All I Want is You_A Second Chance Romance

by Carter Blake

  “I get it. Everyone chooses to live their lives differently,” I concur.

  And I really do fucking concur with that.

  I choose to live a solitary lifestyle for a reason. The only person I need to please and be supportive of is myself. That’s the way I like it, and that’s the way it’s going to stay.

  “Okay. I’ll check in with you in a few days. Make sure you pick up the phone the first time I call.”

  Before I can appease him with an agreement, I hear the distinct click that indicates he has already hung up the phone.

  He’s also right in that I need to work, even if the draft isn’t expected this week.

  Plopping my ass into my desk chair, I take an even bigger drag of the whiskey, dreading the writer’s block I have yet to boot. The liquor burns a fiery trail down my throat and distracts me briefly from the ache in my arm.

  I sit and stare at the wall across the room. Nothing’s coming to mind for the story that needs to be written. Maybe this writer’s block is the fickle beastie fate at work again, and it’s hinting that my career as a writer is going to come to an end soon.

  “Fuck that,” I growl. “No damn way is it over yet. You can kiss my arse, fate, cause it ain’t happening.”

  My damn injured arm isn’t helping at the moment, though. Neither is the fact that I’m damn horny and can’t get Rebecca Doyle out of my head.

  Recalling earlier, she was sweet in offering to help. And how did I respond to her kind heart? I called her out for staring at me through her cottage window.

  Her face was expressionless, but those eyes said it all. She definitely wanted to throttle me upside the head. Her fiery personality may not show through her facial expressions all the time, but it sure shows through and through her eyes.

  In combination with her red hair, she’s the epitome of a fiery, redhead woman.

  That one night at a publishing convention showed that she’s also fiery in bed.

  You know, fiery isn’t a strong enough fucking word for it, but it’s the best one I have at the moment.

  If I could ever do that evening justice with words, then I might as well smash my fucking typewriter, because that means I’ve fulfilled any possible aspirations I could ever have as a fucking wordsmith.

  I don’t mind remembering, though, even when my descriptive prowess fails me.

  Thinking of that night helps in no way to solve the horny problem I’m faced with right now, but thoughts of Rebecca keep surfacing no matter how damn hard I try to block them and focus on the writing I should be doing at the moment.

  Blame the Bushmills. I’m glaring at the bottle as if that would fix the problem.

  What am I expecting? For the bottle to disappear in a cloud of smoke in hopes that it’ll help?

  How about Rebecca, too, while you’re at it?

  Frustrated that the battle to get her out of my mind is failing, I lean back in the chair and remember and daydream and fantasize a bit.

  In reality, shit gets messy. That just the way shit gets.

  But in the universe of daydreams, this almost always end up a little more pleasant.

  Like in the daydream forming now, about wandering over to Rebecca’s cottage.

  You know, to reconnect.

  To talk about old times.

  To drink. And laugh.

  But soon enough, all our clothes would be on the floor, and she would be climbing me like a tree.

  “Fuck,” I growl.

  The desk chair goes flying backwards as I abruptly stand.

  Why the hell did I think fantasizing about damn Rebecca Doyle would make this day any better?

  Whiskey sloshes from the bottle when grabbed roughly by the neck.

  No writing is going to be done now. Rebecca’s going to be the end of me, but hell if I will let her consume me.

  “I need a cold shower,” I state, walking toward the stairs that leads to the master bathroom. A sliver of relief should be attainable there.

  Rebecca would be able to provide a bigger relief, but that thought is asinine and the dumbest one I have had yet today.

  “You win just for now, fate, but I’m telling you now it isn’t going to happen again,” I begrudgingly rumble under my breath, ascending the stairs.

  Rebecca

  The best thing about being single is the grocery shopping.

  Of course, there are so many other benefits, I could fill pages and pages of the notebook I carry everywhere, but I want to focus on the most important one right now.

  It’s much easier when you’re shopping only for yourself and looking out only for yourself. So much easier.

  Being in a relationship brings a whole lot of responsibility, particularly as the female partner.

  Emancipation my ass.

  The minute you move in with a guy, he expects a cooked meal every night of the week, seven days a week, three hundred and sixty-five days of the year. No breaks, ever.

  If I don’t hear the phrase What’s for dinner tonight? Ever again, I can die happy.

  Ever since I left the DH—that’s short for dickhead, by the way—I eat when I want, what I want. And if I don’t feel like cooking, I don’t.

  Life is a lot simpler.

  Life is…

  I don’t know.

  Dwelling on the past is one of things I’m desperately trying to avoid.

  If you couldn’t tell, I’m not doing such a great job with that.

  Maybe what they say about divorce is true: that it’s worse than a spouse dying. With death, you get to bury the spouse. With a divorce, ironically, the specter is always around to haunt you.

  I don’t want the specter around forever. I want to bury the ghost as well.

  I look at my list. It’s a simple shopping list. So far, there are only a few things on it: milk, coffee, bread.

  Just the essentials, that’s all.

  Like I say, living alone has definite advantages.

  There are other lists in my notebook. Lists are my favorite.

