Fighting Irish

by Katy Regnery

  Ian grunted, bracing his hands on the toilet seat as Rory put his hands under Ian’s shoulders and pulled him up. Because Ian was bigger than Rory by a couple of inches and a good thirty pounds, it was no easy feat, and his brother swayed on his feet as soon as he was standing. Rory braced him again the wall beside the shower, reaching for the button and zipper of his brother’s jeans. He hooked his thumbs into Ian’s boxers and pushed both filthy, stinking items to the floor, making a mental note to tell Tierney to burn them. Then he unbuttoned Ian’s flannel shirt, avoiding his brother’s eyes. He didn’t want Ian to see the profound grief in them, the intense sadness.

  When his brother was naked, Rory gestured with his chin to the shower. “Ready?”

  Ian searched Rory’s face. “I hate myself.”

  Rory nodded. “I know.”

  “I want to stop,” said Ian, tears sliding down his dirty face into his unkempt beard. “I just don’t know if I can.”

  “Fuck that,” said Rory, reaching forward to wipe Ian’s tears away. “You can do anything you set your mind to. Now get in the shower.”

  He pulled back the curtain and held Ian’s elbow as he stepped over the lip of the tub into the stream of warm water.

  “You good? You steady?” asked Rory.

  “Yeah. I’m going to stay in here for a little bit.”

  Rory opened the cabinet under Tierney’s sink and found a spray bottle of bathroom cleaner and a clean face cloth. He sprayed down the toilet and wiped up the worst of the puke, occasionally peeking in the shower to be sure Ian hadn’t fallen asleep.

  When the toilet was clean-ish, he sat down on the lid, glancing at his watch.

  Four thirty.

  The guests were arriving now, and he briefly wondered how Mrs. Toffle and Brittany were doing.

  Brittany.

  Britt.

  She was some sort of a miracle today with her willingness—no, instance on helping. Had she always been that nice? That kind? He wished he knew. He wished like hell he’d defied his parents ten years ago and gotten to know her a little bit when they were teenagers.

  “Rory?”

  “Yeah, man. I’m here.”

  “Just making sure.”

  “Ian, you want to eat something? I got ice cream.”

  “No, thanks.”

  Rory shoved the curtain aside to check on his brother, who stood upright in the shower with his forehead against the tile wall under the spray. His body sported bruises in all stages—red and blue, purple and greenish-yellow—which meant he’d probably taken a few beatings recently. Rory winced, then pulled the curtain shut again.

  “Where you been living, Ian?”

  “Here and there.”

  Rory had heard this before. It was code for “homeless.”

  “On the street?”

  Ian made a noncommittal grunting noise.

  “In Boston?”

  After a few seconds passed, Ian asked, “Does it really matter?”

  “Nope.”

  “Tierney’s shampoo smells like a girl.”

  “So you’ll smell like a girl,” said Rory. “It’s an improvement on smelling like shit. Wash your hair.”

  The smell of Tierney’s shampoo mixed with the scents of Lysol and puke, and Rory looked at the floor and walls. Ian’s aim hadn’t been very good this time. Rory sighed. He’d help Tierney give the bathroom a thorough scrubbing once Ian was safely in bed.

  “What’s your plan, Ian?”

  “I don’t know.”

  At least Ian hadn’t told him to fuck off, which was generally what happened at this point in the conversation. “Well, you’re at—what?—sixteen or seventeen hours now? How about we try to make that twenty-four?”

  Ian was quiet for a few minutes before speaking, his voice low and soft when he asked, “How about we try to make it forever?”

  Rory had been resting his cheek on his palm, but now he sat up straight on the toilet lid, staring at Tierney’s flowered shower curtain in surprise. He couldn’t remember the last time Ian was open to recovery, and his heart beat faster at the idea of helping Ian get clean.

  “What?”

  “I’m sick of this. I—I don’t want to be this. I look like shit. I feel like shit. I want to get well.”

  Rory leaned forward. “Do you…do you mean it, Ian?”

  “Yeah, but I can’t do it alone.”

  “You don’t have to.”

  Ian turned off the water, but the curtain still separated the brothers.

  “I might not make it,” whispered Ian.

