Ryan: O’Connor Brothers #2

by Kelly, A. S.

  I find myself thinking of something I put to rest a long time ago. Something that feels like a longing for someone to take my hand and tell me that everything will be alright; someone who knows how and when to pull you close. Something that resembles the life I once hoped for, the life I never got to live.

  Something that feels like home.

  We take a few steps along the pavement and I breathe in the night air, which clears my thoughts, cools down my burning face, and – thank God – calms the wave of nausea churning through me.

  “Better?” he asks, without looking at me or realising that he was still holding my hand.

  I nod, embarrassed, but at the same time, full of desire from the unexpected contact. Before I can lose myself in the fantasy, he drops my hand, a painful reminder of my own loneliness.

  “Let’s go back,” he says, heading towards the car.

  I watch him walk away, noticing for the first time how tall he is, how defined, a mass of muscle and testosterone, absurdly seductive…and impossible.

  That’s the right word.

  Apart from his horrible personality, which I’d be happy to ignore for the sake of a few orgasms, I have to face reality and be honest with myself. He’s athletic, successful, fascinating and mysterious. I’m sure he has hundreds of women throwing themselves at him.

  I’m just…me.

  I have a sixteen-year-old son, a café which takes up all of my time, I’m not intelligent or ambitious. I can’t even make up for all this with my looks, because I’m nothing special. I have a messed-up life, a shit vocabulary and a whole host of disappointment behind me. It’s already difficult to try and keep someone on their third pint interested, let alone someone like him.

  I sigh dejectedly, quickly pushing away any of the thoughts that had hit me so suddenly in the car, hoping to get home as early as possible to squeeze in one more drink. Maybe it’ll help me get rid of the memory of his damn smell.

  10

  Ryan

  I park in her road and switch off the engine. After stopping quickly for her to get some air, and avoid being sick all over the car, we haven’t said a word to each other. We just sit there quietly, listening to each other breathe, filling the silence with nothing, just as it should be.

  We don’t even really know each other, and if she hadn’t drunk a bit too much – despite knowing she’d be driving – I wouldn’t be here with her, in her car, in front of her house.

  Ian isn’t here yet and, not knowing what to do, I drum my fingers against the steering wheel, anxious to get out and leave her to her fate.

  What a shit situation. This is why I prefer not to have friends. Then I wouldn’t find myself somewhere I don’t want to be with someone I barely know, who really gets on my nerves.

  I take a deep breath of the air inside the car, a mixture of alcohol and women’s perfume that reminds me of something I never want to be reminded of.

  It’s been a while since I was last this close to a woman, just the two of us, and it makes me uncomfortable. Not that I’m interested in that kind of thing: I try actively to avoid them, ignoring signals and escaping from closeness with any women unless strictly necessary. Unless we’re talking about a very brief physical encounter.

  Yet her perfume starts to go to my head, like three or four glasses of whiskey – as if she’s trying to intoxicate me, confuse me, to draw me in towards something dangerous. Something that I wouldn’t want to get close to even by mistake.

  As if I’m developing an addiction.

  But it’s a nice smell, one that I don’t recognise – or, at least, one I thought I’d forgotten. It’s delicate yet seductive. Sweet, but with just the right amount of spice. Something I can’t stand, yet desperately need.

  I throw a furtive glance in her direction while she keeps her eyes glued out of the window. I notice the shape of her legs, slim in her tight, dark jeans. Her chest is just visible in her shirt, with one button too many undone, the lace of her bra peeking out of the top. I follow the silhouette of her face, lit dimly by the streetlights outside, which make her seem both mature and playful at the same time.

  How old is she? Does she have a boyfriend? Or a husband?

  “Do you have to?” she asks, glancing furiously at me, bringing me back to myself.

  “What?”

  “That noise…” she accuses me, gesturing towards my fingers.

  I take them off the steering wheel, a peace offering, and she turns her back to me again, scoffing.

