I can’t quite make out whether she knows what happened in the bathroom earlier today or if her not-so-veiled offer to watch me wank is spontaneous. Either way, I again, can’t help myself. I raise my eyebrows and smile at her. These little flirts—flirt might be too innocent of a word, actually—are a fun distraction, but I need to get my head straight. Which was the point of going for a run.
“Thanks for your help, Lizzy. I know Felicity appreciates it a lot.”
I give Romeo a kiss on his plump cheek and move past her to the living area to let Felicity know I’ll be stepping away. But she’s nodded off, exhaustion having taken over. I imagine her chat with Ms. Patterson is partly to blame. It can’t have been easy to bare her soul to a complete stranger. A quick, soft kiss to her forehead and I’m off.
* * *
“I’d invite you in, but you’ll bring all the rain in the sky with you,” Sophie says when she sees me at her doorstep.
The rain is coming down in thick blankets and I am completely soaked even though Gavin’s house isn’t far from mine. I’m shaking slightly, too, which Sophie soon notices. It changes her playful attitude right back to her usual caretaker mode.
“Oh my goodness,” she says and takes my bicep. “Come in and dry off.”
I step inside but wait in the foyer while Sophie goes for a towel. Her house is one of those places that offers instant comfort. Unlike mine. Whereas my house is all modern cool ceramic tiles, polished concrete, and dark Calamander wood flooring with lighter striations, Sophie’s house is light and airy with purposeful supple accents, including a soft wool rug layered over the hardwood floor and cashmere throw blankets always within reach. I wonder how our clashing styles would have worked had we ended up together.
When Sophie returns with a towel and wraps it around me, she rubs my shoulders vigorously to warm me up. And I know then that I would have let her do whatever she wanted with the design of the home we might have had together. As was always the case with her, it’s my heart that leads and longs to give her free reign to do as she pleases.
“Gavin told me you two were headed out for a run, but I thought he was joking,” she says with a small smile.
“Where is the bastard?”
“The ‘bastard’ is getting Daisy to nap. He sings to her until she falls asleep.”
I nod and follow her into the living area. Though she would never stop me from sitting on her sofa, wet as I am, I sit on the floor near the heat of the gas fireplace. She joins me, folding her legs into some sort of yoga position she makes look easy.
It’s quiet in the house. Quiet between us as we sit and look at the flames. It’s peaceful in this home, with no undercurrent of impending chaos like in mine. Hale must be sleeping. There’s a video monitor on the coffee table that is dark, but I know that the second the slightest noise emanates from it, we’ll both snap to attention and spring into action.
“Look what’s become of us,” I say with a rueful laugh.
“What do you mean?”
“So utterly . . . domestic.”
Sophie smiles. “Don’t tell me you miss your single days.”
“They weren’t bad.”
“Don’t romanticize it. Those were lonely times.”
“I was never lonely,” I say. “In fact, sometimes I almost had more than I could handle when it came to the threesomes.”
When Sophie rolls her eyes, it’s a weak attempt to hide the blush coming to her cheeks. It amazes me that she can still be shocked. That we can still play this game where I say things to get a rise out of her and it works. It makes me long for that connection. Again, I want to retreat to what felt like simpler times. Just like when I thought to take Felicity back to the same café where we reconnected upon her return to Dublin. But if I’m honest, I know those days weren’t all that simple. Just different.
“You’re in a funny mood,” Sophie tells me. “Tell me what’s going on.”
I look away from her. Those hazel-green eyes of hers have the ability to see too deeply into me and I don’t want that right now.
“I’m guessing Gav told you.”
“Not everything.”
“Well, I’m sure you can tell for yourself that Felicity’s having some trouble right now. That she needs some extra support.” That I can’t give her.
“Yes, I know she does. I’m really glad she’s seeing a therapist. I want to help her, but she clearly doesn’t want to take it from me. Anyway, I wasn’t talking about her. What’s going on with you?”
