“Clive,” I say, entering into this topic lightly, “you said you make it your job to know everyone in town . . .”
“I do.” He sits up straighter.
“What do you know about Kieran?”
“Ah . . . now we’re getting down to it, Bunny.”
My nerves get the better of me, and I try to back out of the question, but Clive won’t let it go.
“Here’s what I know. He’s a fine-looking creature, that’s obvious, but he’s no dummy, either. Well bred at boarding school, no doubt, and goes to Trinity. From what Siobhan tells me, he’s being groomed to follow in his dad’s footsteps and take over the company. Just more fuel added to Siobhan’s fire. Dad gives all his attention to Kieran, and she gets ignored. I don’t think Kieran appreciates the attention, though. And I don’t know too many people who could put up with Siobhan like he does, so he’s loyal. Did I mention how good looking he is?”
“You did.” I nudge Clive’s foot under the table.
“Does that answer your question?”
Kieran sounds as good as I thought, but why does it feel like he’s avoiding me? Why bring me here if he doesn’t want to see me?
Clive examines his watch. “I need to get back to the store before Siobhan burns it down.”
“One more question,” I say. “In a Jane Austen story, how does it all end? There’s a happily ever after, right?”
Clive gets solemn. “Depends on which character you are.”
This story needs to have a happy ending for everyone involved. I haven’t let myself conceive of another option. It’s too much even to think about—that my memories might never come back. That I might be stuck . . . lost . . . forever. That leaving my dad wasn’t temporary. The sadness of these thoughts makes me want to grab Clive and hold on to him until my arms hurt.
“What about you, Jane? What do I need to know? Are you running away from something in Cleveland, Ohio? An ex-lover, maybe? Overprotective parents? A feud with a best friend?”
A blush creeps up my cheeks. I settle on something as close to the truth as possible, because Clive deserves that. “I needed to try on a new life. Some place where my past can’t get to me. Ireland seemed friendly enough.”
“An ex-lover it is then. I can tell. I’ve read enough Austen to know.” Clive takes a napkin from the table and starts to write on it. He scribbles fast. “Here.” He holds it out to me.
“What is it?”
“Shannon Walsh’s address.”
“Who’s Shannon Walsh, and why do I need her address?”
“It’s where Kieran is.” Clive winks at me. “Bunny.”
I try to hand it back to him. “I think I’ve pried into Kieran’s life enough.”
But Clive pushes my hand away. “You should go over there. You might just be surprised.”
“I think I’m done with surprises.”
Clive doesn’t back down. “Austen knew that surprises make stories more interesting. You can’t be afraid of them, or you might miss out.” He’s written detailed directions to Shannon’s house, complete with a map.
“Embrace the surprises in life, Jane,” Clive says. “It’ll be worth it. I promise.”
CHAPTER 10
Shannon Walsh lives in a small one-story house outside of Waterville, perched up on an emerald-green hill where sheep graze. Bright red flowers line the hedgerow and block the property from the road. The red flowers look like upside-down teardrops and brighten the sidewalks and lanes everywhere in this town.
The entire walk over, I tried to come up with a good reason why I’m inserting myself into Kieran’s life . . . again. Nothing comes to mind. This could be a catastrophe, yet my feet keep moving.
Sweat sprinkles my forehead, and my legs are tired when I stop in front of the oddly painted house. Half is bright pink and the other half lemon yellow. Clive’s paper with the directions and address confirms that this is, indeed, the right place. As if on cue, Kieran appears at the top of the driveway. My mind wipes totally clean.
Kieran’s skin has a kiss of sun, his hair a mess, his clothes ratty and torn. He doesn’t have the air of a businessman in the slightest. But Clive is right—he really is quite good looking. My sweating gets worse.
His truck is parked in the driveway, a large ladder sticking out of the back, and I piece together quickly that he’s at Shannon Walsh’s house to paint it, though I’m still unsure who Shannon Walsh is. She is the variable. She could be shagging Kieran.
