by Carter Blake
That’s the worst part about this now familiar situation. Even if he’s in a fantastic mood tomorrow, you don’t know when that storm cloud is going to float back in again.
Maybe Ireland is just the same as anywhere else.
Killian
I’m still fucking pissed as we finally arrive at the cottages. I want nothing more than to be far away from Rebecca right now.
Emotions that I haven’t been familiar with in a fucking time are fucking surfacing, and they won’t be pushed back down. Hurt, anger, jealousy…I don’t even fucking know anymore.
All I know is I need a respite. I need the solace of my own fucking home.
There’s more whiskey waiting for me there, and I can hear it calling my name. I don’t even want to think tonight. I just want to be numb, and Jameson is the perfect solution for that.
Doing the gentlemanly thing, I walk Rebecca to her front door.
“See ya.”
That’s it, and I’m ready to fucking leave.
I hate those two fucking words together, but I said ’em.
It’s the most careless, heartless goodbye in the English language—a goodbye I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy.
But I let it leave my lips, because I’m ready to leave myself, and I don’t have the patience for the usual pleasantries.
Why even be fucking pleasant anymore? Why try to engender more warmth between us?
That’s what got us here in the first place.
Now look where the fuck we are.
I turn to head home, thinking I’ve made my easy escape already.
Just a few short steps and I can say bugger off to this goddamn night.
“Okay, Killian, my curiosity’s just getting the better of me now. What the hell is your problem?” The tone she takes makes it clear she’s on the defensive.
Internally, I groan.
So much for that easy escape, Mack.
“Problem? I don’t know what—” I’m not putting much effort into this feigning ignorance business.
“Stuff it,” she cuts off my rambling excuse for an excuse. “You’ve been in a shitty mood since before we left the pub.”
Well, she’s in this for the long haul.
Fuck.
“I don’t remember asking for a wife, Rebecca,” I snarl. “If I wanted someone to nag me, I’d have suggested we get married instead of simply having a baby.”
“I’m not nagging—”
“Yeah, you fucking are,” I reel around on her, my hands stuffed firmly in my pockets. “What do you care what’s wrong? Who says anything is wrong?”
“Because I care about you.”
Oh, that’s rich.
“Who asked you to?! Certainly not me.”
I’m being a right arsehole and I know it. Unfortunately for Rebecca, I’m drunk off my face, and I don’t give a shite what comes out of my mouth.
“Well, I am having your baby, Killian, and that’s kind of a big deal.”
“Yeah, it’s a deal. Exactly right. One you agreed to. To have a baby. Nobody asked you to care or involve yourself in my life beyond that.”
“So you’re saying you don’t care about me?”
“That’s not—” I stop myself short. I honestly don’t know what the fuck to say. “Let’s not have this conversation right now.”
“Let’s not? So when’s a good time?”
“Christ, Rebecca! I don’t know, but it’s not now!” My voice is coming out in an aggressive growl, as though my inner demons are finally coming out of hiding to confirm their existence.
The more we argue, the more pissed off I’m getting. I can literally feel the anger bubbling out and getting ready to spill over.
This is turning into a goddamn lover’s quarrel, and we’re not fucking lovers. We’re two people who sleep together for fun—to satisfy each other’s desire.
And yes, to have a baby, because I wanted a fucking deadline extension.
How fucking absurd.
Her eyes go wide momentarily, and I can sense the hesitation in her body language.
“Y-You’re scaring me, if I’m honest, Killian.” She’s fidgeting, twisting her fingers together.
That statement hits me harder than I expected. I’m scaring her?
There’s no reason to be scared, for fuck’s sake.
You’re simply taking this entire thing too far, Rebecca.
The very fact that she can see through me to those tucked-away corners that I’ve shut everyone else off from is the very reason that I want to just end this shite right where we stand.
“That’s fucking ridiculous.”
“It’s not. Your mood changes at the drop of a hat. One moment you’re smiling and joking and acting like an actual person who dares to get some joy out of life. The next you’re brooding and drowning yourself in Guinness and whiskey with dark storm clouds following you everywhere. Do I even want to know why that is?”
“It’s ridiculous. This is turning into a lot more than it was supposed to be. I didn’t ask for a goddamn therapy session. I simply want to be left alone.”
I don’t want any more intrusions on my life. She’s already wormed her way into areas that I swore she would never reach.
My life is fucking simple. I want to write, I want to drink, and I want to be alone.
What I don’t want to have to do is answer to anyone else other than my publisher, and even that’s pushing it.
For fuck’s sake, that’s enough fucking pressure as it is. And I hardly even have to go there in fucking person.
“Look, I’m beginning to think this whole fucking thing was one colossal fucking mistake.” I look up and release a long breath. It’s brisk enough that the air escapes in a dense, shapeless fog.
How very fitting.
“That’s because you’re a fucking coward. It’s so easy to run away, but to take responsibility? That takes balls. Balls that you apparently don’t fucking have.”
