by Gage Grayson
“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.
11
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.”
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.
12
Killian
Our lips hover near each other so closely that I can taste the tea on her breath. I can feel the warmth of her body radiate through her clothing.
There’s a sudden hyperawareness of my own body. I can feel my heart throbbing in my lips. I can feel every hair I have rising from my skin.
Yet there’s this feeling of disconnect. As if I’m on the outside looking in. Is this what an out-of-body experience feels like?
My thumbs rub against her arms, and I can’t help but wonder why we’ve stopped ourselves.
There’s obviously still some attraction there. She’s been watching me since she got here—which I’ve enjoyed poking fun at—and here we are, right now, on the verge of giving in.
And she certainly can’t try to blame the whiskey. We’re both sober—well, mostly sober on my end—so she can’t use that excuse.
I certainly know that I want her, but who wouldn’t? The woman is gorgeous and is more than skilled in the bedroom. Even if it had been her first time.
And if she didn’t want me, she wouldn’t be here right now. She would’ve certainly just left by now.
So why the hesitation?
She clears her throat and takes a step back. I let go of her arms and do the same.
I need a fucking drink.
She watches me walk over to her desk and open the drawer. My hope is to find some whiskey, and in the drawer, I see an empty bottle of Jameson.
Of course she would be drinking Jameson.
I set the empty bottle down on the desk and make my way over to her cupboard. Looking inside, I don’t find any Bushmills or Jameson. But I do find a bottle Locke’s 8-Year-Old single malt.
That’ll do nicely—I make short work of cracking open the bottle and pouring myself a glass.
I make even shorter work of emptying the glass in one quick drink.
It’s a mix of fruit and barley with plenty of oak and just a touch of floral in its taste. It’s smooth and burns going down—everything a p
roper Irish whiskey should do. And it helps to take the edge off.
Turning around, I hold up the bottle to Rebecca in an unspoken offer.
“No, thank you.”
“Suit yourself, lass.”
Time to pour myself another drink. I watch that golden-colored drink crash against the glass like a small storm. It looks like a raging sea all by itself. Then, everything is calm and still like the eye of a hurricane.
My fingers wrap around the glass, and I feel the weight of it against my hand. It feels good—feels right—and gives my mind something else to focus on for a merciful moment.
The glass and the whiskey are transporting me to the point that I don’t even realize that I’m holding my breath.
This isn’t at all how I wanted this week to go.
I’ve got a bad arm, thanks to Rebecca hitting me with her car. Then there’s Rebecca herself being here.
And, of course, I can’t write, because I’ve managed to come down with writer’s block of all fucking things. And even if I could write, the head of my editing team is off on their honeymoon and having a baby at that.
It seems as though everyone is having—or wanting—a baby.
But then maybe that’s the answer.
The breath I was holding is finally let out.
I also let go of the glass in my hand, leaving it on the counter. I turn to face Rebecca.
It’s not entirely clear how this is going to end. Redheads—especially those with Irish blood in them—can have quite the temper. Even the lovely and softhearted ones like Rebecca.
“Let’s have a baby, Rebecca. You and me.”
Her lips part, and her blue eyes widen at my words.
She looks one part surprised, one part angry, and two parts unamused. It’s the “you’ve got to be fucking kidding me” cocktail.
“I didn’t tell you that to be mocked, Killian.” She glares. “And I certainly didn’t tell you that so that you could use it as some in to get into my pants again.”
“I’m serious, Rebecca. Dead serious. Look into my eyes.”
As mad it is sounds, I’m genuine in my offer.