The long brush in Kieran’s hand is coated in yellow paint when he turns to me, an unreadable expression on his face. The sun has stayed out this afternoon, which I’m starting to realize is an oddity. It may not rain all day, but most days it’s going to rain some. Today is the warmest it’s been. I wipe tiny beads of sweat from my forehead as Kieran watches me walk up the drive, his eyes bright in the sunlight.
His red T-shirt and jeans are speckled with paint, along with his hands. He even has a yellow streak across his cheek. Kieran squints in the sunlight as he sets down the paintbrush. I give him an uncomfortable grin.
“Found you,” I say.
Kieran cocks his head at me. “I wasn’t hiding.”
“No.” I point to the paint. “You’re clearly painting a house. How’s it going?”
“Very slowly.” He wipes his brow with the back of his hand and glances at the sky. “But the nice weather is helping.” His eyes come back to me. “You walked all the way here?”
I try to sound nonchalant. “I needed some exercise.”
“Is that it?”
The way he says the words is unreadable, like the look on his face. I go quiet, standing in awkward silence. What am I doing here in a stranger’s driveway? I blame Clive for putting the idea in my head and my feet for not leading me in a better direction. The urge to turn and run hits me hard.
“I just wanted to thank you for the money,” I blurt out. “But you don’t have to do that.” Kieran kicks at the loose gravel with his shoe. His silence is deafening.
I pull the money from my pocket and shove it into his hands. “I’ll find a way to pay you back. And I’ll return the stuff that I bought. I’m not sure the store will take back underwear, but I’ll figure something out. I don’t want to be your charity case.”
“Charity case?”
“Yeah, charity case.” I turn to leave. It was a long walk here, my legs are aching, and my head kind of feels like it’s not attached to my body right now, but I can’t stay.
Halfway down the driveway, I hear Kieran say, “You’re not a charity case.”
I pause before turning around, confused. “But you gave me money.”
“I know.”
“Lots of money.”
Kieran rolls his eyes. “I’m aware. But charity assumes that I think you’re needy, and I don’t think you’re needy. Someone shitty mugged you. It’s their fault you have nothing. I’m just trying to help.”
I avoid his eyes, my lie stinging.
“So you bought underwear with the money . . . Care to expound? Maybe a description or two?” Kieran says. A cocky grin rests on his face.
But I don’t deserve his kindness and help. All the bad things I’ve done are eating at me, the guilt almost too much at times. “I want to pay you back.”
“I don’t care about the money.”
“Well, I do. I want to pay back every penny you’ve given me.”
“We use euros in Ireland,” Kieran goads me.
“I mean it. I don’t want your money. I want to earn my own. I am an independent woman who doesn’t need the help of a man.” I say it forcefully, in hopes I might actually believe it down to my core.
“There’s that tenacity I like.” Kieran holds out his hand. “You’ve got a deal, Bunny. I’ll butt out. From now on, you’ll earn your own money.” After we shake, he goes to the back of the truck, gets a paintbrush, and hands it to me. “You can start now.”
“What?”
“You said you want to work. You’re going
to help me paint this house so you can get out of this small town and see more of Ireland. You didn’t come here to waste away in Waterville all summer.”
“Right,” I say, though the thought of leaving makes me uncomfortable. That’s not what I meant when I said I was an independent woman. But I play along. “I need to see Dublin before I go, right?”
“Yes, you do.”
The sun glares as I look at the partially painted exterior. I’m not worried about the work. It’s painting. It can’t be that hard. And earning my own cash does sound nice. But what about Shannon? “So . . . will the owner mind that I’m here?”
Kieran pulls more supplies from the back of his truck. “She most likely won’t even notice.” I wait for him to explain, trying to act nonchalant. “She’s been legally blind for over ten years now. That’s what the bright color is for. So she can tell which house is hers.”
“How old is Shannon?” I ask.