  “We’ll help you,” said Rory, standing up, trying desperately to temper his excitement at Ian’s words. “Tierney and I—we’re ready to help you. I swear.”

  “I might disappoint you.”

  “I don’t care. We won’t know unless you try.”

  Rory grabbed a towel from the small cabinet behind the bathroom door and pulled back the curtain. Ian’s green eyes, bright with tears in his ruddy, bearded face, looked into Rory’s as he took the towel and wrapped it around his waist.

  “Do you want to try, Ian?”

  “Yeah,” he said softly. “I want to try.”

  Tears flooded Rory’s eyes again as he helped Ian out of the shower and walked him into Tierney’s guest bedroom.

  Even though he’d told her not to, she’d obviously scrubbed the floor and changed the sheets while Ian was in the shower. The room was neat as a pin and smelled of recently sprayed air freshener, which mostly covered up the latent odor of vomit.

  Rory opened the bottom drawer of the dresser and took out a pair of men’s sweats and a T-shirt that Tierney left there for her brothers. He helped Ian get dressed, then pulled back the crisp, clean sheets and tucked his brother into the center of the bed, lying down beside him.

  “Room for me?”

  The brothers looked over to see Tierney, in clean clothes, standing in the doorway.

  “I’m fucking sorry, Tier,” said Ian, his voice breaking as tears streamed from the corners of his eyes into his wet, clean hair. “Tá brón orm.”

  Tierney lay down on Ian’s other side, stared at the ceiling for a second, then took his hand in hers and whispered, “Tá grá agam ort, Ian.”

  Ian sniffled, reaching for Rory’s hand on his other side. “I love you too. Both of you.”

  After a few quiet moments, Rory said, “Ian wants to get clean.”

  “Huh,” muttered Tierney.

  “I mean it,” said Ian. “I really mean it this time, Tier.”

  Tierney took a deep breath, held it, then let it go. “You’ve meant it before.”

  “Not like this,” said Ian. “I want to get clean. I’m willing to do the work. I swear.”

  When Tierney spoke again, her voice was shaky and emotional. “Okay.”

  “You’ll help me?” he asked.

  “A hundred times,” said Rory.

  “A thousand times,” amended Tierney, turning to her side on the comforter and resting her forehead on Ian’s shoulder.

  Branch-shaped shadows danced on the ceiling in the late-afternoon setting sun.

  “Better together,” said Rory. Then he added, as their mother used to when she wanted to remind them of their special triplet bond, “Trí ciarde.”

  You’re not just brothers and sister. You’re not just family. That’s too easy because you were born with each other. You need to work at it. You need to be friends too. Three friends. Trí ciarde.

  “Trí ciarde,” said Tierney, a tentative smile in her voice.

  “Trí ciarde,” whispered Ian, taking a deep, clean breath before falling fast asleep.

  CHAPTER 6

  Rory napped with his siblings for an hour or so before getting up to help Tierney clean the bathroom and put her cottage back together after Hurricane Ian had ripped through. The damage was less than it had initially appeared: an antique vase was shattered beyond repair, but the ceramic pots Ian had broken might have a chance with Krazy Glue. He’d also busted the book
case and coffee table, but it looked like those could be fixed.

  By nine o’clock, Ian had held down some Gatorade and saltines, and though he still sweated and shook in bed, it had been more than twenty hours since his last drink. He’d still feel like shit for two or three more days, but it appeared that he’d sidestepped seizures this time. The worst was over.

  But now the real work began—helping him stay clean.

  “Ian, how about you stay with Tierney for a while? Help her get Moonstone ready for the summer crowds?”

  “Yeah, I could do that.”

  “There’s lots to be done,” said Tierney. “And I could pay you a little too.”

  “There’s an 8:00 pm meeting at the Moultonborough Methodist Church tomorrow,” said Rory, who’d looked up the local AA schedule. “I’ll come get you. We’ll go together, okay?”

  Ian nodded his head against the pillow, his eyes starting to close again. “Yeah. Good. Thanks, Ror.”

  Rory leaned down and pressed his lips to his brother’s sweaty forehead before leaving, sending up a quick prayer of thanks to God that Ian was still alive and motivated to get clean. Please let it stick this time.