“I’m going home, Rebecca. And not because I’m a coward, but because this isn’t what we agreed on.”
“Things change, Killian.”
“Not this. Not my intentions. This was simply a way to make you a mother and borrow time until my next deadline. If things are changing, they’re changing on your end, not mine.”
It’s only when I see the tears forming in her eyes that I realize I’ve gone too far.
But you know what? She needs to hear this.
She needs to realize that having my baby doesn’t entitle her to any further rights in my life.
“I’m leaving,” I say again, but my feet are firmly planted on her front porch.
“Then fucking go already!”
I make my way down the stairs when the door slams behind me.
Then I hear Rebecca’s sobs.
Good job, you selfish prick. Good job.
Rebecca
The sky is bleak.
Staring out the window, I can’t help but notice what a dreary fucking day it is. The usual charming fog that dances among the rolling hills is nowhere to be seen.
It’s just dull. Bleak and fucking dull.
The same as everywhere else in the fucking world.
Yeah, this is what happens when I get mixed up in these fucking situations. I end up feeling fucking sorry for myself.
And I shouldn’t. I should be angry at myself instead—angry for getting into a fucking situation like this now.
And I’m way behind on my project, too. But at least I have something to try and occupy my time.
It’s better to just throw myself into my work and forget about everything else. That’s what I came here for in the first place, right?
To get away from my past. To start anew.
Maybe that’s still possible.
I look down at my easel.
The illustrations are finally coming together now that I’ve decided the exact direction I want to take.
They’re sophisticated and filled with color and vivid details, yet they fit the sto
ryline so perfectly.
Animals and landscapes form beneath my very fingers as they flit across the pages, bringing the author’s words into impressionistic pictures.
One catches my eye though, and I don’t even realize it until the illustration’s nearly complete.
That vase, those flowers. They look so much like the ones...the flowers on his nightstand.
That thought alone makes me want to scrap the drawing, even if it’s part of the story.
How did I end up here?
I unthinkingly run my hand over my belly.
Maybe I should just—
Brrinnnggg!
My mobile phone’s shrill ring snaps me out of my thoughts.
That’s a bit of a rarity—it could only be someone from back home.
Friends, family—none of them have bothered to contact me much since I got here.
I have a feeling I know who’s calling me now.
A quick glance at the caller ID confirms my suspicions, and I actually find myself smiling as I press the answer button.
“Stephanie, hi.”
“Hi, Becca!”
It’s so nice to hear her cheerful voice again, and I can’t help but smile even wider at the melodic greeting.
“How are you?” I put down my pencil and head to the kitchen to make some tea.
“I’m good! I’m just setting up for my early morning yoga class and figured I’d check in on my bestie. How’s life? How’s Ireland?”
“Well, you might want to sit down.”
“That bad?”
“I’m pregnant.”
Might as well just rip off the Band-Aid.
I can hear the sharp inhale on the other end, and I know I’ve just about knocked Stephanie’s socks off with this big bombshell.
“Well, looks like you’ve been having more fun than I gave you credit for!” She lets out a low whistle before laughing. It’s so bubbly and cheerful that I can’t help but chuckle along with her. “So you found yourself an Irish hottie, then!”
I grab the kettle off the stove as it begins to steam.
“Yeah, something like that,” I say nonchalantly, pouring the water into my teacup and steeping a teabag.
“Well, I’ve got a few minutes before class starts. Fill me in.”
“It’s quite the long story.”
“Cliff notes, then.”
“Okay…” I sigh. “You remember that guy I told you about a few years ago? The one I met here in Ireland at a conference?”
“The conference where you swiped your V-card? You mean the guy you swiped it with?”
“That’s the one. Killian.”
“Oooh, so you reconnected? A stroke of fate. Luck of the Irish, huh?”
“Sure.” I nod and take a sip of tea, letting the bold Assam flavor coat my tongue before swallowing. “I’ll spare you the long-winded bullshit, but basically he wanted an extension for his book deadline, and I thought it a good idea to say ‘the hell with men’ and focus on becoming a mother.”
Now that I’ve said it out loud, it definitely sounds crazy.
What in the world were we thinking?
“So, it’s definitely his?”
Coming from anyone else, I might be offended, but Stephanie would never ask something like that out of judgment.
“Without a doubt.”
“And you’re definitely pregnant?”
“Yep. I picked up a test from the only drug store we have here in town. So you know what that means…”
“Everyone knows how much fun you’re having!” Stephanie erupts in a fit of laughter.
The one beautiful thing about talking to her is that she always lifts my spirits. Today is no exception, and her call couldn’t have come at a better time.
She makes me miss home, and I long for one of our coffee dates at the cafe down the street from her house.
“But seriously, congratulations.”
“Yeah…”
“Sooo, correct me if I’m wrong, but you don’t exactly sound thrilled.”
“It’s a big mess, Steph. Things were great in the beginning. The plan was to keep it simple. Satiate our desire while enjoying each other. Totally non-committal. And it was amazing.”