I turn back to her in surprise. Then again, it should come as no surprise that Sophie still knows me. A love like ours never had a chance. But that doesn’t mean it wasn’t real.
“I’m fine, Soph.”
She nods without conviction. And then she laughs quietly.
“What?”
“I was going to say something that, on second thought, is really inappropriate.”
I smile, intrigued. “Have you met me? I like inappropriate.”
That gets another laugh out of her. “I was going to say that I understand—all too well, in fact—that it can sometimes be hardest to talk to the person you’re closest with. But you can always talk to me.”
She’s right. It is inappropriate given that’s how our relationship developed. When she couldn’t talk to her own husband, she turned to me. It went on for years like that, with us having an emotional intimacy we shouldn’t. We staved off the physical intimacy for as long as we could, and then, when we gave into it, it was the thing that broke everything. It broke our friendship. It broke her marriage. It broke my friendship with Gavin. It’s taken a long time to get all of those things mended. It would be beyond inappropriate to go down that path again. It would be stupid self-destruction.
But, god how I want to. I want to give in to those old feelings and find my comfort in Sophie McManus all over again. I want to refuse all rational thought and succumb to the temptation to follow my reckless heart. Because that pure emotion for her is familiar and feels so damn good.
The screen of the baby monitor lights up in response to Hale starting to fuss and we both look at it. It’s just the intervention I needed.
“Thanks, honey. I appreciate that,” I tell her. “But what would help me most is if you keep trying with Felicity. I know she’s been hard to handle with the mood swings, but don’t give up on her.”
Sophie watches me for a minute and a silent understanding of my deflection passes between us. “Of course, I’ll keep reaching out to her,” she says. “Besides, you know that I am not one to give up easily,”
I smile my thanks. I want to say so much more. I want to tell her how fucking special she is. How, I hope Gavin understands—truly understands—how lucky he is to have her. How I’ll always savor that brief, perfect, time when we let nothing hold us back from loving each other. But I don’t say any of that. Because it would be inappropriate. And I’m not that guy anymore. At least, that’s what I keep telling myself.
11
By the time Gavin and I head out, the rain has lightened to a drizzle and makes for a good run. I push hard, running at a pace that I know isn't easy for him, but he keeps up. Just having him by my side as we wordlessly move through the deserted streets of Dalkey provides the comfort I know he intended. Focusing on my breathing means I can remove everything from my thoughts. I don’t think about my wife’s troubles. I don’t think about whether the babies sense that something is amiss. I don’t think about my father and what will become of him in the coming months, or years, if he’s lucky. And I definitely don’t think about how much I want to fuck Lizzy.
There are patches of sunshine when we finish. Gavin directs me to follow him along the side of the house and has me sit at a small table overlooking the sea while he goes inside for water. It’s summertime, but the Irish sun is typically weak. I’ll take it over the downpour from earlier, though.
I’ve got my feet up on the chair opposite mine and my head tilted to the sky, eyes closed, when Gavin returns.
I hear him sit down with me, open a bottle of water, and gulp it down. I could sit quietly like this indefinitely, but I know it’s only a matter of seconds before Gavin needs to say something.
My count is at thirteen seconds when he speaks.
“This therapist seem like a good fit, then?”
I look at him and nod. “First round seemed helpful, anyway. Where’d you come by her?”
“Shay.”
“Shay?” The idea that our drummer Shay is seeing a therapist is bizarre. He’s the ultimate stoic male. Never wants to trouble anyone with his issues. I always knew his brother, Danny Boy, was a pain in the arse, but I learned only recently that they had a truly shite childhood that would have fucked up anyone. Danny Boy turned to heroin to escape it. Thankfully, Shay turned to drumming.
“She’s Danny Boy’s therapist. That’s the connection.”
“Oh.” That makes more sense. I laugh, thinking of Danny Boy lying on a sofa and spilling his guts. Pity the woman who has to try to set him straight.
