by Carter Blake
Hallelujah and thank you to whoever was kind enough to look after my animal today.
“Thank you,” I call to the kind stranger.
I fly down the stairs, two at a time. They’re slippery, and a couple of times, I feel as if I myself might lose my footing. But I reach the bottom of the steps in one piece.
It takes me less than five strides to reach Rebecca.
The rain assaults me, and instantly I sober up.
As I get closer, I see Rebecca pick herself up off the ground and look around. Our eyes meet, and I can see her grimace.
Okay, so I’m not her knight in shining armor, but I’m here to help.
“You okay?”
I’m barely able to get those words out since I’m breathing so hard now. I haven’t done this much fucking exercise in years. What’s more is the alcohol’s been pumped around my blood twice as fast as normal, and I’m feeling a little giddy.
Actually, truth be told, I think I might spew any tick of the clock.
“Fine, thank you,” Rebecca replies and tucks her wet hair behind her ears.
“Erhm…”
I’m suddenly scared to keep talking. Her eyes are spewing forth angry flames, and I’m not ashamed to admit I’m quaking in my boots.
“What do you want?” she says, turning and limping back toward her bike before I can answer. I watch her pick it up and examine it for any damage. From what I can tell, it’s still rideable.
“I thought you might want a lift home.”
Rebecca furrows her brow and wrinkles her nose. It looks fucking gorgeous, and I resist the temptation to lean in and kiss those wrinkles away.
In fact, I want to just take her in my arms and hold her and tell her everything will be alright. But she’s not exactly giving off any friendly vibes.
“Get a lift with you. In a car. After you’ve been drinking?”
The way she put that doesn’t thrill me.
“Not exactly,” I stutter, shoving my hands into my pockets.
“Really? Not exactly? So, what else did you have in mind? You’re going to piggy back me on my bike?”
“Nothing of the sort. I was going to offer you a ride home on my horse.”
Rebecca bursts out laughing. It’s one of those wholehearted belly laughs, one that eventually has you doubling over or peeing your pants or all of the above.
“What’s so funny?”
She wipes what might be tears from her eyes, or what might just be rain; it’s hard to tell. “Like I believe you’ve got a horse.”
Now I’ve had a gut full.
“You wait here, and I get Ida.”
Without another word, I walk to the back of the pub and retrieve my horse. The minute I grab her reins, she nudges me, and I can tell what she’s trying to say.
You’ve been hitting the sauce again, haven’t you? Haven’t I warned you about the drink?
I roll my eyes. “Not that it’s any of your business, but yes, I might’ve had one or two drinks.”
As I lead her out of her stable, I can hear her snort. And I know exactly what it means.
I’m not stupid. I know you’ve had more than one or two drinks. More like you’ve had fifty drinks.
“No need to get smart with me, Missy,” I hiss at the horse. “If you keep this up, I might end up selling you to the knackery.”
Two snorts. As if.
We come around the back of the pub and walk out onto the road. Rebecca is exactly where I’ve left her. As she sees me and Ida, her eyes widen in disbelief.
“Wow” is all she says until she collects herself. “You really do have a horse. What’s her name?”
“Ida,” I grumble.
I don’t like the way Ida is looking at Rebecca. I know that look. It’s a look that says I like this person—maybe better than I like you, ya lush.
“So, you’re going to get on?” I ask and fold my arms.
Rebecca smiles. “Is the Pope catholic? Of course I’m going to get on. I mean, a horseback ride in the fucking rain? If I were to turn down that opportunity, I shouldn’t have bothered coming to Ireland in the first place.”
With Rebecca safe in the saddle, I get on behind her. Since Rebecca is smaller, it’s safer to have her in front of me.
“Sorry,” I mumble as I wrap one arm around her and take the reins with the other.
She says nothing.
“Let’s go, girl,” I say to Ida and give her side a gentle nudge with my foot.
Obediently, she starts walking.
Rebecca’s quiet as a mouse as Ida carries us toward our homes. I can’t look into her eyes to gauge her mood, but her silence tells me there’s something bothering her.
“Penny for your thoughts?” I venture after a while and wait for what may be a less than charmed or patient response.
But it doesn’t come.
She says nothing, and I’m wondering if she actually heard me. I’m about to repeat my question when she replies.
“Thinking about the big D,” she starts, and my brain is working overtime.
What the fuck is the big D?
Is it death? Did someone die? Who was it?
“Hmmm.”
I leave it at that—I don’t want to ask what the big D is and make complete dick of myself.
“I’m just going through a divorce. It’s fucking awful.”
Holy shit. I had no fucking idea.
Instead of replying verbally, I just press my body closer into hers.
Rebecca
The water pools at my feet as I fumble around the mahogany linen press for a towel. For some reason, the light won’t switch on in the hallway, and I make a mental note to contact the rental place about it in the morning.
Finally, my fingers find something soft and fluffy, and I pull it out. It’s a dark blue towel, just what I need around my long hair to dry off some of this Ireland countryside rain. Before venturing out, I dry the rest of myself the best I can, so Killian isn’t sitting out there alone for an eternity.
