Loving Irish

by Katy Regnery

  “I’m g-going w-with you,” said Hallie between sobs. “I’m g-going h-home.”

  She backed out of her mother’s arms, opened the car door, sat down, and pulled it close.

  To her everlasting gratitude, they didn’t ask her what had happened.

  Not immediately. Not until she was ready to tell them.

  She cried all the way home to Boston and every day thereafter, until August 15, when she boarded a plane bound for college in Palo Alto, determined, once and for all, to leave Ian Haven behind.

  ***

  “Ian.”

  He didn’t know if he was still asleep or waking up, but the voice was Hallie’s, and he sensed distress in its tone.

  “Halcyon,” he murmured with his eyes still closed.

  Oh, God, his throat. So dry, it felt like scorched earth. There was no saliva to swallow, and Christ! His head. It throbbed like someone was hitting him in the skull with a hammer.

  “Oh, my God.”

  It was Hallie’s voice again, but not close. Almost ethereal. And sad. Like she was trapped in a dream or far away. Wait. Was he still dreaming? Or was he awake? And where was he? Not at home. It didn’t smell like clean cotton and dirty socks like his bedroom at home with Rory. It smelled musty. What the hell was going on?

  He tried to open his eyes, but the clanging in his head intensified with the slight movement, and he winced.

  Crying. I hear crying. Is Hallie crying? He powered through the pain in his head and forced his eyes to open, narrowing them as he tried to focus.

  Ceiling beams.

  Dust swirling over his head.

  For the first time, he realized that there was a warm, heavy weight on his bare chest. Hallie? Was it Hallie’s head over his heart? It had to be…

  “Why, Ian?”

  Wait. The voice wasn’t coming from beside him. It was coming from over him. He needed to look around. Reaching up with the hand that wasn’t pinned down, he rubbed his eyes.

  “Hallie?” Where are you? Why are you crying, baby? He wanted to say more, but his mouth was like chalk, like sandpaper.

  He looked around, blinking rapidly, and finally found a fuzzy figure standing over him. He tried harder to focus, but the slightest movement resulted in a pain so sharp, it was like eating a hundred freezing-cold ice creams at once. Sharp, sharp pain in his head that made him gasp in shock.

  “Why?” she sobbed again.

  This isn’t right.

  None of this feels right.

  Hallie’s crying.

  Someone’s lying on me, but it isn’t her.

  Goddamn it, what the fuck is going on?

  His heart started beating faster, and his head ached in a way that was almost unbearable. Ian wiggled both of his hands loose, reaching up with both hands to hold his head.

  The person resting on his chest sighed, rubbing her head against him, but it couldn’t be Hallie, because Hallie’s voice was coming from over him. What the fuck? Ian lowered his hands to her hair. Curly hair. Not straight and smooth like Hallie’s.

  It isn’t Hallie, his brain whispered. Try to keep up. Hallie’s not lying next to you, she’s standing over you. Someone else is lying beside you.

  His eyes slid back up to Hallie to find that her face was finally in focus.

  But he’d never seen her looking like this—her cheeks wet with tears, her eyes flashing with fury and heavy with grief. She looked, well, devastated as she stared down at him like he’d done something…something…unforgiveable.

  But the last he remembered, everything was set up for her birthday celebration and he was waiting for her to arrive. The candles. The flowers. The promise ring. The wine.

  The wine.

  The wine.

  A sickening feeling overcame him, and his stomach revolted against it.

  What happened?

  What the fuck is going on?

  He reached toward Hallie, wanting the reassurance of her hand in his, where it belonged, where it always belonged. “W—Wait. What’s going—”

  “Fuck you, Ian,” said Hallie—his Hallie, whom he’d never heard swear. She moved out of view, the sound of her footsteps headed toward the stairs. They stopped for a second. “Don’t ever speak to me again.”

  Wait. Wait wait wait! What are you talking about? We love each other! I love you! Wait!

  “Hallie!” he cried, scrambling to sit up as the downstairs slammed shut.