  Obviously, she’s fed up of waiting too. It isn’t hard to tell that she’d rather be anywhere but here with me, and I can’t wait to get away from her.

  Idiot.

  Apparently, I haven’t learned a fucking thing about life.

  I open the car door and get out, needing some air before I lose control and do or say something I’ll regret for the rest of my life. I’ve already made that mistake once, and I don’t intend to make it again.

  I take a few steps down her road, while she also gets out of the car and leans against the door. She digs around in her bag before producing a packet of cigarettes.

  Great. She’s a smoker.

  She lights one and inhales deeply, as if slowly killing her body will bring her back to life. I shake my head, and a grunt of disapproval escapes my lips.

  “What’s wrong? Do you want one too, by any chance?”

  “I’d never let that shit ruin my life.”

  She lets out a sudden burst of laughter.

  “Oh, sure, Mr Perfect! Don’t you stand there and lecture me about the fact that smoking’s bad for you!”

  “I couldn’t care less how you decide to ruin your body. It’s none of my business.”

  “Exactly,” she retorts, taking another drag and exhaling the smoke in my direction, challenging me.

  “You’re acting like a little girl,” I tell her, pissed off. “How old are you? Fourteen? Maybe less…”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  “It wasn’t one.”

  “Aren’t you talking a bit too much?” she asks me, putting out the cigarette with her heel and crossing her arms across her chest.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Aren’t you supposed to be Mr-Long-Face-I-Hate-Everyone-Don’t-Piss-Me-Off?”

  Fantastic. She’s also a psychoanalyst. There’s nothing in the world I hate more.

  “Maybe I just don’t like talking to certain types of people.”

  “Such as? Don’t I deserve a single word from you? A greeting? A wave?”

  I shrug, showing her that I don’t care about what she thinks of me, or about this conversation that should never have happened in the first place. I hear her snarling behind me.

  “Do you know what I think? You’re just a dickhead! A condescending, arrogant bastard!” she yells, storming past me and heading for the front door. “You can just leave the keys inside and then kindly go and fuck yourself!”. I do as she says, taking the keys out of my pocket and leaving them in the ignition.

  I should just leave it – that’s what I normally do. It’s not a good idea to keep screaming back at her, but I can’t stand someone telling me where to shove it, then turning their back on me.

  I stride over to her, before she has the chance to open the door and barricade herself inside. She stops in her tracks as soon as she feels my breath on her neck.

  “What the hell is wrong with you?” I growl from behind her.

  She turns around to look me in the eyes, raising her chin. She keeps challenging me – she must really want a fight.

  “The only thing wrong with me is that I keep associating myself with bastards like you – and trust me, I’ve met a good few.”

  “I don’t doubt that,” I taunt.

  I want to teach her a lesson, even though it’s not necessary.

  “You’re the worst bastard I’ve ever met!” she screams, her hands balled tightly into fists by her sides.

  “And you’re the dumbest, most irritating woman
I’ve ever had the misfortune of speaking to!” I yell even louder, at the risk of waking up the neighbours.

  Her hand suddenly makes direct contact with my left cheek. The sound of the slap comes before the burning sensation, quickly followed by the anger pulsing uncontrollably through my body.

  I grab her hand, still suspended in mid-air, and step towards her, threateningly.

  “Never touch me again,” I say, my voice hard, my fingers gripping her wrist tightly.

  “You don’t scare me.”

  The look on her face confirms what she’s telling me. She really isn’t scared of me. She holds my gaze, proud and strong-willed. Her eyes are wide and clear, fiery enough to set me alight in an instant. They’re green, or maybe brown; I can’t tell what colour they are, but I can make out a few golden specks, lost in a dark, immense ocean. An ocean ready to swallow you up, and never wash your body ashore.

  They’re bewitching, tempting eyes.

  They’re dangerous.

  I slowly let go of her arm, my fingers brushing against hers, but I can still feel her.

  Her skin.

  The sparks of physical contact.