When I return to the kitchen, I find Killian sitting at the table. He’s waiting as patiently as a monk at that retreat near San Bernardino. There’s a comfortable silence as I walk in the room, and I don’t break it.
With one flick of my fingers, I turn on the electric kettle before rummaging in the cupboard for mugs. We could both use some hot tea after our total drenching—courtesy of one horse named Ida. At the time, riding through the heavy rain, I have to say I barely noticed the water.
It was…exhilarating.
I’m putting all that down to the horse, though. It had nothing to do with having Killian so close behind me.
“How do you have it?”
Killian stares at me. There’s a tiny twitch in the corner of his mouth as he clearly mulls over my question. Before he can put whatever silly response he’s thinking of into words, I nip it in the bud.
“How do you have your tea, Killian? I’m talking about tea.”
He pouts. “Spoilsport.”
He really is something else. It was that light-hearted approach to everything with his smile that drew me toward him at the writers’ conference all those years ago.
At the writers’ conference, ironically, I had trouble putting how I felt into words. It’s strange how it’s obvious to me years later. I mean, it’s not like I’m drawn to him now the way I was back then.
Those were more innocent and much more naïve times; I couldn’t imagine letting myself get carried away like that now.
The whistling of the kettle draws me out of my daydreaming.
Silently, I pour the tea.
When I give him his mug, our fingers touch briefly. Tiny electric currents shoot through me. I pull back.
Those were different times. No need to revisit them.
Although, reminiscing wouldn’t hurt.
“How long ago was it?”
He looks at me quizzically. “How long ago was what?”
I roll my eyes. “You know, the conference. How long a
go was the writers’ conference?”
Killian shrugs. “No fucking idea, really. I mean, I’m bound to have killed some brain cells since then, probably destroyed a nice chunk of my long-term memory. So, sorry, no can help you there.”
Seriously? A grimace sneaks up on me.
“Next, you’ll be telling me you don’t remember anything about the conference.”
The words are out before I can stop them.
What am I doing? I already said I didn’t want to relive any of this shit.
And why do I care so much?
“Please, Rebecca, I’m not that bad. The keynote speaker was some pompous literary professor with a massive ego and a small dick, blowing enough hot and meaningless air in his speech to cover all of Ireland. And he didn’t have one published novel under his belt.”
All I can do is stare at him. What do I even say?
“Not bad, eh? Of course, I recall some of the other speakers, but he was the one that stood out, don’t you think?”
As I take a sip of my tea, I don’t take my eyes off him.
“I was referring to something else,” I respond, finally. “I was referring to you and me, and…you know,” I leave the last few words hanging.
I don’t really want to be the one to talk about it first.
“You and me?” he taps his forehead with his index finger. “Say, what was your name again? I never forget a face. And you do look familiar?”
I burst out laughing. He really is something else.
“Funny. Ha, ha, ha,” I growl at him jokingly.
There are other memories of the conference coming back. Memories of acting…silly.
Like I’m starting to act right now.
It’s strange, because acting silly isn’t what I’m usually known for.
Killian has an interesting influence on me sometimes.
He takes a step toward me and pretends to peer at me closely. It’s so close I can feel his warm breath on my cheek. Goosebumps travel up and down my arms and spine.
If I’m not careful, I might just throw myself at him.
“Yes, yes, yes. You do look very familiar,” Killian murmurs and keeps staring at me. “You say you were at the writers’ conference?”
“Killian…”
After growling his name, I give him a firm yet friendly punch him in the shoulder.
He winces and pulls back.
“Now I remember you!” He claps his hands together. “You were the ever so talented children’s book illustrator. If I remember correctly, I asked you about illustrating a sex education book for kids, and you weren’t very impressed with my idea.”
“I’d forgotten about that,” I admit with a wistful nod.
“And you say I’m forgetful. Have you also heard since that time that someone else has stolen our idea?”
I shake my head.
“No, I haven’t,” I confess, feeling a strange sensation at his suggestion of our idea.
“They have. But yes, I do remember you and me…at the conference.”
Silence.
Feverishly, I rummage around my brain for something intelligent to say. My brain doesn’t cooperate, and I say nothing.
“You know what else I remember?”
By now, there’s a kind of seriousness to Killian’s voice I’m not familiar with.
Again, I shake my head.
“Jameson. I remember we drank a lot of Jameson. Boy, did we drink an ocean of it.”
He puts his mug on the table and cradles his head as if the mere thought of it is bringing flashbacks of a massive hangover.
“Of course. We drank a bottle between us,” I laugh.
“I’m sure it was more than a bottle, my dear. I haven’t been able to drink the stuff since.”
He sits down at the kitchen table like he just owned up to his darkest secret.
Again, that uncomfortable silence settles between us.
“It wasn’t long after the conference I met my…” I hesitate.
So far, I haven’t told one living soul the full details of our failed marriage.
“Shortly after that, I got engaged and then married.”
