by Eden Butler
“No. I don’t want it done, Mollie. I really don’t.”
In the years that he’d known Mollie Malone, that gruff, defensive badass girl who’d come to Cavanagh at thirteen with an attitude and a smart mouth, he’d never seen her smile, not like she did just then. In an instant, with the prospect of Donovan trying to win over her best friend, Mollie became nothing more than an emotional girly girl. The smile was wide, and he actually saw a flicker dance in her eyes. “Then maybe you should…”
“Daddy wait! NO!”
The yell was piercing, desperate and both Donovan and Mollie turned toward it as it echoed from the front of the pub.
Mollie stood before Donovan could even turn around completely and was on her feet jogging forward, calling over her shoulder, “I know that scream. Shit!”
Somehow he managed to bypass Mollie, charging past her toward the bar to find Coach Mullens holding Quinn up against the brick wall, looking like he was just seconds from killing him.
“You fucked my daughter, you asshole?” Mullens shook Quinn once, popping his head back against the brick.
“That what you call it, mate?” The smug bastard looked over Coach’s shoulder, right at a petrified, shaking Layla who Declan was holding back. Donovan had no idea what the hell was going on, but he felt his stomach burn at the sight of Layla’s pale face, her hands covering her mouth as Quinn glared at her. The asshole’s sneer was amused, but his eyes shown bright with a fierce and dangerous gleam. “You tell your da I gave you a ride?” Quinn asked Layla.
That fear Donovan felt quickly transformed and a small flicker of something resentful, something that hurt too damn much crawled up his chest when Layla cringed, then yelped as Mullens slammed his fist into Quinn’s face. Donovan could hear the sick crunch of bone cracking but he couldn’t make his feet move or keep his eyes from Layla. The accusation cut too deep, felt like a betrayal worse than the one his father had delivered to him at eighteen.
Quinn and Layla? No. It can’t be… no.
Declan darted toward Mullens as Mollie stepped behind Layla. The Irishman tried pulling the older man off his brother, ignored the threats of bodily harm, of cutting Declan from the squad if he tried to stop him and all the while, Donovan stood frozen, his heart thundering and a sick, sour taste rising up the back of his throat. Finally, just as Mullens swung back again, Donovan pulled Layla from Mollie’s grip.
“You fucked O’Malley?”
She wouldn’t look at him and he needed to see those eyes. He wanted to know if he saw the same look of shame, guilt coloring her face that had been on her cousin’s expression when Donovan caught her with his father. When Layla kept her eyes downcast, away from his glare, his fingers tightened on her arms. “Tell me!”
“Donovan…”
He wasn’t calm, wasn’t able to keep his voice quiet, to ask the question without a piercing shrill elevating his tone. “You’re fucking O’Malley too?”
And just like that, the circus of a night was silenced. He barely took note of the low curse behind him, his best friend’s garbled curse or the stomping feet at his side.
Mullens came at him, quick and violent, jerking Donovan away from his daughter with a strength that surprised Donovan. “What the hell do you mean ‘too,’ Donely? Are you saying… you and Layla…” he glared at his daughter, “how many people are you sleeping with?”
“Daddy! No… I didn’t… not Quinn!” She looked between them, to her father’s fist tightened around Donovan’s collar, before the fear in her face, the tension in her body seized up, tightened. “I… I only said that because I didn’t want you to hurt Donovan!”
“Well, thanks, darlin’, for throwing the blame my way,” Quinn said, laughing past the blood dripping out of his nose.
“Shut up!” Layla screamed.
Mullens released Donovan and stood in front of Layla. Donovan could taste her fear, the anxious worry that had her stepping back as her father’s face hardened and his mouth became a hard, furious line. “The truth, right now, Layla.”
“I’d like to hear that too!” Donovan said, unable to stay quiet. He was desperate, a little overwhelmed at the potential of yet another betrayal. The very thing he swore he’d never allow himself to get near to again.
Mullens jerked his attention to Donovan, that hard lined mouth coming up in a disgusted snarl. “Keep your mouth shut, asshole.”
