Ryan: O’Connor Brothers #2

by Kelly, A. S.

  I muster up my courage. “A grandchild.”

  “Ah,” he comments, vaguely. “You know, I’ll have a grandchild soon” he says, pride spreading across his face.

  “You must be excited.”

  He nods, smiling.

  “I never thought Ian would be the first one to start a family. I thought that…” he stops himself, shaking his head in confusion. He touches his forehead, as if trying to reorder his thoughts.

  “Everything’s going to be okay, Dad,” I say, hoping to calm him down.

  “I don’t know,” he says sadly. “I don’t know if it’ll all be okay. I’m worried.”

  “You shouldn’t be. We’re here.”

  “I’m not worried about me,” he says, turning to me.

  His eyes are clear and bright, just like Nick’s. But they’re also frightened, laced with a sadness that strikes my heart every time he looks at me like this.

  “Will you be okay, Ryan?” he asks, almost making me choke on my own emotion.

  “I’m fine,” I lie.

  He smiles at me affectionately. “I always say that too, you know. But it doesn’t help: lying like that, to friends, to family. Sometimes you need to say it out loud – because, even if you hate asking for it, help can come from the people you least expect.”

  “I don’t need any help,” avoiding the conversation, because I know that he’s right.

  Dad may have his problems, and seem shut out from the world, but his lucid moments have a habit of putting everything right. He sees where no-one else thinks to look.

  “Let’s go,” I say, nodding towards the stairs.

  He leads the way out of his room, and I take a few moments to look across at the neighbours’ house.

  I sigh, forcing myself to look at everything I’ve lost, everything that will never be mine.

  5

  Chris

  I slowly open one eye, as my phone alarm makes its tenth attempt at bursting my eardrum. I reach out my left arm, groping for the nightstand, hoping it’s where I left my phone. I try, without turning over, to feel around for it: tissue box, empty glass, biscuit crumbs…I lift my head, groaning from the effort, and open the other eye. Suddenly, the ringing stops abruptly.

  “Good morning!” A voice jerks my head aside.

  “What are you doing just standing there?”

  “Waiting for you to wake up.”

  “What time is it?”

  “Quarter to eight,” he says, checking my phone.

  “Why did you just let it keep ringing?” I try – with difficulty – to pull myself into a sitting position.

  Last night I had one drink too many: sadly, in bed, by myself, drowning my room with tears watching a romcom with a fairy-tale ending that I should definitely have avoided.

  “I was curious to see what time you’d wake up.”

  “You could’ve at least brought me a coffee, seeing as you’re already up.”

  “I would have, if you’d remembered to buy any. Or if you’d remembered to buy milk, bread, butter, maybe…you know, things you’d normally have in the house to…damn, what’s it called again? To eat?”

  “Aren’t we feeling nice this morning.”

  “Maybe if you get moving, I’ll manage not to be late for school today. What do you think?”

  “I’ll be ready in five minutes,” I lie shamelessly.

  “Mum…” he says reproachfully.

  “Let’s make it fifteen.”

  Evan snorts and leaves my room, while I attempt to get out of bed. A banging headache blurs my vision in front of the wardrobe, so I decide to take a quick shower first, in the vain hope of waking up at least thirty per cent of my brain.

  I take off my pyjamas and underwear, tie my hair up and relax under the warm water for just a few minutes, to avoid being tormented again by my own personal Jiminy Cricket. I wrap myself in a towel and go back into my room, where I’m faced once again by the wardrobe. I open one door and realise that, as I feared, it’s almost completely empty. I appear to have forgotten to do the laundry as well as the food shopping.

  “I didn’t have any clothes either.” Evan makes me jump from the doorway.

  “I’ll put a load on as soon as I get back.”

  “You said that two days ago,” he says, nodding towards the overflowing laundry basket abandoned in the hall.

  Without replying, I grab a pair of jeans and a shirt, then head towards the dresser and pick out some clean underwear, before turning towards him.

  “Do you mind?”

  He holds his hands up and turns away, finally leaving me with a little privacy.

  I get dressed in a rush, take my hair down and run my hands through it. I bolt down the stairs, where Evan is impatiently waiting on the last step.

  “Okay, ready – let me grab my bag and we’ll get going.”

  “I’ve already started the car.”

  “So what are you still doing in here?”

  He leads the way outside, while I set the alarm and lock the front door. A quick glance at my watch tells me it’s twenty-five past eight, which means Evan’ll be late for school again today. I sit at the wheel, preparing myself for yet another earful from Helena, the school’s headteacher: a woman who loves punctuality, parents who are there for every single event, and mothers who bake cookies for school discos.

  Luckily, the school is only ten minutes from our house. Ten minutes, that is, without the morning traffic, which we would’ve avoided if I’d left on time. I park outside the gates at eight forty-five, getting out of the car for the late attendance notice I’m required to sign. Before I’m through the door, I quickly message Vic, asking her to start getting everything ready for breakfast, or I won’t even be able to open the café this morning.

  “Er…Mum,” Evan grabs my arm. “I didn’t have breakfast this morning and I don’t have anything for lunch.”

  Shit.