  He hugged Tierney hard on his way out.

  “You’re a rock star,” he said.

  “Ah, go on.” She cocked her head to the side. “You think he can do it?”

  “I can’t remember the last time he really wanted to.”

  “Me neither.”

  “We’ll do everything we can, huh?”

  She nodded. “I’m on board.”

  “Me too.” Rory sighed. “I’ve got to get back to camp.”

  “Did you get Doug to come in to help?”

  “He’s in Iceland. I got…someone else.”

  “On such short notice?” Tierney’s brows furrowed. “Who?”

  “No one you know,” said Rory, opening her front door and stepping onto the stoop. He turned to look back at her. “Call me if you need me?”

  “He’ll be all right now,” she said. “See you Sunday night?”

  He nodded.

  “Come at seven,” said Tierney. “We’ll have dinner first.”

  “Shepherd’s Pie?”

  She grinned, the first smile she’d cracked all day. “If you’re lucky.”

  “We’re Irish,” said Rory, winking at her. “Aren’t we supposed to have luck covered?”

  Parking behind the office at Summerhaven fifteen minutes later, he checked his watch, grimacing to find it was after nine thirty. Britt’s long gone by now, he thought, with a wave of inexplicable melancholy. He would have liked to thank her. Hell, he would have just liked to see her lovely, expressive face one more time.

  …Which means it’s best that she’s gone, he thought ruefully. No need to get infatuated over Brittany Manion all over again.

  Mrs. Toffle looked up as he entered the dimly lit office.

  “You’re still here, Mrs. T?” he asked. “You should have gone home by now! It’s late.”

  “You caught me on the way out.” She turned off her desk light and stepped around the counter. “How’s Ian?”

  “Better. Asleep.”

  “How bad was it?”

  “Really bad,” he admitted, “although he said he wants to get clean.”

  Mrs. Toffle’s sympathetic eyes brightened. “Well, that’s progress.”

  “I guess.” Rory shrugged. “I don’t want to get my hopes up.”

  “When have you ever?” she asked, sliding her purse to her elbow.

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means give yourself a break, Rory Haven. Life isn’t guaranteed to break your heart. If you lean in and trust it a little, it just might surprise you.”

  “What do you mean by tha—”

  “Sometimes good things just happen. When they do, why don’t you give them a chance?” He opened the door for her as she approached it, but she stopped beside him, looking up into his eyes. “Speaking of good things…I almost forgot to mention: Miss Manion is upstairs. I made up Tierney’s room for her.” She cocked her head to the side, mumbling to herself as she stepped onto the porch. “She’s quite something, isn’t she?”

  Rory’s whole body reacted to this news, lurching forward as he put his hand on Mrs. Toffle’s shoulder. “Wait. What?”

  “She’s staying overnight. I knew you would insist. She was practically asleep on her feet by the time she finished work, and I told her she couldn’t drive back to Boston in the dark,” explained Mrs. Toffle, turning back around to face him. “She worked nonstop from three until nine—greeting guests, showing them to their cottages, seeing to their needs. She set up the AV equipment and microphone in the dining hall. She even made a short speech welcoming the attendees to Summerhaven. She was…well, she was remarkable.”

  “And she’s upstairs,” he reconfirmed, his eyes darting to the ceiling before searching Mrs. Toffle’s eyes carefully.

  “Yes,” she said, a sly smile playing on her lips. She turned back around and stepped off the porch, into the night. “Good night, Mr. Haven.”

  “Good night, Mrs. Toffle,” he murmured, locking the door behind her.

  She’s here. Britt’s still here.

  Resisting the urge to take the stairs three at a time, he turned off the office light and made his way upstairs quickly, but quietly, just in case she was already asleep. He unlocked the door and toed off his boots on the welcome mat, hanging his jacket on a peg across from the door. Tiptoeing into the living room, the first thing he saw was her waves of blonde hair hanging over the back of the couch.

  Rounding the coffee table, he found her curled up on the couch in front of a crackling fire, wearing Tierney’s old pajamas. With her eyes closed, her lips lightly opened, and her cheek resting on the back of his parents’ old flowered couch, Brittany Manion took his breath away.