  Every movement hurt. Every sound echoed in his head like a gong. He groaned, reaching up to dig the heels of his palms into his temples to find relief.

  “Hey,” said a girl’s voice. “Hey! Ian!”

  He turned his neck to look at Vicky Lafontaine, who lay on the blanket beside him. She leaned up on her elbow and looked at him, her blonde, curly hair falling around her bare shoulders.

  Staring at her in horror, he reached for the blanket covering them and whipped it off, only to find that neither of them was wearing more than underwear.

  “What. The. Fuck?” he demanded.

  She looked back at him with wide, innocent eyes. “What do you mean?”

  “Why—why—why the fuck are you here? Why are we almost naked? What the fuck just—Hallie was just here! She left!”

  “I guess she was probably looking for you,” said Vicky, sitting up and holding her bent knees against her chest.

  Ian shot up too fast into a sitting position and paid for it with another wave of nausea. He groaned through clenched teeth. “I’m gonna be sick.”

  “Wait a sec,” said Vicky, scrambling across the floor in her bra and underpants for the picnic basket and thrusting it at him. “Use this.”

  Ian heaved into the basket, his puke dripping through the webbing at the bottom. It smelled sour and made him retch more as he struggled to try to remember what the hell happened last night. Why was Vicky here? And why the fuck was he only wearing boxers?

  Reaching for the shirt he’d been wearing last night, he wiped his lips and turned to her.

  “What happened?”

  “You don’t remember?”

  “Did we fuck?” he asked, searching her eyes, feeling so disgusted, he thought he might vomit again.

  Her lips tightened as she lifted her chin. “Would that be so bad?”

  “So bad?” he bellowed. “It would be a fucking nightmare!”

  Her eyes widened, then quickly narrowed, sliding to a point over his shoulder and lingering there for a second.

  “There’s the evidence, Romeo. What do you think?” she snapped.

  As Ian twisted his body to check out what she was looking at, Vicky reached for her shirt and pulled it over her head. His blood went cold as he caught sight of a ripped-open condom wrapper. His hand shook as he flattened his palm over it, and his stomach sank to find there was nothing inside.

  He gasped in horror, turning to Vicky, who was standing up a few feet away from where Ian still sat on the blanket. She had already pulled on her shirt and skirt and was slipping her feet into turquoise flip-flops.

  “What…the fuck…happened here?” Ian demanded.

  “A nightmare,” she said sweetly, crossing her arms over her chest, a bitter expression on her face. “And fuck you, Ian. Fuck you very much. You’re a total asshole.”

  Without another word, she headed for the stairs, the slap of her sandals softer and farther away with every step.

  Alone, Ian ran his hands through his hair, trying to breathe, trying to think straight, trying to put together what the hell had happened here.

  He remembered walking to the barn, picking flowers, and setting up their cozy spot in the loft.

  He remembered looking at the promise ring and thinking about Hallie coming home at Christmas.

  He was nervous, and she was running late, right? Right.

  He remembered opening one of the bottles of wine and pouring himself a glass.

  Staring down at his hands, he tried to remember what happened next…

  But his mind was a blank.


  A total and complete blank.

  Looking behind him, he picked up the condom wrapper, holding it up before crumpling it in his hand and throwing it away.

  He picked up the two bottles, but there wasn’t a drop of wine left in them and the smell inside the bottles turned his stomach again. Reaching for the picnic basket, he threw up again, then shoved it away. Jesus, what a mess. The candles he’d lovingly set up last night were all knocked over, with melted wax, in various, grotesque shapes, anchoring them to the floor. The cookies had been eaten. The flowers were wilted. The little white box had been kicked behind him, but Ian crawled over to it, relieved to see the ring still inside.

  Fuck you, Ian. Don’t ever speak to me again.

  He reached for his shorts and pulled them on.

  No. No, no, no.

  He needed to talk to Hallie.

  Now!

  He had no idea what had happened here last night, but he had no feelings for Vicky Lafontaine. His heart was full of Halcyon.