  If ever I’m stuck on some problem, I make a list. If life throws me a curve ball, instead of running and hiding to get away from it, I write a list.

  Truthfully, lists are saving my life.

  When my marriage ended, I wrote lists. There was the list of all the good things that would await me now that I’m single again.

  Then there was the list with all the things I hated about my ex-husband. Even before my marriage ended, I had no trouble making that list.

  Lists bring order to the random thoughts in my head and help me make sense of the world.

  Sometimes they just serve to help me make sure I get all the things done I need to get done.

  I’ll just say it: lists have changed my life.

  But right now, I only need to focus on the shopping list. Earlier, I started to list possible color schemes for the new book. For some reason, purple is at the top.

  Since when do I like purple?

  Maybe this house is haunted with one of those little green Irish sprites, and he’s been mischievously tampering with my list.

  Okay—lists, shopping, time to focus.

  My brow furrows as I shove the list in my pocket and head for the door. Just as I reach for the keys to my car, I stop.

  No, none of that. Better not drive that thing the rental place calls a car. I think it’s a possessed beast of some sort masquerading as a vehicle.

  I swear I’m usually a patient, careful, and all-around decent driver. If the car hadn’t been intent on hitting Killian, the accident would never have happened.

  Well, that and my fatigue. And my judgment’s seen better days.

  There’s a lot that’s fucking going on in my life, and I should wait for the psychic mess to calm down a little bit before attempting to navigate the narrow, medieval paths of this village with that monstrosity of a vehicle.

  Holy shit.

  Is that ever going to happen? Will it happen while I’m here? Truth be told, I’m not even sure when I’m going back y
et.

  Returning isn’t something I’m looking forward to, but that has to happen eventually.

  Fuck it, I’m wasting time speculating about a nebulous future. There are errands waiting to be done and a book waiting to be drawn. I ditch the car keys and head around the side of the house. I’m sure I caught sight of the bicycle.

  Boy, it’s been years since I’ve ridden a bike. So many years that I wonder if I still know how.

  That’s right—it came with the cottage. It’s not like I’ve considered actually riding it, though. Not until now.

  Surely, I still remember how to ride a goddamn bicycle, right? Although to be fair, I haven’t had much practice recently—it’s not like you can ride a bike down the side of the 405. I approach it reluctantly, wondering if it might bite or kick.

  Wait. Wrong mode of transport. Bicycles don’t kick and bite—those are horses.

  How awesome would it be if the cottage came with a horse instead? Now that would be a safe, or at least classy, mode of transportation.

  My eyes look at the tires. They look alright. To make sure they’ve got enough air, I push down on the front tire with my fingers.

  Hard as a rock—so far so good.

  With as much confidence as I can muster, I wrap my fingers around the handlebars and push the bike toward the front of the house. As I’m walking, I’m pushing self-doubt away as much as I can.

  That’s even harder than it sounds.

  In the end, I decide there’s only one thing to do. With a deep inward breath, I swing my leg over the saddle and come down on the seat as I exhale. Then I hang on tight and start to pedal.

  The temptation to close my eyes is strong, but I know I can’t be that fucking stupid.

  Not again.

  After about fifty pedals, give or take a few, I realize what everyone says about bike riding is true.

  You never forget how to do it.

  Confidently, I pedal into town.

  This is nice. It’s scenic, there’s a pleasant breeze, and it’s calmer and quieter than anywhere within a hundred-mile radius of where I live. I could get used to this.

  That’s another thing about being single. I can just make decisions on the spur of the moment. There’s no one to consult, to ask, and to consider.

  It’s not bad at all.

  I’ll go as far to say that I like it.

  If I were still married or with anyone right now, I wouldn’t be in Ireland. And I certainly wouldn’t be cycling through the countryside.

  The village center, with its cobblestone streets and little shops, is nearly as lovely as the natural scenery.

  When I get to the store, I leave my bike out the front and meander in.

  The rows are a little narrower—or a lot narrower—than what I’m used to, so much so that I promptly knock several items off the display shelves in aisle one.

  Nervously, I look around.

  No security guard or foul-tempered store attendant comes to tell me off. No one pays any attention to my mishap, and I breathe a sigh of relief.

  And there’s another plus to this single life. My DH ex would have yelled at me for my clumsiness as if I was all of five years old. He wouldn’t have cared about us being in a public space.

  He never hesitated to humiliate me. Not once.

  With slightly shaky hands, I pick up the cans of soup and tins of beans and beetroot and put them back where they came from.

  It’s good to be alone.

  It’s certainly fucking better than staying in an unhappy marriage. Coming fresh from one of those myself, I can already say that with certainty.

  Even if I stay single for—

  No purpose in thinking about that shit right now. Not with shopping to do and a major contract to fulfill at some point.

  With order restored, I turn my attention to the crumpled-up shopping list and grab a basket.

  Being on my own, I only need a basket for my shopping. There’s no need to wrestle through the aisles with a stubborn shopping cart.

  How many times have I grabbed the one and only shopping cart in the universe of shopping carts with sticky wheels that won’t steer properly?