  Who was this woman who’d spent the last six hours of her life helping him? She didn’t really know him and certainly didn’t owe him anything, and yet she’d saved him. She’d swooped in without hesitation and saved the day with humor and kindness and grace.

  Reaching his hand to his chest, he flattened his palm over his heart, surprised by the sudden and intense ache there. He knew instinctively that it was a dangerous sensation, this wave of longing, of awe and gratitude, mixed with a decade-old attraction that was renewing by the second. If he could have stopped his feelings, he would have, but they overcame him mercilessly in waves of undiluted adoration. They took root deep inside of him—uselessly, because she was engaged to someone else—so many tiny tendrils sprouting from foolish seeds.

  “Hey, you,” she breathed, her eyes fluttering open and her sweet lips tilting up into a dreamy smile. “You’re back. How’s Ian?”

  Rory blinked at her. Speak. Say something.

  “B-Better.”

  “Better’s good,” she said. Then she yawned, chuckling as she covered her mouth with the back of her hand. “Sorry. Tired.”

  “Don’t be sorry,” he said, sitting on the coffee table across from her, his knees almost touching her bare feet, which peeked over the edge of the couch. “Mrs. Toffle said you were amazing tonight.”

  “I had fun.”

  “Schlepping all over camp?”

  “Mmm-hmm.” She nodded, her voice low and sleepy, her heavy eyes at half-mast. “Schlepping all over camp.”

  “Ready for bed?” he asked.

  She blinked at him and suddenly her eyes flashed open—wide, dark-brown orbs locking on his. “For b-bed?”

  He cocked his head to the side. “Mrs. Toffle made up my sister’s bed for you.”

  “Oh. Right. Yes,” she said, averting her eyes as she leaned forward and stood up, crossing her arms over her chest. He caught the two spots of pink on her cheeks when she looked down at him. “Thank you.”

  Wait. Had she thought he was offering to share his bed? A brief image of naked Brittany Manion, with her blonde hair spread over his pillows like a halo, made his breath catch. He sh
ifted uncomfortably where he still sat on the coffee table, facing a now-empty couch.

  Quit it, you idjit. She’s engaged.

  She was halfway down the hallway when he called out to her.

  “Britt!”

  She looked at him over her shoulder. “Yes?”

  “I forgot to say thank you. For everything.”

  “My pleasure,” she said, a smile blooming on her face before she turned back around, opening the door to Tierney’s old room. “Night, Rory.”

  She stepped inside, and the door latched shut behind her.

  “Oíche mhaith…mo mhuirnín,” he murmured, rooted where he stood, staring down the dark hallway where the star of his hottest teenage dreams was spending the night.

  Good night…my sweetheart.

  ***

  Brittany awoke to the pitter-patter of rain and the smell of brewing coffee, one melding seamlessly with the other and heightening a dreamy feeling of bliss. Snug and warm under soft, sweet-smelling sheets and a puffy down duvet, she burrowed into her pillow, opening her eyes slowly to the soft gray light of daybreak filtering in through Tierney Haven’s bedroom window.

  Reaching for her iPhone, she checked the time—6:53 am—then replaced her phone on the nightstand and wiggled back under the covers. Except her eyes wouldn’t stay closed, despite the rhythmic rain and warm, cozy bed. The coffee smelled too good, and there was only one person who could be brewing it: Rory Haven.

  “Mmmm,” she hummed softly, thinking of the way he had been looking at her when she opened her eyes last night.

  Rory had grown into the kind of man that every woman wanted—tall and strapping, with dark hair and bright-green eyes; he was mature and responsible and unafraid to love the people who mattered to him. The way he left the campground yesterday, prioritizing his family over work, had left an indelible impression on Brittany. Old-fashioned words like loyalty, honor, and character circled in her head and made her feel lonely. One day, some lucky girl was going to land Rory Haven, and all that goodness would belong to her.

  While Brittany would belong to Ben.

  Wonderful Ben, she amended quickly.

  Suddenly eager to connect with her fiancé, Brittany sat up and grabbed her phone again, swiping the screen to check for messages.