  As he raced down the stairs barefooted, he jammed his arms into the shirt that reeked of vomit, leaving it unbuttoned as he ran as fast as he could toward Lady Margaret. The camp was just starting to stir, and he garnered a mixture of curious and amused glances from campers as he raced to her cabin half-dressed.

  Arriving there out of breath, he banged on the door.

  “Hallie? Halcyon? We have to talk!”

  The door opened and Hallie’s roommate, Tate, stood behind the screen. “What the hell?”

  “Where’s Hallie?”

  “Not here,” said Tate in a sleepy voice, looking over her shoulder, then back at Ian.

  He didn’t believe her. Hallie was upset by what she’d seen, and Tate was covering for her. Ian opened the screen door and pushed around Tate, who cried, “Hey! Cut it out!” while Ian looked frantically around the cabin.

  “Hallie? Baby, are you here? We need to talk!”

  But Tate wasn’t lying. The bathroom was empty. Brittany and Chelsea looked bleary-eyed as they sat up in their bunks to look at him. And Hallie’s bed was empty and neat, like she hadn’t slept in it.

  “Sorry,” he muttered to the girls, leaving the cottage.

  Where are you? Where are you?

  If you didn’t sleep here, then…

  Colby!

  Yes, that’s it! She’s at her parent’s cabin!

  Running by the boat dock, around the campfire ring, and through the woods, he ignored the branches and rocks that cut his feet open, the desperate burning in his lungs, and the way his stomach heaved without mercy. He had to get to her. He had to talk to her before it was too late.

  He heard the engine of a car in the distance and ran faster, choking on his own vomit as he ran out of the woods in time to see a car with Massachusetts plates stop at the end of the lane before turning onto the main road.

  “Wait!” he tried to cry, but his throat was so dry. Almost no sound came out.

  A whimper.

  The saddest fucking noise that Ian had ever heard.

  It turned into a silent wail as he slumped against the white picket fence in front of her house, rested his forehead on his knees, and wept.

  CHAPTER 7

  For the three weeks after the Rileys’ visit and before Rory’s wedding, Ian continued to work on Hallie’s cottage but stayed out of her way, as she’d expressly requested.

  October turned into November with wee Jenny proudly showing Ian her Halloween costume (“A turtle, Mr. Haven, ’cause there’s a turtle on the Summerhaven sign.”) and Hallie avoiding every possible interaction with Ian, right down to pleasantries. When he arrived in the morning, she was on the phone, or in the shower, or had already taken Jenny to the store. He started bringing his own lunch so she wouldn’t be troubled to make him anything, though Jenny still kept him company every day. And when it was time to go home, Hallie was scarce again, having taken Jenny on a walk or running errands or just nowhere to be found.

  It made Ian ornery not to see her. It made him ache to arrive at her place every day without the promise of seeing her face or hearing her voice. It made him sad that there was no room for friendship between two people who had once loved each other so passionately.

  But then he’d remember back to that day—when she’d found him with Vicky and left Summerhaven with her parents. He’d tried to call her, though he suspected they’d changed their phone number because of him. After a week, all he received was a busy signal and a recorded message that the number was no longer in service. He’d written her letters, pouring out his heart to her, but they’d been returned unopened.

  Finally, Brittany Manion had pulled him aside one evening when they passed each other on the main path.

  “Ian.”

  “Brittany.”

  “Stop trying to contact her,” she’d said, her blue eyes cold.

  “Can you get her a message?” he’d asked desperately.

  “Are you crazy?” asked Brittany. “No! Absolutely not! You broke her heart, Ian. She hates you. Just leave her alone.”

  “I can’t,” he said. “Please. I have to talk to her.”

  “About what? Screwing other girls? No.”

  “Please,” he’d begged.

  Brittany had shaken her head. “She doesn’t want to hear from you ever again.”

  “It’s not what she thinks.”

  Brittany had cocked her head to the side. “Oh, really? You didn’t spend the night with Vicky? You weren’t found naked, asleep in each other’s arms? There wasn’t a used condom wrapper by your head?”

  Ian had gritted his teeth. “I can’t even remember—”

  “Well, isn’t that convenient,” she’d said, crossing her arms over her chest.