“So what changed?”
“I dunno. Probably me getting knocked up.” I sigh. “The other day, we just had this weird falling out and haven’t spoken to each other since. What was simple became complicated at the drop of a hat.”
“Having a baby tends to complicate relationships, no matter how simple you try to keep things.”
“You can say that again.” I let out a dry chuckle. “Coming here was supposed to get me away from the drama, and I just walked into a whole ’nother shit storm. Truth be told, I’m not sure I want to have a baby with Killian. Hell, I don’t know who I would want to have a baby with, if anyone.”
That’s the God’s honest truth. Right now, I’m just focused on taking care of the two of us. How things will fare from here on out remains to be seen.
Maybe that’s what I really came to Ireland for, in a way. To complete a part of myself that was missing.
To find something, which, for whatever reason, I could only find here.
Of course, there’s bullshit attached like there would be anywhere, but…maybe it’s the type of bullshit that all parties involved can forget about.
I’m feeling like forgetting is the best course of action for me at this point, but it’s not fucking happening yet.
There was already one shit show I was dealing with thousands of miles away.
Now here I am, dealing with some other shit.
My silence must be deafening, or Stephanie’s reading my mind.
“Hey…I know it seems like things are down and out right now but let me tell you. Babies change everything. Whether things work out between you and Killian or not, that baby is going to change your life. So put your focus there for now, and the rest will fall where it falls.”
“Yeah, you’re right. Thanks.”
“I mean it. I’ve had my fair share of difficulties, and I’m married. It’s not all fun and games, and just because things aren’t going the way you want right now doesn’t mean they won’t work out.”
She’s totally right, as usual. But at the moment, I’m just having a hard time believing that they will ever work out.
“Yeah, I dunno…I guess time will tell.”
“Be patient, love. Class is about to start, so I have to go. But feel free to call me anytime. I mean it.”
“I will, thanks.”
Patience, huh? It’s easy for her to say. But at this rate, I just really don’t know what’s going to happen.
“It’s just you and me, little one.” I rest my hand on my belly once more.
Killian
The world looks like a haze, almost as if I’m looking at it through a smoky lens.
My neck is tense and stiff. I feel like I spent the day completely cleaning and renovating Ida’s stable.
I hear a groan escape me as I sit up in my chair.
Wait a second. Why am I in a chair?
My hands move to grab my neck. I try to rub some of the soreness from it, rolling my head around.
Apparently, I fell asleep at my desk last night.
Again.
I rub the sleep from my eyes, and the world doesn’t seem so hazy anymore.
My eyes fall to the open bottle of whiskey on my desk. I grab it by its neck and turn it about to see the label.
The sight of Bushmills and not Jameson is more than a bit of a relief.
There’s nothing worse than going out and being an utter gobshite of biblical proportions only to wake up next to that damned ex that broke your heart.
In this case, Jameson is the ex.
Bushmills is more the comforting friend who makes you tea and tells you ‘There, there’ while they pat you on the back.
Then, I notice a whole new problem.
My hand falls from the bottle of whiskey and slams against m
y desk.
My jaw drops just a wee bit at the sight.
The typewriter—my typewriter—is completely fucked. There is half a page of gibberish written on it that looks more like a fucking hybrid of Sanskrit and Egyptian hieroglyphs than the Queen’s own fucking English.
But that isn’t the worst of it.
No, not by a long fucking shot.
All the keys are jammed up and—yes, it gets worse—several are actually broken.
So not only did I ruin a completely perfect day with Rebecca yesterday by being a piece of fucking shite at the pub, but now my typewriter is also completely fucking ruined.
Apparently, it wasn’t bad enough that I was already behind schedule as it was for this book. No, I just had to fall further the fuck behind, didn’t I?
The whole week has been this giant fucking waste ever since Rebecca hit me with that monstrosity of hers.
I won’t say that seeing Rebecca again hasn’t been amazing, because that would be a lie. Being with her has been far more than I deserve.
And then there’s this whole arrangement between us.
What a crazy fucking idea that was.
How do I come up with all of this utterly insane and foolish ideas?
What was I seriously fucking thinking when I asked Rebecca to have a child with me? As if that was going to just magically make everything better.
Leaning back in my seat, I put my hands up over my face and look toward the ceiling.
All my frustrations are just rising to the surface of their own accord, and I let out this hybrid of a growl and a groan that’s muffled by my hands.
I let my arms fall to my side like lifeless limbs.
I’m trying to center myself.
I need to get back on track. I can’t keep letting all these distractions pull me down into this abyss of doubt.
I’ve got to be better than this, but I’m not.
When I see his damn book on my desk, my pep talk goes out the fucking window.
I pick up the trade paperback of The Light at Sea by Brian Flanagan.
I have no idea why the fuck it’s on my desk, but I only surmise that in my drunken stupor last night, I pulled it from the shelf.
I turn it over in my hand and see the black-and-white photo of Brian standing outside of the Lamb & Clover with a big smile on his face.