  And how many times had the dickhead ex rolled his eyes at me and called me useless?

  It takes me hardly any time at all to grab the few essentials on my list. Then I decide I could use a little more fuel for the hard work ahead.

  In the sweets aisle, I spend a little longer than in any of the others, taking my time to make the right decision.

  Something sweet, rich, and covered in chocolate is always welcome in my home. And now that it’s just me, I can buy whatever chocolate I want. I can buy several different kinds.

  Because I like them all and there’s no one at home going to bitch about buying the wrong fucking chocolate.

  As if there actually is the wrong kind of chocolate.

  After paying, I step outside and take a deep breath of the country air.

  Yes.

  Life is grand.

  So I’m enjoying being single, which is good. The way I see it, I’m going to be single for a long time to come. There’s no prospect of me wanting to enter another relationship any time soon, if ever.

  Babies? I shrug.

  It’s time to accept not all women are going to have children. I may be one of those who were not meant to have a baby.

  That realization, something I’ve never considered before, has me wobble on the bike just a little.

  Okay, so no happy family for me.

  I guess that’s okay. I can live with that. As long as I can go on and illustrate and do whatever else I’m going to do with my life.

  Heavy raindrops land on my arms, hands, and face. Quickly, the occasional raindrop turns to heavy rain.

  It’s difficult to see, and the front wheel is wobbling.

  Try as I might, I can’t regain control of the bike. Despite my feet working and pedaling, the bike has a mind of its own, and I find myself propelled forward over the handlebar.

  Flying through the air, I do my best to brace for the fall.

  And I land in a puddle with a thud.

  Ouch. That hurt.

  Scrambling to my hands and knees, I notice I’ve crashed right outside the pub.

  Great.

  Maybe I should’ve just fucking driven after all.

  Killian

  With a flick of the wrist, I tip the amber colored liquid down my throat.

  For a brief second, I close my eyes and revel in the balanced mix of smoky, nutty, and slightly oaky flavors dancing across my tongue and down my throat before those flavors are replaced by a raging fire.

  After the initial burning sensation fades, I’m left with an after taste of melancholy.

  It’s always the same. I guess every high is followed by a low.

  After a high tide comes the low tide and so on. I get it.

  But I want more.

  Those highs should…

  My thoughts trail off. Some idiot has put money into the pubs old-fashioned jukebox, and now, I’ve got to listen to that blasted song Galway Girl and feel my heart rip open all over again.

  Why oh why does this pub still own one of those antique machines, and why has it got such a modern fucking song?

  “Another one, make this one neat,” I growl at the barman, staring at the few ice cubes left in the glass.

  Fucking drink—it messes with my head, and yet I can’t be without it. Like a woman, it possesses a man and makes demands of him.

  Of course, that’s exactly why I haven’t got a woman in my life.

  I don’t need the trouble or the nagging. I’m not even talking about women in particular. I’m talking about committing to someone, committing your life to some relationship that’s sure to be full of unhappiness and strife for all fucking parties involved before just fucking ending, leaving nothing but sadness it its wake.

  It’s bad enough having Ida around. Now, there’s a strong-headed female if ever I’ve known one, able to lecture wi
thout uttering a word. With her, it’s all in the eyes.

  Her big, brown sorrowful eyes—boy, can they look at me accusingly.

  I pick up my second whiskey and stare at it. My hand twirls the glass, and I watch the tawny, tinted liquid swish to the top and come down again.

  Lost in my own thoughts, I barely notice the rain pelting down against the window. Someone making some comment about the fierce storm inspired me to glance towards the window briefly, but I give up before bothering to really look outside.

  There’s some dim awareness that I should be concerned about the rain, but by now, my mind’s a bit hazy, and I’m struggling to string a proper thought together. At least, one that makes sense.

  But the nagging feeling of the rain being a problem won’t go away.

  I continue to stare at the grey world outside and watch the puddles grow quickly. It’ll be a wet ride home if the rain doesn’t ease off.

  Home. Ride.

  Bingo.

  Fuck. How could I have been so fucking stupid?

  Poor Ida is tied up around the back. She won’t be impressed. She hates being left out in the rain. At home, she’s got her own stable.

  Just as I’m about to jump off my stool to see to my horse, my eyes get glued to something else.

  No. No. No.

  Now my brain’s screaming at me.

  It can’t be. Not again. Doesn’t that girl ever stay out of trouble?

  Outside the pub in the pouring rain, one Rebecca Doyle cycles past. Only, she’s not cycling past the pub.

  Horrified, I watch the drama unfold in slow motion. At first, her front wheel starts to wobble. Next, her legs increase their pedaling, and her arms seem to struggle to steady the handlebars.

  But all of her efforts are in vain.

  In slow motion, she leaves the seat of the bike and flies through the air, over the handlebars and lands face first on the ground. The bike simply collapses onto its side behind her.

  Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

  “Killian,” someone calls, stopping me when I’m already on my feet and halfway out the door.

  “Hey, Killian,” I turn around, trying to locate the anonymous voice amongst the usual din of the local.

  “Your horse is in the stable.”