“I know,” Gavin says, seeming to agree with my thoughts. “Danny fucking Boy. But I figure she must be good because he’s taken it down a notch, don’t you think?”
Danny Boy’s been hanging out in the studio with us. And Gavin’s right that he’s become a tamer version of himself. He’s still visibly restless, with a perpetually bouncing leg and ceaselessly picking at his cuticles, but he hasn’t had any major fuck ups since Julia O’Flaherty showed up to the studio last fall. She was primed to make trouble, that was all too clear. Danny Boy froze, so I shut it down. Never did tell Gavin about that one. Didn’t see any reason to stir up the past. Because that’s what Julia is—history.
It’s no secret that Danny Boy and I have a rocky history of our own. But I am glad to see him stabilize himself. I’ve even come to like the guy a bit. We’ve got motorbikes in common. And Shay. We both want what’s best for him. I’m sure Shay is relieved by the truce we’ve built. That poor guy has had to deal with more than his fair share from Danny Boy over the years.
But it seems that Danny Boy’s therapist has played a part in setting him on the right path. That’s not an easy feat. It gives me more confidence that Felicity is with the right person and will soon be back to her old self.
“Yeah, he has. Hard to trust that it’ll last, though,” I say.
“Time will tell.”
Picking up the water Gavin had brought out for me, I down the bottle. The run was good but hasn’t really given me the release I felt I needed after understanding that I’d get no answers from my wife about what was wrong. Before I realize I’m doing it, I’ve squeezed the water bottle nearly flat in my fist.
“Con?”
I look up to see Gavin watching me, his face a mask of concern. “Yeah?”
I expect him to give me some kind of encouragement or get philosophical maybe. Instead, he does something better. He offers a concrete way to exorcise some of the things plaguing me.
“Let’s get into the studio early tomorrow,” he says. “Meet me at nine, yeah? I think if it’s just you and me, we can finish off Christian’s song.”
“Grand, yeah. We’re so close, anyway.”
“It’s a fucker of a song, isn’t it?” He laughs, knowing the stress and frustration has been self-inflicted.
“That it is. I mean, does it do him justice? That’s what’s stopping us, right?”
Gavin rubs his face with both hands, presses them there for a moment, and then nods. “You know what I keep worrying about?”
“What?”
“Patsy listening to it. I need for her to think it does justice for her man, you know?”
Patsy is Christian’s widow. For a renowned band like ours to put out a song about Christian Hale’s suicide is guaranteed to be big news in the music world. We don’t want to come off looking like we’re exploiting his death. And we don’t want to reopen wounds for Patsy.
“Yeah, I know what you mean.” I haven’t been able to find a way to push through to get the guitar I want on this song. Being blocked like this is new and unwelcome.
Seems Gavin is ready to be the one to push us both through on this one because there’s resolve in his eyes when he looks at me. “We’ll figure it out. Just like we always have.”
I have the feeling he’s not speaking about just the song anymore. He tilts his head, imploring me to accept this offer of partnership. He knows I need it, but not why I need it. The fact that he still hasn’t asked me to share more with him is not lost on me. My nostalgia earlier when speaking with Sophie dissipates as I remember why I chose this man’s friendship over her. He’s my brother, after all. If not by blood, then by deed.
Nodding, I agree, “We’ll get it.”
Gavin stands and before I can join him, he squeezes my shoulder. “Us together? Nothing can stop us.”
“You got that right, Gav.” I let him go inside without me, wanting a minute to sit and absorb his words.
There was something in his voice that implied a kind of permanence, as if he was saying he’s got my back for the long haul. Looking at all we’ve been through, there’s no doubt in my mind that that’s true. And that I would do anything for him in return.
* * *
After a shower and a quick bite to eat back at the house, I head out again. I’m hoping a visit with my parents might help ease my free-floating anxiety. They’ve always been my anchors, after all.