I pause and stare at my hands. They were hands that could create beautiful, award-winning images for children books. Now, they just look like my hands, the hands of somebody who couldn’t even keep a marriage together.
It’s a crazy thought, I know, but I guess we all have crazy thoughts at crazy times.
“I’m sorry it didn’t work out,” Killian mumbles.
My eyes find his.
“Don’t be,” I say, trying to smile. “I’m not. I’m pleased we went through with the divorce. I’m pleased it’s all over.”
Killian just nods.
I join him at the kitchen table. Since there are only two chairs, I sit right next to him.
Our knees almost touch.
“I guess some things aren’t meant to be.” I shrug and cradle my mug as if it’s my lifeline.
“Guess so.”
“It’s interesting how you think you know a person only to discover that you were completely and utterly wrong about them.”
Again, Killian only nods. My eyes stare off into nothing, a place just past Killian’s head.
“It was never going to work out,” I continue.
Now that I’ve started to talk about it, I can’t stop.
“The only sad thing is, I won’t have a family. I always saw myself with a large family. Husband, plenty of kids.” I sigh. “And now that won’t happen. What do they say again? C’est la vie?”
Killian puts his hand over mine.
He’s about to say something, but I put my index finger over his lips. I don’t want to hear whatever lame thing he’s going to say.
I know what I know. And I know I won’t be having a family.
I don’t want any contrived sympathy from him or anyone.
He gets the message, and I move my finger. For a while, we sit and stare. I think we each must be lost in our own thoughts, but I don’t ask him what he’s thinking.
I glance at him. He extends his right hand and gently tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear. As he does so, he bends forward so close, our noses almost touch.
My eyes are glued to his.
His thumb now strokes the side of my cheek. I can hear my heart beating in my chest. It sounds like an out-of-control herd of wild horses.
Suddenly, the world goes a little out of focus, and warmth spreads through me.
Almost of their own volition, my lips part a little. Each and every one of my nerves quivers in anticipation. Barely inches from my lips, he hovers.
I resist the urge to pull him toward me. I’m not going to make the first move, even though my body aches for his touch. I’ve come here to recover from a failed relationship—not to stumble right into the next one.
Suddenly, time seems to slow down—or maybe it just moved to a different beat. Unable to move or do anything else, I stay in the same position, waiting for his lips to come crashing down on mine.
Rebecca
The water pools at my feet as I fumble around the mahogany linen press for a towel. For some reason, the light won’t switch on in the hallway, and I make a mental note to contact the rental place about it in the morning.
Finally, my fingers find something soft and fluffy, and I pull it out. It’s a dark blue towel, just what I need around my long hair to dry off some of this Ireland countryside rain. Before venturing out, I dry the rest of myself the best I can, so Killian isn’t sitting out there alone for an eternity.
When I return to the kitchen, I find Killian sitting at the table. He’s waiting as patiently as a monk at that retreat near San Bernardino. There’s a comfortable silence as I walk in the room, and I don’t break it.
With one flick of my fingers, I turn on the electric kettle before rummaging in the cupboard for mugs. We could both use some hot tea after our total drenching—courtesy of one horse named Ida. At the time, riding through the heavy rain,
I have to say I barely noticed the water.
It was…exhilarating.
I’m putting all that down to the horse, though. It had nothing to do with having Killian so close behind me.
“How do you have it?”
Killian stares at me. There’s a tiny twitch in the corner of his mouth as he clearly mulls over my question. Before he can put whatever silly response he’s thinking of into words, I nip it in the bud.
“How do you have your tea, Killian? I’m talking about tea.”
He pouts. “Spoilsport.”
He really is something else. It was that light-hearted approach to everything with his smile that drew me toward him at the writers’ conference all those years ago.
At the writers’ conference, ironically, I had trouble putting how I felt into words. It’s strange how it’s obvious to me years later. I mean, it’s not like I’m drawn to him now the way I was back then.
Those were more innocent and much more naïve times; I couldn’t imagine letting myself get carried away like that now.
The whistling of the kettle draws me out of my daydreaming.
Silently, I pour the tea.
When I give him his mug, our fingers touch briefly. Tiny electric currents shoot through me. I pull back.
Those were different times. No need to revisit them.
Although, reminiscing wouldn’t hurt.
“How long ago was it?”
He looks at me quizzically. “How long ago was what?”
I roll my eyes. “You know, the conference. How long ago was the writers’ conference?”
Killian shrugs. “No fucking idea, really. I mean, I’m bound to have killed some brain cells since then, probably destroyed a nice chunk of my long-term memory. So, sorry, no can help you there.”
Seriously? A grimace sneaks up on me.
“Next, you’ll be telling me you don’t remember anything about the conference.”
The words are out before I can stop them.
What am I doing? I already said I didn’t want to relive any of this shit.
And why do I care so much?
“Please, Rebecca, I’m not that bad. The keynote speaker was some pompous literary professor with a massive ego and a small dick, blowing enough hot and meaningless air in his speech to cover all of Ireland. And he didn’t have one published novel under his belt.”