got an eye on me too. Every time he comes through, he gives me a big smile, an all okay? smile. And I cock an eyebrow Scarlett O’Hara style at him and he laughs.

  I hang out for a while with Kathryn of the papery white skin, smoking spliffs and talking about Ireland in the Middle Ages and what “prosperity” is doing to modern-day Dublin. Then I go into the living room. Kieran is there. He gives me a b
ig smile, but I continue the studious avoidance. Luckily for me, there are lots of men. This guy comes up to me and we start to dance, like partner dance. Like he’s bringing me close and guiding me out, and twirling and dipping me backward. Soon people gather around to watch and they’re clapping and cheering. The guy brings me in tight so our chests are pressed together and I can feel the stubble on his cheek against my own, and then with a flick of his wrist he indicates it’s time for me to fly out; I turn, once, twice, three times, beneath the arc of our arms before he brings me back against his chest. He dips me; my head touches the floor. Everyone cheers. I think, oh my God, I love to dance. Kieran’s face is a blur as I swing past him. I see that he’s got two fingers up to his mouth and is whistling and cheering along with everyone else.

  When, finally, this man and I collapse against each other, I am covered in sweat and panting. Laughing too. And then I find myself tumbling up against Kieran, who is suddenly right beside me. His eyes are glowing in that way men’s eyes will glow, and I just go right on ignoring him, starting an eyelash-fluttering conversation with another man beside him until Kieran takes me by the arm and brings me close and leans his head down and says, “That girl isn’t here tonight, you know.”

  I think, ha! I win!

  “You know what, Kieran?” I say. “It’s no concern of my mine. I support you in doing whatever you need to do in your life right now. Okay?”

  Kieran looks shocked. And then he peers at me with the intense, intelligent curiosity I remember so well. And then his face breaks into a smile and he throws his head back and laughs, that wonderful, loose laugh I remember so well. And he pulls me to him, so that my face is pressed up against his chest. I can feel the laughter moving in him. Then he bends his knees, so his face is level with mine, and he looks right at me, as if he’s trying to see into me. For the first time. For the first time since I arrived in this city, he looks at me. And it’s that thing: his eyes are so familiar, and I have the feeling as if I were glimpsing infinity.