Cavanagh - Serenity Series, Vol I (Seeking Serenity)

by Eden Butler

  But Joe, it seems, can’t stop himself where my love life is concerned. I leave the bathroom to find him waiting for me. His gaze is focused in a stare, across the room at the back of Tucker’s head. The expression vanishes when I stand next to him, but his determination does not. Before I can say a word, Joe takes my shoulders, gives me that familiar fatherly deadpan. “I wanted to speak with you about this Tucker lad.”

  “What about him, Joe?”

  I can’t help but smile at his chin sticking up as if whatever he will say is the end all be all and I’ll not get a chance to argue with him. “I don’t like him. I don’t like him one bit. I think you should be rid of him.”

  My father is many things and I’ve called him all of them over the years, but at his heart, he is a true man. He never listens to me. He sees firsts, reacts and then considers later. I’ve explained to him more times than I can count that Tucker and I aren’t together, that we won’t ever be together again. But I get the impression he doesn’t buy that. “Joe…”

  “No, listen to me, love. I have a feeling about him. He’s well rude and possessive and I’m not keen about the way he stares at you or holds on to you, like he owns you.”

  “He’s a little drunk, Joe, that’s all.”

  “You don’t even like him, Autumn. You said so yourself, months back. And you said he was rude to his squad besides. What then are you doing with him?”

  There is a flicker of annoyance, of memory that unsettles me. I don’t like how bossy Joe sounds, how put off he is by my non-relationship with Tucker. There is nothing between us, I’ve made sure of that, but Joe doesn’t see this. He ignores my explanations and let’s his imagination get the better of him. And when you get down to it, he lost the right to his opinions on my life the day he walked out on us.

  “Joe, it’s none of your business who I date.”

  The familiar color of his cheek, the hard wrinkles exaggerating the lines around his eyes and I know Joe is mad. When I try to walk off, he slips his hand around my wrist and pulls me back. “It is, in fact. You’re my daughter. I care about you and this boy is no good for you.”

  “It’s a little late to be dolling out advice, Joe. I’m not a child.”

  “You’re still my daughter.”

  But I haven’t always been. My whole life, I was Evelyn’s daughter. I haven’t been Joe’s daughter for a long time and I think he needs reminding of that. “Being a sperm donor doesn’t make you a father, Joe. Sticking around does.”

  He is stricken, hurt. The automatic drop of his mouth, the flush of his skin instantly has me hating myself. But we’ve behaved like old friends ever since he returned. There have been no explanations, no defense that would help me understand why my mother and I were forgotten. I’ve gone months without a parent and I suppose I’d forgotten how they can’t seem to let go, to forget that the task of correcting, of directing doesn’t diminish over time. When Joe’s silence bounces between us, I walk away from him, annoyed at his familiarity, at my rudeness. I need air, fresh, free-from-the-crowd air and nearly make it to the door before Tucker grabs me.

  “Where are you going, sweetness?” There is a stupid, sloppy grin on his face that I don’t find funny. I curse myself for letting him stick around tonight. Even as drunk as he is, Tucker has remained tight-lipped about Declan, about what he knows. Even my mild attempts at flirting with him haven’t loosened his lips. Now, he’s back to being a nuisance.

  “To get some air.”

  “I’ll come with you.”

  “No, Tucker. Stay here. I’ll be back in a minute.” I think he might ignore me. He even takes a step, as if to follow, but I jerk him around, easy to do when he’s pissed out of his head, and give him a little shove toward the crowd. Over his head, I see Sam who nods at my gesture and wraps his arm around Tucker’s neck in a playful, dude-type hug, leading him to a chair.

  A gust of wind sweeps back my jacket when I open the door. The noise from inside lowers the farther I walk, and then I’m caught by the full moon above, the inky blur of darkness split only by that bright orb and the small dots of starlight. The weather has finally sorted itself and now a cold snap blankets around Cavanagh. Couples huddle together outside of the pub, holding onto one another in attempts at warmth, at closeness, and I smile as a guy uses this position to his advantage, peppering small kisses on the neck of his companion.