  “You’re right,” I say, reaching into my bag for my purse. “I’m sorry,” I say, grimacing as I hand him twenty euros. It might be a bit much, but I feel disgustingly guilty.

  Evan nods and heads up the stairs towards his classroom, while I lower my head, ready to sit through another lecture from Helena, who nods at me to go into her office.

  * * *

  “I’m here, I’m here, I’m here!” I shout to Vic, who’s behind the counter, making my way through the customers.

  “I heard you the first time,” she says, casting me a look that says I should buy her a glass of wine today too for being late again. After five p.m., of course – or maybe after two. Not that we’re alcoholics.

  “We were late for school, I had to sign the late attendance form and then listen to twenty minutes of the ‘good-parent’ lecture from Helena.”

  I go through to the back, find a clean apron, chuck my hair into a ponytail and go back out to the counter to give Vic a hand. Once again, she’s had to cover for yours truly.

  I own this café, the Red Cherry, which is basically my entire life. We open at nine in the morning and close at seven in the evening every day, including bank holidays. Breakfast, quick lunches, afternoon tea, and dinner, for anyone lazy enough. I shouldn’t complain, and I actually don’t complain very often. Business is going well, and here in the neighbourhood we’re like a big family. Apart from Dave, the bastard who owns the Bagel Factory across the road, that smirks at me every time someone chooses to sit on one of his super-comfy white leather sofas, instead of my vintage wooden chairs.

  Arsehole.

  I hope he chokes on one of his fatty, overly-stuffed bagels.

  I take my place behind the counter, already tired: I slept badly, and not very much, and I still have a headache. I can feel the weight of this week all over my body; but it’s nothing that three coffees can’t fix.

  One of the girls who works for me, Leah, brings me a coffee straight away, with a worried smile across her face. I realise I can’t look too good today. I thank her with my eyes, and just about manage a few sips
before the first clients come up to the counter, ready to order.

  “What can I get for you guys?”

  “Hey, Chris!”

  I lift my gaze and find Ian standing there, one of my regulars. A big guy, nearly six-foot-five, with a threateningly seductive smile that disarms anyone who sees it. But I don’t buy it – I know that behind that mass of muscles is actually a big, cuddly teddy bear.

  “How’s it going?” I ask him, unenthusiastically. This morning, I’d rather do anything than make conversation.

  “We’re just on the way to the airport for an away game. We’ve come by to have some breakfast.”

  “Where are you off to?” I ask, with a hint of jealousy. I’d love to be able to go on holiday, but between Evan, the café, and my family always needing me around, it’s basically impossible.

  “We’re going to France, but only for two days.”

  Just two days in France, he says. As if I’d know what France is like.

  “Is Riley going with you?”

  “Riley won’t be able to travel for a while,” he says with a smile.

  “You guys must be so excited.”

  “We are,” and I can see in his eyes that he really is. “But I’m sure you already know that.”

  Actually, I do – Riley comes here a lot, and when she does, she always stays longer than most people, just to have a chat. She’s a beautiful girl. To be honest, they’re a beautiful couple.

  I’m so jealous.

  “I’ll have a full Irish and a coffee, please. Need to keep myself going,” Ian brings me back down to Earth.

  “Sure, it won’t be long. And for you?” I ask the person next to him.

  “Just a coffee.”

  Is he joking?

  “Pardon?” I ask, convinced I’ve misheard him.

  He looks up, his gaze piercing.

  “Just a coffee,” he says slowly, as if I were stupid.

  “Are you sure? We have a big menu. We’ve got eggs, bacon, sausages, or if you prefer, we have pastries, scones…”

  He looks at me for a few seconds as if he’s about to leap over the counter and wrap his hands around my neck. I shudder at his hard stare, and subconsciously take a step backwards, intimidated.

  “Just leave it, Chris,” Ian interjects. “My brother isn’t a big fan of breakfast. But he’s a nice guy really.” He winds him up, elbowing him gently, while his brother doesn’t move a muscle.

  I nod, turning away to make their order while they go over to the till to pay. I get the tray of drinks ready, and in a few minutes I’m heading to their table, where I find them intently reading the newspaper.

  “Here you go,” I say, placing the plates and cups in front of them.

  Ian looks up and smiles, thanking me, while the other doesn’t even shift his gaze or say thank you.

  Perfect.

  I really needed an arrogant prick to top off this horrible week.

  I know I should just leave it, but my stubbornness and pride take over, so I lift my chin and say: “You’re welcome, no problem, it was my pleasure”.

  He finally decides to look up, giving me the same piercing look as before, but without responding to my comment.

  I turn on my heels and get back to work, my face red with rage and frustration: if there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s rudeness – especially in my café.

  Still, people like me. I’m kind, considerate and friendly. Everybody stops to chat with me.

  I go back behind the counter, forcing a smile as I serve the customers, but every so often I look over at their table, where Ian is chatting animatedly to his brother, and his brother is responding in imperceptible head nods.

  After almost an hour, they leave. Ian waves over to me from the doorway, while his brother makes his way outside without turning around.