Kieran pours more yellow paint into a plastic bucket. “I think she just turned eighty-five.”
This is the surprise Clive was talking about. I control my laughter.
Kieran hands me the bucket. It’s heavier than I expect, and it yanks my arm down with its weight.
Adjusting, I say with gusto, “Where do I start?”
Kieran seems intrigued. “Have you ever painted anything before?”
It already feels like my hand’s going to fall off, but I act like I’m not struggling under the weight. “Of course, I have.”
Trying not to spill, I lug the bucket over to the house. What did I get myself into? I set it down in front of a section that hasn’t been covered in yellow yet. This can’t be that hard. Even with no memory of doing it, painting is pretty straightforward—dip the brush in the bucket, wipe the paint on the house, repeat.
“So how’d you get roped into this job?” I ask as I go through the motions.
“Shannon needed help. I offered.”
I turn to face Kieran, tucking a few wild pieces of hair behind my ear. “That’s sweet.” He stifles an unexpected laugh in return. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“What?” I ask, pressing harder.
“You have paint on your cheek.” When wiping my face makes it worse, Kieran chuckles more. “Just leave it, Bunny.”
I groan at him before focusing on painting again, moving the brush up and down and sideways, smearing paint this way and that. When Kieran comes up behind me, I startle. He grasps my arm.
“Not like that.” He takes my hand, dipping the brush into the paint and gently wiping the sides of extra yellow paint. “Like this.”
His hand moves with my hand, up and down in a rhythmic motion, uniformly, smoothly, and much more effectively, covering the pink with yellow.
“Slow and even,” he says into my ear.
His chest presses to my back. I should pay attention to what he’s showing me, but all I can do is focus on the heat between us. His arm rests on my arm, his fingers encircle mine, intimately. When he turns his attention from the painting to me, I realize I’m holding my breath.
“Got it?”
I step away from him hurriedly, finding much-needed space and air. Distance is good. It keeps boundaries in place. For a moment, I wasn’t focused on my endgame. All I cared about was Kieran and the closeness of his body.
But I have a life I plan to get back to.
“I got it,” I say.
Kieran nods and casually goes back to his section of the house, as if something didn’t just spark between us. Maybe it didn’t for him. It’s a bad idea to linger on feelings that shouldn’t be there anyway. My life has enough disappointment in it. I’m trying to reduce pain, not add to it.
The goal is to go back to Clementine’s life without extra pain. To say good-bye to this fake life easily. I’ll be an American girl he helped, like he helps everyone else. That’s the charade. Without it, this all falls apart.
“So you’re a bartender and a painter,” I say, smoothing paint just as he showed me. “What else do you do around this town?”
Kieran runs a large roller brush through a tray of paint. “Whatever people need help with.”
“So you’re a good Samaritan.”
Kieran glances at me for a beat before going back to painting. “I’m not that good.”
“I’m not sure I believe you. You seem that good.”
Kieran keeps his eyes on the house. “Believe me, Jane.”
When he uses my fake name, it feels formal and detached, and I’m reminded how little we really know about each other. Our connection is inflated because I lack an attachment to everyone else. That doesn’t mean Kieran feels the same.
But selfishly, I like that he calls me Bunny instead of Jane. It makes my lies carry less weight.
I dip my brush back in the paint and keep working. The sun is hot on my back, but it feels good to be doing something productive, where I can see progress, results. And I like being outside. The movement of the brush is almost meditative. I forget how tired my legs are, how heavy my head feels. For a while, as I paint, I just settle, letting everything—the plane crash, the ripples that continue to rattle me—disappear. Coming here today was a good idea.
“So what’s your favorite dare you’ve ever done?” I ask.
“I don’t know,” Kieran says.
“Come on. All of those pictures in your room. You’ve got to have a favorite.”
“I don’t.”
I blow out an exaggerated breath. “Now you’re lying to me. I can tell. Everyone has a favorite.” Though I’m unaware of what mine is, I want to hear about Kieran’s. A part of me is more desperate than I thought to really know him. “There must be some experience that beats out all the rest.”