“Coach…” Declan, tried, walking slowly toward them, hands up as if he needed to show Mullens that he wasn’t a threat.
The man didn’t bother looking at the Irishman, but his voice was sharp, held a threat that told him not to test him. “Back off, Fraser.”
“Daddy, please…”
But Mullens wasn’t having any of her pleas, or the passive way she curled her arms around her waist. “Answers, young lady, right now. Was it O’Malley,” Mullens jerked his head back toward Quinn and then to his left at Donovan all the while keeping his body rigid, his shoulders straight, “or Donley? Whose ass do I have to kick for getting you pregnant?”
And then the air completely vanished from Donovan’s lungs. Gaze flying to his coach, then widening as they caught the way Layla covered her face, Donovan stepped back, shocked, staggered. “Woah. Wait a fucking second. What did you say?” Donovan asked his coach.
Then it wasn’t just Donovan’s shock that changed the mood in the room. He vaguely caught Mollie’s gasp, Quinn’s low, amused snort of laughter behind them and Declan, his overprotective, quick to throttle best friend came at him, angry and looking very much like he was going to clock Donovan good. “You got her up the pole? Are you fecking stupid? What did I say? What did I bloody tell you…”
“Shut the hell up man, I’m freaking out here.” He pushed Declan away, walked toward Layla when she finally moved her hands from her face.
Pregnant? She was pregnant? How the hell…
The others in the room became something Donovan only half noticed—Mollie furiously whispering into Layla’s ear, Mullens and Declan both shouting at Donovan, the other patrons keeping silent witness, muttering to themselves and Quinn’s unabashed amusement as he stretched his long arms against the bar. But Donovan’s attention was on Layla, on how small she looked just then, how she finally kept her gaze on Donovan’s face, staring over his features with her own fear moving her chin.
“Wasn’t bloody me, mate. Damn shame though, aye?” Quinn called, his voice holding an annoying hint of amusement. “Fit little bird that she is.” They all turned to him, glaring and Declan charged his brother, ignoring the humor in the asshole’s eyes as Declan pushed him onto stool, glaring out a warning at him.
When Mullens cleared his throat and his features only tightened, Layla’s gaze moved from Donovan and that quiver in her chin moved faster. “I’m waiting. Answer my damn question.”
She stopped moving, seemed able to only look down at the floor and the pub became silent, except for the sound of a match playing on the television above the bar and Quinn’s drunken drawl of “Hey, love, do you like to party?” as he flirted with the bartender.
“Daddy… Donovan…”
Donovan held his breath, his insides feeling like they might burn him up. And he was conflicted, torn between wanting to thunder out of the pub, leave Cavanagh altogether, scared out of his fucking head, and that urgent, desperate desire to hold Layla, to stop her body from shaking.
“Layla, the truth! Now!”
She flinched at her father’s shout, but didn’t speak. Donovan guessed the look she gave him was supposed to be an apology, but no words came from her, she made the briefest nod toward Donovan and he could only stare, dumbfounded at the tears running down her face before that loud, angry growl left Mullens throat and he gripped Donovan’s collar. He felt the coach’s hot breath on his face, heard the threats he made and the loud scream of “My car. Right now!” but Donovan could only watch Layla, taking in the splotches of red on her face and the apology that wrinkled her forehead.
The Christmas
lights were white and blinked in and out, casting flickering shadows across the dark wood floors. On the surface, the room, the others surrounding it, were lit up in festive, calm decorations, welcoming as though the entire house waited for the next three days to zip by. It promised laughter and love and the sense of warmth from a family that would fill the home, like they had every year before this one, with the sweet sentiment and peace only a happy home at Christmas could.
Layla could smell her mother’s homemade chocolate fudge cookies still warming on the marble countertops in the kitchen and she thought, if she closed her eyes, focused, she could still hear her mother’s sweet, out of tune hum of “O Holy Night.” But her focus was fractured, ripped from her consciousness by the sound of crying and the low groans of disappointment.
