“Language,” she admonished.
I let out a huff, not deigning to acknowledge the reprimand. If I wasn’t allowed to say damn we were going to have a huge problem because my day had been pretty shitty. I had a lot of expletives building up I was itching to use.
“So,” I said, changing the subject. “What’s up?”
“Can’t a mother call her only daughter without having a reason?”
“Yes, they can. But you usually don’t.”
“I hate how cynical you’ve become. I didn’t raise you to be that way.”
“Yes, mom, you did. Until you met Geoffrey you were the most cynical person I’d ever known.”
“That’s not fair and you know it. I went through hell with your father and I did what I had to in order to make sure nothing like that ever happened to me again.”
“I think you mean us, mom. Happened to us.”
The fact that I often had to remind her their divorce had left me without a father was a point of continued contention. Me, me, me was pretty much how my mom chose to go through life, and even though we’d had this discussion numerous times before, she refused to acknowledge the impact the dissolution of their marriage had on my life as well. She may have lost a husband, but I’d effectively lost a whole family in their divorce. It wasn’t until I was 16 that I’d reconnected with a few of my Pittsburgh cousins via Facebook, and then my paternal grandparents only once I’d turned 18 and came into my first trust. And I was still trying to forge some sort of tentative relationship with the man who’d walked out on us. Long gone were the days of “daddy.” Now he was simply “Langston” to me, as if we had no familial connection to speak of. As if I didn’t have his green eyes, or his height, or coloring. You know, as if I didn’t look exactly like a female version of the man he’d been when he’d married my mom way back when.
“You know what I mean dear.”
It had taken me a long time to read between the lines of what my mom said or didn’t say, but at 26 I could finally decipher her language. “You know what I mean dear,” had become her go-to statement whenever she knew she was in the wrong but didn’t want to admit it.
I sighed wearily, not bothering to disguise my fatigue. “Yes, mom. I know exactly what you mean.”
I cradled the phone between my ear and shoulder and bent down to remove my shiny, black high heels. Every time I wore them I vowed it would be the last, but it was hard to toss them out when they were just so damn pretty. And I knew they made my calves look spectacular.
“Anyway,” my mom continued, ignoring the uncomfortable pause in conversation, “I have something important to discuss with you so I hope this is a good time.”
Straightening, I padded over to the refrigerator and scanned the contents, looking for my stash of specialty U.K. chocolate. Once Samuel had left me high and dry, I hadn’t wanted to stick around the restaurant for dessert. And damn him, dessert was my favorite meal. All day I’d been looking forward to diving into a piece of thick, moist chocolate cake, but now a few bites of chocolate bar would have to suffice. Biting into it, I closed my eyes and silently moaned as the milk chocolate laced with Earl Grey tea melted in my mouth.
“Sure, as good a time as any,” I responded before I’d swallowed the sweet treat.
“Are you talking with your mouth full? How many times do I have to tell you how disgusting that is?”
The chocolate suddenly tasted like ash in my mouth and I wished I’d waited to indulge in my secret vice until after I’d hung up the phone. Trying to ignore my mom’s biting question I plopped down on the sofa. The movement wasn’t graceful, and I was pretty sure I’d ripped the seam of my dress, but somehow I couldn’t be bothered to care.
“Okay mom, here’s the deal. You have exactly 30 seconds to tell me what’s so important that you’re calling on a random Wednesday night instead of waiting for our scheduled Sunday call. I’ve had a shitty night and I really don’t want to be lectured by the Chief of the Propriety Police.”
“Fine, since we’re eschewing any semblance of polite small talk, I’ll just come right out and say it. I need you to go to Ireland to help your grandmother.”
The surprising words sent a slither of dread down my spine. I loved my grandparents but it had been years since I’d visited them. In fact, I’d only been back to Ballycurra twice since I’d moved home at ten years old, the last time being when I was 21 and then only for a couple of days on an extended layover on my way London.
Over the years the majority of our visits had occurred at my step-dad Geoffrey’s large colonial home in an affluent, leafy suburb outside of Boston. It was common knowledge—and yet something the family absolutely refused to discuss—that my mom staunchly refused to go back to Ireland for any reason whatsoever. Instead of fighting about it though, my grandparents said it was easier for them to make the trip out to America. My mom gamely accepted their acquiescence, since—as she put it—her and Geoffrey’s home was much more comfortable than us flying across the Atlantic to stay in the apartment above Fitzgerald’s Pub. Even when a bed and breakfast had opened up just outside Ballycurra a few years ago to rave reviews on TripAdvisor, mom still refused to visit.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, dreading her response.
“I didn’t want to have to tell you like this, but your grandfather had a heart attack.”
“Is he okay?” I shrieked into the phone as my own heart skipped a beat. It wasn’t until a few beats later that I realized she’d tossed the statement out so blithely. “And how can you be so cavalier about it?”
“How will me saying it any other way change the fact that it happened?” she asked, without a note of chagrin.
“You could at least show some sort of emotion.”
“Just because I’m not sitting here crying about it doesn’t mean it hasn’t affected me, Sophie Monroe Newport, and I’ll not have you lecturing me about how I’m handling my father’s health.”