A quiet falls between us as I wipe more sweat from my head and shake out my tired arms. Kieran seems lost in thought, his paintbrush at his side. Then a small smile pulls at the corners of his mouth. “Bungee jumping in New Zealand.”
“You’ve been to New Zealand?”
Kieran nods. “Two years ago, after I did my Leaving Cert.”
“Your Leaving Cert?”
“When I graduated from school,” Kieran amends. “A group of us went the summer before university. It was a present from my dad—a trip to anywhere in the world.” Kieran pauses. “That’s what he called it—a present—but it was really a bribe.”
“A bribe for what?”
“To force me into business school.”
“Why did you say yes if you knew it was a bribe?”
“Because I was young,” Kieran says. “And bungee jumping in New Zealand sounded like loads of fun. And because my father would win in the end anyway. Some people earn love. Some people blackmail others into it.”
The information Clive gave me seems to match well with what Kieran says, and I almost ask more questions about his father, but remembering my past interactions with Kieran and Siobhan stop me from making that mistake again.
“Well, was it worth it at least?”
“Worth it? I don’t know,” Kieran says, and then the devilishness returns to his eyes. “But it was loads of fun.”
“Tell me about it,” I say, intrigued.
Kieran looks as though he’s still astonished he’s bungee jumped in the first place.
“You’re in a cable car, hanging over the Nevis River, attached to a really big rubber band. I’d been skydiving before, but this was different.”
The thought of falling through the air sends my nerves on a ride.
“You’re not alone when you skydive, but bungee jumping . . . nothing is safe about it.” Kieran shakes his head in apparent disbelief. “And the truth is I’m not good with heights.”
“You don’t like heights, but you chose bungee jumping? That’s insane.”
“No, Bunny.” Kieran’s eyes catch the sunlight. “It isn’t a dare unless you’re afraid to do it.”
“Well, it sounds kind of awful.”
“It was in a way. And in another way, i
t was amazing,” he says. “That’s the thing with fear—conquer it, and you find freedom.”
“Is that why it’s your favorite?”
“That’s one of the reasons.” Kieran goes back to painting. He doesn’t offer any more than that. A few days ago, I would have pushed, but now I’m starting to be aware of his sharing limit. It just feels good to know more about him.
We work as the sun travels toward the horizon, almost running into each other awkwardly a few times as we both dip our brushes into the paint tray at the same time. When my arm feels like it might fall off, I stand back, taking in our progress. The house is nowhere near done. It feels like we’ve barely made a dent. A wave of exhaustion comes over me as the sun hits my eyes, knocking the wind out of my chest. I stagger to the side, my sight blurry, but catch myself quickly and regain my balance.
“Are you OK, Bunny?”
“I’m fine,” I say. A thin strip of pink paint lines the top of the house where the roof meets the walls. It’s too high to reach with the roller. One of us needs to paint it by hand. “What do we do with that?”
Kieran gestures to the ladder in the back of the truck. “I’m avoiding the inevitable.”
“I can do it,” I say, happy that I can finally help Kieran, instead of the other way around. And then I say, for an added jab, “I wouldn’t want you to get scared or anything. It’s pretty high up.”
“Bunny, have you ever been up on a ladder before?”
“Sure. Lots of times.” Presumably, I have. I’m eighteen years old. I’ve probably done a lot of stuff.
Kieran gets the ladder out of the back of the truck and rests it against the house, making sure it’s secure.
“It’s all yours.”
He holds my bucket and brush as I step up on the first rung, getting my bearings, a false confidence to my action, knowing my life is just a pile of assumptions—right or wrong. My throat tightens at all the steps it will take to get to the top. I grip the ladder harder. But backing out isn’t an option. I’ve cornered myself in another lie.
Kieran hands over the paint and brush. “I find it best not to look down.”
The Upside of Falling Down Page 9