“I thought I raised you to be smart, son.”
“I didn’t know… Layla… she…”
“They’re both so irresponsible. Really. What will everyone say?”
“Caroline, really… that’s what you’re worried about?”
“No, Meara, please, don’t cry again.”
Merry Christmas. Ho! Ho! Shit… not a good choice of words.
She could only stare at them, all of them. Her parents, Donovan’s, people who were once friends. Two families that had spent years together during the holidays, on vacations. Friendships that had been destroyed by betrayal and now, likely further splintered by Layla’s forgetfulness. Three days of skipping pills when she was stressed about her classes, about what happened after the spring, about Mollie or any of her other friends finding out she’d been sneaking into Donovan’s bed every night. Three. Damn. Days. And her whole life, Donovan’s, was changed forever.
Two hours of these disappointed, desperate conversations and none of them were any closer to knowing what to do. Donovan had taken her father’s shouting like a champ but he’d barely looked at her since her father pointed to the sofa and made them both stay put like they were naughty children.
If it hadn’t been for Declan, Layla wasn’t sure if her father wouldn’t have beaten Donovan senseless. “Coach, please.” Her father had tried pushing Declan off of him, but the Irishman stood firm. “Maybe it’s not my place to say it, but you throttling one of your squad mates may not be best solution to this shite.”
Declan made her father see reason. He’d calmed him, he’d even patted Layla’s back, assuring a worried Layla that this wouldn’t be the worst day of her life. “It’ll be right again, Layla, love. Don’t you fret. It’ll be grand soon, just you wait.”
He’d understood, she knew. How often had Layla heard Declan speak about his mother like she was a saint and not a woman who’d taken another woman’s husband to her bed? Declan had been the result of that recklessness. She knew he sympathized with her.
Layla wished he was here now. She wished Mollie was. She’d expected her best friend to tell her what a careless dumbass she’d been, but that wasn’t Mollie’s way. Layla’s best friend had even disregarded whatever it was she’d wanted to talk to her about that night, telling her to “deal with this shit and we’ll talk later.” And then, before she and Declan took off, likely to fill in Autumn and Sayo on the train wreck the night had been, Mollie stopped Layla before she slipped into her father’s car.
“I love you, honey. To the Tardis and back.”
And Layla knew that was an immeasurable well of love. A bit geeky, possibly juvenile but it meant that Mollie’s love for her was grander than the world, bigger than any worlds beyond reckoning. The small endearment helped and Layla clung to it as her father screamed at her all the way back to their home with Donovan sitting there numb in the backseat.
Layla tried remembering Mollie’s words, and Declan’s as her parents fussed and cried, arguing about what would have to be done about her and Donovan’s “situation.” They all acted like she wasn’t there at all. She was invisible on that leather couch, a tiny spec of nothing amid the large furniture and the threatening, screaming adults who thought deciding her future was in any way their place.
“I don’t know what’s to be done.” Mrs. Donley’s pinched face tightened, made her look older, sterner than she already did, especially when she glared at Layla like she was a lowly tart. Idly, Layla wondered why people tended to blame the woman for an unplanned pregnancy. Why was it always a woman’s fault alone? As though somehow she’d siphoned the semen from an unaware man like an evil succubus, stealthily rendering a man utterly defenseless with her evil female wiles. And the “poor man” was helpless really, because of course he was just “being a man.”
Utter bullshit, she thought.
Layla knew that if Donovan’s mother took more than a second to think about her son and her husband she’d remember how they both were. That hornball gene had to come from someone.
“What do you expect, Caroline? This isn’t the fifties. We won’t send her off to some place until it’s all done and over. Really.” Her mother hadn’t said much, had only cried for the first hour but now, she stood up, got right in Mrs. Donley’s face looking fearless, her bobbed white blonde hair moving like a halo around her as she glared at Donovan’s tiny mother.
“Meara, this entire situation cannot be brushed under the rug,” Mrs. Donley said, looking up at Layla’s mother as though her nonsense was at all logical.