The quick outburst was probably the most emotion I’d heard my mom muster in over a year and the fact that she’d raised her voice at all was telling. She was upset, sure, but her pride was more important.
“I’m sorry mom. I know it must be tough for you. When did it happen?”
When she hesitated to answer, I knew I wasn’t going to like the answer.
“Last month.”
“What?! Gramps had a heart attack a month ago and you’re just now getting around to telling me? How could you keep something like that a secret?”
I felt the hot sting of tears well in my eyes and then my throat seized up with my effort not to cry. I’d always known my mother was a cold woman but this took the cake.
“He’s fine Sophie. It was a minor heart attack. In fact, they weren’t even sure it was a heart attack until they ran more tests. Your grandpa didn’t even want to go to the hospital. He swore up and down it was just a bad case of indigestion.”
I could picture the fight he must have put up when they tried to get him in the ambulance. He hated doctors, but more than that, he hated anyone making a fuss over him. Based on my other grandfather’s own heart attack a few years prior, I had some idea of what the recovery period looked like. Colm Fitzgerald would be miserable being fawned over, not being able to keep to his routine.
“You’re sure he’s okay?”
“The doctor himself assured me he’d be fine. He has to give up his pipe, cut back on drinking, eat healthier, increase his level of activity, and go on cholesterol medication, but if he sticks to the plan we’ll have many more years with him.”
I felt the tension that had taken root in my shoulders leave my body in a rush. My gramps would be okay. I’d get to see him again.
But …
“Why can’t you go?”
“Sophie,” she sighed exasperatedly. “You know I can’t take the boys out of school right now.”
“No one said you had to take the boys out. They have a father. Hell, they have a live-in nanny. There’s no reason you can’t ta
ke a week off to visit grandpa at home and make sure everything’s okay. I’m sure both he and grandma would love to see you.”
“It’s not that simple, Sophie. I have a life here. Responsibilities. I can’t just drop everything and everyone to go running off across the globe whenever I want. That’s not how I live my life,” she huffed condescendingly.
“Do you even hear yourself? Your father had a heart attack! I don’t think anyone in their right mind would begrudge you spending time with him, and if they did, are they really the type of people you want in your life anyway?”
She was being completely, utterly unreasonable. I knew she had weird hang-ups about Ireland but this was beyond the pale.
On the other end of the line my mom took a deep breath. I hoped she was about to say something that would make me feel differently about her, something that would show she cared about someone other than herself.
“I don’t have to explain myself to you. Will you go or not? They’re expecting an answer tonight.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me? What do you mean they’re expecting an answer tonight?” I hollered, then immediately quieted when I realized what was happening. “You set this up, didn’t you? You already told them I was coming.”
“Can you go or not?” There was a hard edge to her voice.
I closed my eyes and leaned my head back on the sofa as internally I counted to ten. Ten seconds to calm down and not let my cold, selfish, manipulating mom get the better of me. Ten seconds to determine I couldn’t have this conversation with her right now.
It might be a similar refrain on a common enough theme, but this time she’d gone too far.
I took a deep, calming breath and exhaled on a sigh. “I’ll call you later and let you know my decision.”
I hit the red button that ended our call and dropped the phone face down on the cushion next to me.
I had responsibilities too, but of course she wouldn’t bother to ask what my schedule looked like. That I might have people relying on me, that I had deadlines to hit, would never have occurred to her. I’d graduated from college with a double major in Business and Journalism and, unlike many of my schoolmates, had actually put both degrees to use, effectively running my own mini travel empire before I was thirty. And yet she still acted like my job was some silly little hobby.
I groaned and pulled the bobby pins out of my hair, letting the chignon I’d donned for my date tumble down around my shoulders. Running my hands through my mane, I massaged my scalp, hoping the ugly conversation I’d just ended wouldn’t trigger a migraine.
Shit.
I might not want to rush off to Ireland but this was my grandpa we were talking about. He’d had a heart attack for Christ’s sake! He could be dead and instead of planning a prolonged visit I could be packing for his funeral. When I thought about it that way, I really had no choice at all.
There would be other writing assignments, more jobs in my future, but time with my grandparents was a precious commodity that I didn’t know how much more I’d have. When forced to choose between an amazing trip and a few thousand dollars in my bank account or spending time with my aging grandparents, there was really only one thing I could do.
I picked up my phone and mentally calculated the time difference between Edinburgh and New York City, happy to see there were still two hours left in the workday there. I scrolled through my contacts and hit the call button. The phone rang four times when a male voice answered.
“Mark Tomlinson here.”
“Hi Mark, this is Sophie Newport. Sorry to do this to you on such late notice, but I’ve got a bit of an emergency situation I’m dealing with and I’m going to have to bow out of writing those holiday travel stories for you.”
Chapter Two
Declan
Feckin’ Christ I hurt all over. I stood in front of the mirror in the bathroom of my house and wiped a large circle in the steam. Leaning close, I poked and prodded the darkening mark on my face, testing it. Wincing at the pain, experience told me I’d have a garish green bruise the size of a rose blooming across my face by this time tomorrow. That wasn’t the worst of it though. My lip was split from where I’d taken a knee to the mouth and my eyebrow had to be glued together to stop the bleeding. Basically, I looked like I’d stepped into the ring with MMA fighter Conor McGregor and had come out on the losing end.