Knocking twice, I let myself into my parents’ home. This is the house I grew up in, with the back garden where Rogue made its first stabs at creating something meaningful as a band. Tidy and middle-class, the home has been well-maintained over the years. The improvements my parents have only recently grudgingly allowed me to pay for include new furniture and a kitchen renovation, along with fresh paint and carpeting to bring the space into modernity. Despite the passage of time and the changes, I always feel a sense of comfort and ease when I walk in the front door.
I hear the television coming from the living area and my mother and father bickering in their familiar, playful way about whose turn it was to make the next cup of tea.
“Your favorite son is here,” I call out.
The fact that I’m their only child doesn’t stop me from making this declaration. After years of trying, my parents had given up hope of conceiving and I was a “surprise” to them in their late thirties. Now they’ve just crossed into their seventies.
“How do you like these, Ma?” I ask, holding up the bouquet of fragrant tuberose flowers I brought with me. I started years ago bringing my mother flowers whenever I visited. At first it was as an apology for not visiting often enough, then it became a habit.
“They’re lovely, sweetheart,” my mother says accepting both the flowers and a kiss on her cheek.
“I’ll get a vase,” my father says, clicking off the TV. He pushes out of his easy chair with a spring in his step I know is owed to my visit.
It is such a simple thing to make my parents happy. A quick visit or even a call. Every time I see them I vow to visit more often. But then I let life and my own interests take hold, and before I know it, a month has gone by without seeing them.
“Sit with me,” Ma urges, and I join her on the floral-patterned sofa. “So, how’s my boy?” Her smile is eager as she pushes her reading glasses into her mostly gray hair and examines me.
“Fine, good.”
“Here we are,” Da says as he returns to the room with the vase. He hands it to my mother and then squeezes my shoulder warmly. “Nice of you to pop by, Son.”
“I know I should stop in more often.”
“Ah, we understand. Lord knows you’ve got your obligations.”
“We’re always happy when you can make it,” Ma says.
“The tour is over, then?” Da asks as he eases back into his chair.
I exchange a look with my mother. “Eh, yeah, Da. It’s been over.”
“Ah, yes. I was only joking you.”
“Cuppa, sweetheart?” My m
other rises to her feet and heads to the kitchen before I can even answer whether I want a cup of tea. She’s trying to diffuse the situation of my father pretending his memory lapse was in jest. It pains me to realize that this is the same routine they’ve done for the last couple years, with him either forgetting something or getting the details oddly wrong and her covering for him. It was easy to laugh it off when they were both in on it. But despite my mother’s attempt to carry on with this charade, it’s no longer funny.
“Da, how are things with you?” I ask.
“The same as always. I do my walks and read my spy novels.”
“What about your crosswords?” Doing the daily crossword has been part of his routine for as long as I can remember. I figure it has to be a good intellectual exercise.
“Oh, and of course your mother has me taking her out dancing, which you know I don’t mind. It’s good fun with the ladies there.” He gives me a conspiratorial wink.
I notice he’s ignored my question about crosswords in favor of trying to suggest he’s a player down at the dancehall.
“Let me check on Ma with the tea.”
I get up and find my mother has everything ready on a tray but is struggling to pick it up.
“I’ll get it,” I tell her. But before I do, I ask whether my father has been doing his crosswords.
“No, he stopped some time ago. It was getting to be nothing but frustration. The words are so often on the tip of his tongue, you see.”
I nod and try to ignore the pang of sadness this brings.
“What can I do, Ma? How can I help?”
She smiles at me, touches my cheek, and sighs. “Bringing the tea out will be fantastic help, love.”
We share a lengthy moment of eye contact, and I understand that her focus on the tea is her way of saying being present in the here and now is the only thing I can do. She’s right, but it does nothing to soothe my worries.
12
Felicity
Felicity Found (Rogue Series Book 6) Page 6