Donovan’s father sat on the brick hearth of the fireplace, the back of his neck reddening from the heat, or maybe the idea that his family was facing another scandal. He looked older than his wife, with deep lines around his mouth and eyes, and he could barely look at the women, certainly not at Layla.
Layla’s own father simply stood in the back of the room, shoulders stiff, his hands clasped behind his back as he stared out of the large bay window and into the dark Cavanagh night.
“Mom…”
“Sweetie, please. Just let me think for a second,” her mother said, barely glancing at her.
“Mom…”
“Layla, you’ve done enough. Listen to your mother and let us figure this out.” Maybe Mrs. Donley thought she was being helpful, that Layla was some simple twelve year who’d come home with a case of lice and not an actual, fully alive human person growing in her belly.
“I just think…”
“Layla… just… wait…” It was the first time Donovan had looked directly at her in over two hours and that is what he had to say?
Tired of them all, of the shouting and the passive aggressive attitudes, Layla stood, trying to make herself seem taller, stretch her shoulders, her neck to get at least one of them to look her way. “All of you shut the hell up.”
“Layla…”
Whatever clipped reprimand her mother was going to say ended when Layla picked up her crystal snow globe from the coffee table and smashed it to the floor.
“I said shut up!”
She could feel their eyes, those disappointed, heavy stares that absorbed Layla’s fury, her frustration and Layla could almost hear the rude things they thought, the regret, the names they were calling her to themselves. She didn’t care. It didn’t matter that she’d destroyed her mother’s holiday peace. She didn’t care that Mrs. Donley hid behind her husband as though Layla would become even more violent or that her father turned from the window, expression still furious, a cool calm that Layla knew was only the storm stirring before it raged out of hand and destroyed everything in its wake.
Her father’s expression reminded her of the first spanking she’d gotten, years ago, the one that made her father feel so guilty that he swore he’d never do it again. But Layla wasn’t the wicked eight year old she’d been when she stole a Hershey bar from the church bazaar because her mother told her she couldn’t have it. She was a woman. She was a woman who’d made a stupid mistake, who’d been careless, but she was nearing twenty-four. Legally, there was nothing any of them could force her into and they knew it.
“I messed up.” She looked at Donovan. She was angry that his silence, his confusion made it seem like he expecte
d them to take care of this for him. “I did something very stupid that I should have never done.” She hoped that glare conveyed her anger, that it showed Donovan that she didn’t respect him, that she wished she’d never once held a civil word in her mouth for him. “It’s a mistake I’m going to have to pay for the rest of my life. But I am not some stupid kid.” When her father snorted, laughed, disgusted under his breath like he thought she was simple, Layla felt a little piece of herself disappear. Suddenly she was the same small girl who’d sit on her father’s lap and listen to every word of every story he told her about Cavanagh and their people who’d built the town. But she wouldn’t cry, not in front of him, not now. Not when he looked at her like he didn’t know who she was.
“Think what you want, all of you. I don’t care. I’m not going to stand around here listening while everyone tries to decide my life for me.”
“Layla.” Donovan approached but she stepped back, grabbed her jacket and her bag from the back of the couch, then darted out of the room.
“Don’t even think about it, Donley.” She said this over her shoulder, as she moved toward the kitchen. “I told you to stay away from me. I told you I didn’t like you.”
Donovan stepped in front of her, tried to block her path out of the house and she noticed the twitch of anger filling his face. She could read him with her eyes closed. That temper surfaced and he didn’t think, she knew he didn’t, not after he growled, after he spat out, “For someone who didn’t like me, you sure gave it up any damn time I wanted it” and then seemed to immediately regret it. He stepped forward, reached for her when the shocked breath moved past her lips. “Wait… I’m sorry…”
But she wouldn’t hear it, him, she wouldn’t stop, not even when she heard her father telling Mr. Donley his son would have to man up, marry Layla like any decent man would do, not when her own mother started crying, sobbing her name as she moved through the kitchen toward the garage. She was down the long driveway, near the curb and at her car, had the door open when Donovan finally caught up to her.