  I take a few steps back, shocked, while she stands there, unperturbed. Then I turn away quickly, getting myself as far away as possible, with my head in my hands, afraid that I’ve been stabbed in the heart once again.

  11

  Chris

  For once, Evan and I get to the Red Cherry exactly on time. It’s Saturday morning, and I’ve given Vic the morning off to recover from the night before. It would’ve taken me more than half a day to get over it – and I’m not talking about the wine.

  I’m talking about him.

  How could I ever have thought that his aftershave smelled so good? How did I let myself close my eyes and lose myself in the heat of his fingers against mine? How could I let myself be so naïve, be carried away by a teenage fantasy?

  That man is just a bastard with an ego bigger than his mouth.

  Definitely one to steer clear of.

  Evan huffs as he helps me take the chairs down from the tables. He’s right, I force him to come along to the café every weekend, a firm family tradition. Every Saturday morning, my father, my mother and my sister all come here to have breakfast together. I can’t get out of it, for obvious reasons, but Evan’s still at the age where he has to suffer through these family events. At least until he’s old enough to escape. My parents love us, but in a way, it’s me who forces them to come here. I like them coming to spend time with him, while he’s still around.

  I fire up the hob and start to fry some bacon and eggs, as Leah and Brad help me get the café ready. The first few clients, still half-asleep, start to take their seats, salivating for something to eat, and desperate for the first of their many coffees that day.

  My parents arrive at nine-thirty on the dot, as I scrabble around trying to hide my already-finished coffee cup. My father still tells me off as if I’m a little girl.

  I go over and hug them affectionately, as they sit down at their usual table in the corner. It’s the most private table in the café, which gives them a good vantage point from which to judge my life at a distance, without disturbing the other clients.

  I go behind the counter to make the coffee and get breakfast ready for everyone, leaving Evan to fend for himself amongst the thousands of questions his grandparents are throwing at him. They always try to involve themselves in his life, just as I let them do with mine.

  My sister Emily approaches me, with the excuse of helping me bring breakfast over. She flashes me one of her mega-watt smiles, which always attracts every member of the male sex in the vicinity.

  Emily is beautiful, and I have no idea where she gets it from. She has long, perfectly straight golden hair, charming, bright eyes, and a sweet, gentle face that makes men of all ages fall madly in love with her. She’s twenty-five and still lives at home with my parents, studying for a Master’s in Public Relations, and hoping to escape as soon as she gets the chance.

  “So, any updates?” she asks innocently.

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “No, why?”

  “What updates would I have? You’re normally the one with something to tell me.”

  Here’s a summary of my life: home, Red Cherry, home. A few drinking sessions with Vic here and there. End of story. Emily’s the one with the exciting, whirlwind lifestyle.

  “It’s been a really boring week. I had an exam.”

  “How did it go?”

  “Really well, obviously.”

  I smile, shaking my head. Aside from being stunning, Emily’s also very confident, if not exactly modest – but who could blame her? I’d be the same in her position.

  We go back to our table, where my parents are animatedly interrogating my son. Evan’s eyes find mine, begging me to come and save him, but I’m enjoying watching him squirm – so I sit down and make myself comfortable, laughing into my coffee.

  “Mum came home drunk last night. And she brought a guy with her.”

  I choke on my coffee, coughing until I’m almost blue in the face.

  The little bastard.

  The conversation suddenly grinds to a halt, everyone’s eyes fixed on me. I try to make myself as small as possible in my seat, staring at the table, embarrassed and very pissed off with my son, who thought it would be a good idea to save himself by diverting all the attention onto me.

  No way is he leaving the house for the next two weeks.

  “What’s this?” my mother asks, raising an eyebrow. “Do you have a boyfriend?”

  Evan looks up, his face angelic, and says: “Well, this isn’t a conversation for little boys,” and runs off, barely containing his laughter. I watch him leave, sighing. It’s my turn now.

  “No, there’s no boyfriend. He just dropped me home.”