  Layla’s loud shriek from inside diverts my awareness of my surroundings and I smile at her and Mollie seen through a window, dancing to some song I cannot make out. But they are smiling, focused on each other and part of the worry I feel for their frayed friendship lessens.

  To my left, another couple passes me, slouched together, their clumsy movements and wobbled steps tells me they are drunk, but holding firm together, arms tangled, heads bend close against the cold and I think of my last drunken escapade. Declan took me home, saw that I made it safely, didn’t touch me the whole night as I lay next to him.

  He took care of me and the thought chips at the doubt that lingers around his rejection; about the truth to his claim that we were not meant for each other.

  “Enjoying your party?”

  There should be no surprise that Declan is here, hiding in the shadows, avoiding the crowd. Of course he’s here. He’s always around, standing in the distance, watching, waiting. He works uninvited appearances like a surgeon mending the decay in a dying body.

  I want to hold onto my anger. I want to cradle it until even the slightest glance at him disgusts me. He has befuddled me, played with my mind until I examine his every look, the slightest nuance in his words. But I can’t keep control on my anger. I notice his clean shaven features, the strong lines of his cheeks, the square shape of his jaw, how he’s taken care in his appearance—hair laying in perfect, gelled waves against his head, a thick wool coat free of lint and the bright blaze of his green eyes, the warmth of my anger turns cold and slips from my grasp.

  Declan walks out of the dark alley and I see a gift nestled under his arm, but I try not to think too much about the idea of him remembering my birthday or that he took the time to get me a present.

  I attempt detachment, not wanting him to see my pleasure, the smile I fight to hold off my face. But I fail miserably and can tell by the damnable smirk on his face that my annoyance will not last.

  “I’m sorry. About our fight,” he says. His attention falls to his hand, to his trimmed fingernails. “I had no right to corner you like that.”

  There are faint, red highlights in his hair that glimmer against the streetlamp. They are scattered against his dark hair, at the temples, on the crown. “You really didn’t,” I say, hoping my voice is flippant, that my tone doesn’t give away that I didn’t mind him locking me in the bathroom. Well. Now I wouldn’t mind it.

  His fingernails no longer hold his interest. Two clicks of his heels on the walkway and Declan is in front of me. “I don’t mean to fuck with your head, McShane. I just can’t seem to control myself around you.” As though to demonstrate, he lifts his finger to my face, brushes the hair out of my eyes. I wish I knew if he’s angry, if he misses me, if it killed him just a bit to walk away from me. But then Sayo pops open a bottle of champagne and her squeal of laughter brings both our eyes to the window. “Not enjoying yourself in there?”

  “It’s loud and I’ve just had the first fight with my dad in eight years. I needed some air.”

  He takes another, closer step and I don’t back away. “He try to give you a curfew, did he?”

  “No. He doesn’t like Tucker.”

  “That makes two of us.”

  It makes three of us, actually, but I don’t bother telling Declan that. We’re still dealing in the truth commodity and I want my bank higher. To do that, Declan has to be left to believe my little fabrication.

  “What are you doing here?” I say, pulling my scarf closer to my neck. “It’s Friday night. Shouldn’t you be out with your girlfriend?”

  “Yes, well, I don’t have a girl
friend.” At my expectant stare, he grins. “She was a bit clingy. I had to give her the toss. Then she went straight to the cricket field to find her next bit of stuff.”

  I crinkle my nose. “Oh, God, she could have at least picked a proper sport.” Between his laughter, Declan lifts the gift from his arm and offers it to me. “What’s this?”

  “I wanted to get you something…nice. To make up for our fight the other night.” He moves his shoulders. “It’s not biscuits.”

  By its shape and weight, I know it’s a book. Declan has wrapped it in simple, brown paper, held closed by thin twine. In the center is a sprig of lavender. I tear the paper, let it fall to the ground and the moment I see the spine, my breath hitches, catches between my gasps of shock. The gold letters are faded, but still distinct and my eyes instantly burn when they shift across the title. First edition. He’d investigated my collection the night of our date, snooped through the bookshelves. He would know I collect them. To Kill a Mockingbird. I don’t trust myself to look at him, can’t spare a second to have him watch the way my nose moves in a sniffle, the collection of tears hanging from my lashes. But when I open the book and see then inscription inside, my composure slips, tears build, collect behind my lashes. It is impossible, precious, but the note has been signed to me.