  I try to tell myself that it shouldn’t annoy me, it’s only ten in the morning and I still have a long day ahead of me. It means I’ll just have to drown my sorrows in that glass of wine I was talking about before, which has just doubled in size after that unpleasant encounter.

  6

  Ryan

  Ian insisted on going out for breakfast before we left, in that café that he says is really good, just down the road from his house. I hate breakfast, it’s the most pointless meal of the day. A black, unsweetened coffee is the only thing you need to wake up your brain and get you on your feet.

  Today is my first away game with the team, and even though I’m trying to hide my nerves, I have to admit it isn’t easy to slot yourself into such a tight-knit group – especially for a guy like me. Even though I’ve known some of the guys for years, basically since I started playing.

  On top of that, Ian’s on the team too, and playing alongside my brother puts me under even more pressure. He’s one of the best on the team, a reference point for the other players. This doesn’t surprise me – Ian evokes trust and security, and definitely has a much more likeable temperament than me, especially since he’s been with Riley. He’s practically the only person I get along with, the only one who can put up with my shitty personality and my unnerving quietness.

  I’m someone who doesn’t talk much, and who listens even less. Not that I’m a cold person: I just don’t like it when people piss me off while I’m trying to do my own thing.

  We all live in Santry, the same neighbourhood we grew up in – including, unfortunately, that bastard. It’s basically like going back to our roots, as if we never really grew up. I live in the Parklands residential area, with everything you could need right on your doorstep: supermarkets, corner shops, a gym, a pool, take-aways. Everything needed for someone who doesn’t have time to go into town, like me.

  We go up to the counter, where Ian chats happily to the girl serving us – I already start to feel out of place, regretting following him here. I don’t like wasting time, and I especially hate going to these kinds of places. They’re always full of people who can’t wait to have a nice, long chat. I just want to drink my coffee in peace, get on this damn flight, play this match and then get myself home to relax in front of an action film or something, before collapsing into bed and falling into a deep sleep.

  When the girl turns to me to ask what I’d like, I only order a coffee. She almost passes out at the idea that I don’t want to eat anything. She asks me again what I’d like and I respond slowly, pronouncing my syllables like you do with someone who has difficulty understanding.

  When she realises I’m not joking, she starts babbling, listing off the whole menu to me.

  Perfect.

  All I needed this morning was someone to piss me off.

  I slowly raise my head, my eyes threatening her to shut her mouth and just give me my damn coffee. I’d say, from the way she reacts by retreating back behind the counter, her eyes wide with shock, that I was successful.

  Ian, as always, tries to play the whole thing down. Recently, he’s always had that cheeky, laid-back smile plastered across his face – so much so that it sometimes makes me hate him.

  What does he have to be so happy about?

  Oh, yeah. Riley, a baby on the way.

  A life.

  We sit down at a table and I grab the newspaper, while Ian tries to chat to me. The waitress from before finally brings us our order, but before turning away, she gathers the courage to open her mouth again, apparently just to piss me off some more.

  Obviously, she hasn’t learnt her lesson.

  I lift my gaze once again, showing her how little I really care about what she said, or the fact that she wants a ‘thank you’ from me. What for? For bringing me my coffee? Isn’t that her job?

  I ignore her, just as she deserves, and wait patiently for her to piss off, so I can go back to reading in peace. She turns and leaves, and I could swear I saw steam coming from her ears.

  Fantastic.

  Next time she’ll think twice before speaking to me.

  “What did she ever do to you?” asks Ian, buttering his toast.

&nb
sp; “Mmm?” I mutter, barely listening to him.

  “That girl…”

  “What girl?”

  “The one who just brought over our breakfast,” he insists.

  I snort, deciding to answer him. “What do you want, Ian?”

  “Why did you treat her like that? Why do you have to act like an arsehole with everyone? A bit of kindness costs nothing, you know…”

  “You’ve already got that covered,” I comment sarcastically, turning back to the paper.

  Ian shakes his head and changes the subject. I keep my attention focused on the articles, nodding every now and then, just to show him that, actually, I don’t really care about what he’s saying.

  After a never-ending breakfast, where Ian did nothing but stuff his face and give me advice about the upcoming match, we get up and head for the exit. Before we leave, he waves goodbye to his beloved waitress.

  He can do what he wants. It’s nothing to do with me. I don’t have to make an effort with anyone, not her or anyone else – especially if I don’t want to. And I never want to. I’m not paid to be nice or make conversation. I’m paid to play – and to win.

  “You could’ve at least waved,” Ian says to me, winding me up even more.

  “I think she’s here to work, not chat. That’s what she’s paid for, isn’t it?”

  “It’s actually her café.”

  “That doesn’t change anything. Besides, why do you care so much?”

  “She’s always nice to me, okay? I’ve known her for a while now – I come here a lot, and so does Riley.”

  “Mmm hmm.”

  “I don’t have to justify myself to you.”

  “There we go, exactly – I don’t have to justify myself to you either,” I retort proudly.

  “I’m just saying that if you keep behaving like that, Ryan, you’ll never get anywhere. You’ll never make friends, you’ll never meet anyone…”

  “I don’t want to meet anyone. And as for friends, I’ve already got you and the other guys on the team.”