  No! No, it isn’t! It’s awful!

  But no matter how many times Ian tried to piece together what had happened, he’d come up empty. He’d completely blacked out. He had no memories—not one—of what had happened in that loft from the time he’d started drinking until the moment Hallie’s voice had woken him up the following morning.

  And Vicky Lafontaine, whom he’d tried to ask and who could fill in the blanks if she wanted to, told him to “fuck off” and threatened that if he bothered her again, she’d tell his parents what had happened and/or figure out a way to press charges against him.

  Ian hadn’t gone near her again.

  So that night—the night that was supposed to be the best of his life—was a black hole of misery and despair, and Ian was drinking so much to numb the pain, it was probably scrambling his memories even more.

  “Please, help,” he’d murmured, a desperate and pathetic plea.

  “That’s actually what I’m trying to do. Let her go, Ian,” advised Brittany. “Move on.”

  He’d watched Hallie’s best friend walk away, his heart throbbing with the terrible truth that any chance he’d ever had with Hallie was gone. And then he’d gone on his first two-day bender, with some high school friends from Sandwich.

  “Mr. Haven?”

  “Yeah, ladybug?” asked Ian, relieved to have a respite from bad memories.

  “Are you almost finished fixing our house?”

  Ian had hauled the dock out of the water yesterday, and today he was using a chainsaw to cut it into pieces. Jenny was allowed to watch him from a few feet away as long as she didn’t get up from her pink plastic beach chair.

  He looked up at the house—at the new screens on the porch windows; at the roof, which had been completed last week; and the shiny new glass on panes that had once been broken. The chimney had been cleaned out, the electric heat refurbished, and the water now ran clear. No mouse dared run amuck in Colby Cottage with the number of traps Ian had laid out, and he’d piped new insulation into the walls, then patched them, so the girls would stay warm this winter. Was it pretty? Not really. The house would need a new coat of white paint in the spring, some serious landscaping and a new dock. But for now? At least it was habitable.

  “All I’ve got left to do
is break down the dock and boat house. Once they’re hauled away, ladybug, I think I’m done for now.”

  “And then you’ll just come over to see me? We won’t have to work no more?”

  He was dragging a piece of the dock by her chair, but he stopped, staring at her hopeful face for a moment before dropping the wood to the ground.

  Squatting in front of her chair, he smiled at her sadly. “We’ll always be friends.”

  “I know!” said Jenny, reaching out to pat his beard. She had spoken to her father via Skype several times now, and between knowing he was alive and well, and settling into Colby Cottage, she seemed happy, which was the sole bright spot in Ian’s life right now. “We can just have fun!”

  Ian took a deep breath and sighed. “We’ll have to talk to your mommy, okay?”

  Jenny nodded gravely, remembering Ian’s first and most important rule. “We always get Mommy’s permission first.”

  He leaned forward to kiss her forehead, then reached for the rotten planking and dragged it around the house to the half-filled dumpster in the driveway.

  Part of him would really miss coming by Colby Cottage every day, but part of him would be relieved not to receive his daily shunning.

  Help me with my house. That’s all the amends I need.

  An important part of making amends was not forcing your will on the object of your efforts. Sure, Ian would like to be friends with Hallie. Hell, he’d like to be a lot more than friends with her. He’d like the chance to love her all over again. He’d like to prove that the boy who betrayed her had grown up, and the man he’d become could and would, given the chance, love her until the end of time.

  But that wasn’t his call.

  It was hers.

  And she’d been clear: no matter how much he loved her, she wasn’t able to love him in return. Shit. She was barely able to like him.

  So be it.

  When her house was finished, he’d leave her be. Or he’d try, at least. He’d try his best, and that was all a good man could do.

  That said, they had a very real and immediate challenge ahead if she intended to keep her distance and he intended to leave her alone. With Rory and Brittany’s wedding extravaganza commencing next Wednesday, he’d see quite a bit of her socially, and acting awkward around each other wouldn’t be fair to the bride and groom, especially since Ian was the best man and Hallie was the matron of honor.