  Autumn, Remember the stories your mother told you. - Harper Lee.

  The signature is feeble, as though it was made with struggle, but there are flicks at the end of the R’s and a wide loop in the top of the L that make me smile, make my chest burn with pleasure. She’s written my name. She reminded me of my mother, of the stories she always told me. It was personal, and I am so affected, so overwhelmed that I don’t notice the tears sliding down my face or that Declan immediately wipes them away.

  “Declan, this can’t be.”

  “It is.” He takes the book, flips the pages to the back cover. There is an envelope, a letter of authenticity that he produces with pride.

  “How in the world?”

  “Winchell.”

  My head snaps up and I watch his expression to make sure he isn’t joking. “What?” He nods to the side, toward the window and I look inside to see Ava watching us. She offers me a wink and small grin before she returns to the party.

  Declan tries to dismiss the gravity of this gift, as though there was nothing to it at all. “I went to her office and told her what I’d like to get you for your birthday. She made some calls. Has an Aunt working for some Writer’s Symposium in Alabama. She offered to call in a favor.”

  His face is impassive as though this isn’t the most remarkable thing anyone has ever done for me. I can’t help myself. There is a great swell of warmth in my chest. He has done this for me. I knew the book alone must have cost him plenty, but to admit he’d gone out of his way, just for me, that is priceless. I don’t think, I just pull him down into a hug, hoping he can feel that the tremble in my arms isn’t from fear, that I am so filled with gratitude that the sentiment shakes my entire body.

  I can’t stop the tears from falling and I don’t care that my nose is running. “Declan, this is the sweetest thing anyone has ever done for me.” I pull back, but his hands stay wrapped around my waist. “Thank you so much.”

  “I just bought the book, McShane. Winchell did the hard stuff.”

  “It was your idea.”

  “Yeah, well—” he blushes and I laugh. I’ve never seen Declan blush before. I open the book and read the inscription.

  “It’s priceless.” I look back up to him. “It really is priceless. Thank you.”

  In the stretch of the moment, I can guess what will happen. I don’t care. His rejection, his constant mixed signals, I don’t care about any of it. He is going to kiss me and I want him to. I want him to take me back home. I want him warm against me, I want him kissing me, holding me, helping me forget everything that has happened over the past few months. I touch his cheek when he bends toward me and exhales, I feel his breath hot on my face; a rich sigh that lessens the weight of tension.

  “Autumn Honor?” I hear Joe say. Declan growls, a regrettable, annoyed sound and rests his forehead against mine. Joe comes behind us and I turn, curve my eyebrow up. He has a ridiculously pleased smile on his face. “Sorry, love. I was just checking on you.”

  “I’m fine, Joe. Declan was just giving me my birthday present.” At his doubting frown, I shake my head, nod it to the left, hoping he’ll get the hint. “I’ll be in a minute.” One ridiculous grin and a brief wink, then Joe disappears into the pub. “I guess I should go. I’m being rude.” I can see the hesitation, the disappointment on Declan’s face, the purse of his lips. “Do you want to come in?” He squints through the window of the pub and watches the crowd, no doubt seeing Tucker among the endless faceless.

  “Best not. I’d hate for there to be a scene.” He rubs his thumb along my bottom lip. When I think he will kiss me again, I inch in closer, but then his thumb leaves my face and Declan clears his throat. “Are you lot prepared for the Dash?”

  “I think so. As much as we can be.”

  “Good. That’s good.” He smiles as though a thought comes to him. “We’ll back you up.”

  “We?” I ask, wondering what he’s planning.

  “The lads and I. Don’t worry, it’ll be fair. Captain won’t have a clue.”

  The smile returns to my face and I squeeze Declan’s hand, a silent thank you for his gift, for him looking out for me. Though I don’t want to, I walk away, am almost to the door when I hear him call my name.

  “Yes?”