But that was life on the rugby pitch.
At least we’d won, but goddamn it had been a brutal match. Some of that was my own fault. Every time I stepped on the field I gave it everything I had. Sometimes that made me the hero of the match, and other times—like today—it just meant I’d done my job the way I was supposed to. The way I played was sometimes called in to question by the press. Some said my style was too flamboyant, too focused on the big plays and not enough on the steady march down the field. Half of me knew those steady plays were what won matches, but the other half … the one who loved the applause and spotlight? Well, that half liked to play hard and fast and go for the glory. That was why at just 26, I’d already made a name for myself as Ireland’s best fly half.
It was also why the competition took great joy in kicking my arse on the field and trying to shut that shit down.
I walked out of the bathroom and dropped the towel from around my waist, climbing naked under the covers. When I’d signed my contract last year, I’d splurged and bought this house and an oversized bed to go in it. I figured with as much punishment my body took, having somewhere comfortable to sleep off the pain was worth the money.
I grabbed my phone off my bedside locker and scrolled through the text messages I’d missed when I was in the shower. If I weren’t feeling like such shit, they might have tempted me out of bed and into the cold, wet Dublin night.
M: You look like you hurt. Want me to make you feel better?
Red: Miss you. Miss me too?
Casey: Call me, D. Let’s hook up.
Jazmin: Wanna fuck away the pain?
I wracked my brain trying to recall having slept with a Jazmin, but came up blank. Clearly she was someone I’d given my private number to but I honestly had no idea which of the many she could be.
More than a little bit disgusted with myself, I ran my hand down my face and grimaced when I inadvertently applied too much pressure. Glancing back at my phone, I couldn’t summon any excitement at the idea of having quick, meaningless sex with someone I couldn’t recall, let alone want to spend time with outside of the bedroom.
Who are you kidding? a snide voice in my head I recognized as my conscience asked. You don’t fuck these chicks in a bed.
But in a bathroom stall or up against a brick wall outside of a club? Yeah, that was more my style. The truth was I’d developed quite the reputation for it. I didn’t enjoy being an arsehole, but I’d pretty much spent the entirety of my adult life having women throw themselves at me. Losing my virginity at 14 to a 17-year-old with huge tits and a talented mouth had set the tone for the rest of my life.
It wasn’t like I’d never given the whole relationship thing a shot because I had. Exactly once. When I was 18, I’d fancied myself in love with a mate’s older sister. We’d spent what I considered a glorious summer together before she met a bloke who lived a couple counties over and was already playing the type of rugby I wanted to. She quickly ditched me to the curb.
That summer had taught me two things. First, I never wanted to fall in love, and second, rugby was the only thing I could count on 100 percent. So here I was with a list of conquests a mile long while I basked in my notoriety.
My family though was another matter. My sister Aoife called me a disgusting piece of shit, a disgrace to the family name, and my mam? Well, she just shook her head and sighed with a look of resignation. I wasn’t dumb. She was disappointed I’d become such a slut, but I was still the apple of her eye. She didn’t like what I did, but she wasn’t about to tell her only son how to live his life either. You’d think between she and Aoife I’d have developed more respect
for the female species. And I had, but damn, when a woman was grinding on your thigh and begging you to fuck her, it was hard to turn away a sure thing.
Which, to my surprise, was exactly what I’d be doing tonight.
The truth was I was tired of all the games, had started to feel so goddamn weary all the time, which was really fucking tragic. I’d always assumed that shit wasn’t supposed to hit until you were chained down with a wife and three kids, worrying about a mortgage or how to pay for the kids’ tuition. I didn’t have to worry about any of that.
Hell, I had nothing to worry about beyond whether we’d win the next match. So why did I suddenly feel so fucking old and restless?
Chapter Three
Declan
I walked into the apartment over Fitzgerald’s Pub, not expecting to see Colm standing on a ladder, one hand holding onto the window casing while with the other he fished around the recesses of a book case. I didn’t want to startle him but it wasn’t a good idea for him to be up there either. When I cleared my throat, alerting him to my presence, Colm flinched and then froze in the act of rooting through a stack of books. Glancing over his shoulder, his face split into a wide grin.
“Declan, my boy,” he greeted me, climbing down.
Walking across the room, he embraced me in a welcoming hug. “Have you come to rescue me?” he asked conspiratorially before slowly lumbering over to his recliner.
I followed him and took up my regular spot on the worn, leather sofa across from where he sat. “What sort of rescuing needs to be done?”
“My Maureen, she means well, but I’m fit to be tied sitting here all day long with nothing to do. She won’t even let me have my regular afternoon dram.”
Understanding dawned as to why he’d been on the ladder.
“And my guess is there’s a bottle of whiskey stashed behind those books for emergency situations?”
He looked around quickly, his eyes shifting across the room. “Shh, she might hear you.”
Trying Sophie: A Dublin Rugby Romance Page 2