  “Chris,” she says, her tone accusing. “You have a very observant teenager at home, who only has you as an example – he could start following in your footsteps, making the same mistakes as you.”

  “It was nothing, Mum. And besides, I didn’t even know Evan was home.”

  When does he ever come home before his curfew?

  “You should have your fun elsewhere, instead of bringing it home.”

  “I didn’t have any fun. I told you, he just dropped me home. I was out with Vic, we had a bit to drink, and…”

  “Well, that’s miles better!” she scoffs, agitatedly shifting in her seat, patting down her freshly-coiffed hair.

  “We’re not here to judge,” my father interjects, always the calmer, more thoughtful parent. “Just be careful, Chris. Okay?”

  I lower my head and take another sip of my coffee, though I don’t even want it anymore.

  Deep down, I know they’re right, but I hate that they judge my every move, still trying to teach me how to raise my son, even though I’ve been doing it on my own for sixteen years. Despite everything, I think Evan’s turned out okay.

  I threw everything I had into raising him, putting him before everything else. I tried my best. I gave him a home, a good future. Love, support, understanding. I’m not saying I’ve been a perfect mother, but I’ve given him everything I could – even though disaster tends to follow me around. Evan’s the only good thing I’ve made of my life.

  12

  Ryan

  I get out of the shower, wrapping a towel around my waist and ruffling my hair to dry it off. Training was tough today, and it was just what I needed. Something physical, exhausting, that makes your muscles sore and your body burn so much that you forget about everything else. It helps to empty your head, reset the thoughts tormenting your mind. The only way for me to stop any other pain, a pain with no cure that cuts off your breathing.

  I pull some clothes out of my duffel bag and slowly get dressed, trying to prolong this sense of peace. I’m suddenly pulled back down to Earth by the sound of happy laughter.

  I turn around to see Seth, one of my teammates, with a littl
e girl in his arms. She’s about three years old, with big blue eyes and gleaming blonde hair. Seth grabs her, and they laugh together about something, before she hugs him tightly back. They walk away, and I’m left watching the happy imagine fade slowly, while a familiar pang of pain hits my chest.

  I clench my jaw and squeeze my eyes shut for a moment. When I open them, the changing rooms are silent and deserted in front of me.

  I collect up my stuff and head for the exit, when I bump into Scott in the doorway, busy hitting on one of the girls from the press office.

  “Are you two done?” I ask, irritated for no reason.

  “Me and Rebecca were just going to go and grab a drink. We’re both off tomorrow. Fancy coming along?”

  I go over to him, and say, discreetly “I don’t want to be a third wheel.”

  “She can bring a friend.”

  “Do you think that’s…appropriate?” I ask, one eyebrow raised.

  “We’re just going for a drink, Ryan, relax,” he smiles, putting a hand on my shoulder. “You’re young and free!”

  Free, I think. It’s true – I guess I am.

  My body is free. My relationship status, too. But my head isn’t, and never will be; as for my heart, well. That’s gone forever.

  “I don’t care.”

  “Ryan, come on…”

  “I don’t want to, okay?”

  “Just a few drinks, I swear it’ll be fun.”

  I snort derisively, pulling on my jacket as Rebecca approaches us.

  “Ready? My friend’s waiting for us.”

  Scott looks at me again, his gaze pleading me to come with them. And even though I know it’s a terrible idea, I do go with them – tonight, I need to forget about everything, try not to think about last night, where I let my feelings get confused by that irritating woman. Women like her should be avoided like the plague.

  * * *

  We’re sitting in the Avoca Bar, a pub in Blackrock near the training centre. It’s mainly a locals’ pub – normally, the players and workers meet at The Bridge, a bar run by a few of the guys on the team. I imagine Scott’s choice to come here was deliberate. It’s not exactly forbidden to date people that work in the centre, but the coach isn’t a big fan, so it’s best he doesn’t hear about it – or we all know how he’ll make him pay.