  “Happy birthday,” he says, but I don’t think that is all he means. Those green eyes are brighter now than they were just moments ago.

  “Thanks, Declan.”

  TWENTY

  “I’m going to pee myself.” I’ve never seen Layla this nervous and find it a bit unsettling. She doesn’t get nervous. She gets grumpy, out of sorts, mad as a wet rooster sometimes, but Layla is never nervous.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Mollie says. “We’ll be dripping with sweat and muddy as pigs in about twenty minutes. Pee at will.”

  The crowd is thick with shivering, anxious runners, circling around the starting line. It’s Dash Day and the hordes have converged. Time to test our mettle, to forgo the theory and set the practice into motion. I think we are the only nervous participants. Some of the crowd partake in large bottles of beer, some power eat everything from bananas to protein bars as though the run ahead will take days and not the projected three hours. Layla and Mollie are among the scarfing fiends. They have eaten three bananas each and tried convincing Sayo and I to join in their gorge fest, but we both are too nervous. When Mollie yet again offers me another banana, I shake my head, the bundle of nerves in my gut spins around like a blender.

  “Autumn, you have to carb load.”

  “If I do, I’m afraid I’ll vomit.” She shoves the fruit in my hand and I’m forced to nibble quickly. Sayo takes one as well and when I watch the small bites she attempts and glance at her bitten down fingernails and Layla and Mollie’s anxious glances behind us, toward Tucker and the squad, I decide we need a pep talk. “Come here, all of you, come with me.”

  I lead my friends away from the starting line, down a dry ditch to a patch of dead grass not occupied by runners or spectators. “We have prepared for this. We are ready.” My friends don’t buy it, seem wholly distracted by the end result, by what we will be forced into should we lose. I hate myself in this moment. I hate that all their anxiety, all their fitful worry is my fault. I got us into this. “Listen, you guys, I’m sorry about this. I really am.” When they begin to speak, all at once, I wave my hands, silencing them. “This is all me. This is me losing my temper at Tucker. I allowed him to talk me into this stupid bet. I should have never let him get to me. I…I love you all so much.”

  My friends’ faces are determined, severe and I notice the quick exchange of worry between them, as though that silent communication is back and I’ve been purposefully left out
of the conversation. A couple of nods and finally Sayo scarfs down the rest of the banana, straightens her shoulders and nearly grunts when she speaks. “Tucker Morrison can kiss my ass. And yours, Autumn. He’s a pig and a bully and he deserves to be shown up. I’m doing this and we’re going to win. All of us, we’re going to win.”

  I don’t know if Sayo told Mollie and Layla about the source of her anger where Tucker is concerned. I can’t imagine she has, but they seem to agree with her and a wave of resolve overtakes their bodies.

  Sayo pulls my arm into the crook of her elbow. “And we love you too, bitch.” We laugh and I notice my friends stretch their shoulders, walk tall, proud, as we return to the starting line and move their chins up as though this race is nothing to them, a minor excursion that they will navigate with little effort.

  God, how I love them.

  The day has been abysmal. The wind breaks limbs, dusts a brief patter of rain over our bodies, dotting the ground so that it’s just muddy enough to make the impending run difficult. My friends huddle beside me, their arms linked as they whisper words of encouragement, but the powwow is broken up by Sam’s arrival and the oddly awkward presence of Layla’s cop, Walter. I notice the clipped tones they exchange, how Mollie walks to the back of the line, talking to a few of her musician friends. My eyes follow her, but stop when I see Declan near the back, talking to Donovan and a few of his fellow squad mates. Tucker sits on a cooler near a small congregation of fans in the middle of the squad. His smile is smug as he animatedly speaks, regaling some boastful story or another to his eager audience. Declan and I both look at him, share equal expressions of annoyance, and then Tucker is forgotten. Declan’s smile is soft, he barely pulls his lips as though he’s reserved it for me alone, a private signal to me that tells me to push through, to be a warrior, to do the best I can. But the connection is broken, cut clean when Tucker stands in front of Declan, shouts something that sounds remotely like “secret” and “back off” before he stomps my way.