Broken Enagement

by Gage Grayson

  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.

  36

  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 my 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.

  “Fucking smug prick.”

  I know that I’m projecting.

  I’m self-aware enough for that much at least.

  But does that make me feel any better right now?

  Not in the fucking slightest.

  I toss the book—as hard as I can—across the cottage. It strikes one of my lamps with this horrid fucking dull thud.

  The lamp and the book hit the floor together to the sound of the light bulb breaking.

  Just another thing to add to the pile.

  Another mess that I’ve made that I have to clean.

  I grab the bottle of Bushmills and take a long drink to drown the bitterness and frustration that’s sitting like a lump in my throat.

  The problem with that is whiskey never really makes me feel better or do anything to wash away the fucking darkness.

  I drink and try to tell myself that the whiskey is what helps get me through the day. I tell myself that the booze will help me forget all my troubles and pain.

  But my belief in that logic is flawed.

  I learned a long time ago that whiskey and beer do nothing to drown the beasts of the soul.

  It feeds them.

  Nurtures them.

  And—though I’m loath to admit it—I know that in the end, a man doesn’t drink to forget. He drinks to remember.

  My eyes fall to the bottle in my hand. My grip against the neck of it tightens.

  I throw it across the room with a yell of frustration.

  This was not how I expected—or wanted—my morning to turn out.

  But here we are.

  The bottle hits my bedroom door, but it doesn’t break. Instead, it falls to floor and empties the rest of its contents around it—not that there was much left in it anyway.

  My body feels sluggish as I stand. Which—given the amount of whiskey I likely had last night—isn’t all that surprising, really.

  I pull the paper from my typewriter and crumple it up in my hands.

  My desk is littered with nothing but balls of paper and half-typed sheets that look more like a Martian fucking manifesto than something that looks remotely close to a coherent, human thought.

  I grab my garbage bin beside my desk and begin to fill it up with the mess from my desk. Soon enough, the only thing left to deal with is my typewriter.

  I lift the typewriter and carry it across the cottage to a small trunk I keep in the corner between my bedroom and the sitting room.

  Next up is Brian’s damn book.

  I’m careful not to step in any of the broken glass of the busted light bulb and retrieve the book from the floor.

  I head to my bookshelf and give the cover one more look over.

  I admit, the book really wasn’t as bad as I wanted it to be—it did have bits of truly insightful writing—but I have no plans to tell any of that to Brian. Hell, I don’t even think he knows that I’ve read his books. Or own them for that matter.

  I slip the book in between his other ones on my shelf where it belongs.

  A soft sigh escapes my lips.

  From across the cottage, my wall-mounted phone begins to ring.

  It’s one of those slender black corded phones with no display. Real old-school eighties kind of phone.

  Look—I don’t need a display.

  I’m sure you’ve probably guess that about me by now.

  I already know who it is that’s calling anyway.

  There’s only ever one person who calls here anymore—my publisher.

  I grab the phone mid-ring. “Morning, Henry.”

  “Good morning, Killian.”

  “It’s morning, but I wouldn’t call it good.”

  “Oh, so we’re in one of those moods today. I thought you sounded particularly dour when you answered.”

  I can hear him smiling when he speaks.

  Henry is always far too chipper in the mornings for my liking. I think he overplays it because he knows of my disdain for it.

  “What can I do for you?”

  I already know exactly why he’s calling. He knows that I know. But I ask because it’s the polite thing to do.

  And I’m still a gentleman...mostly.

  “Well, I was hoping to get an update on how the novel is coming. Any details you can spare would be appreciated.”

  “Well, about that, Henry...”

  I swear I can hear the smile fade from his face.

  “That’s okay, Killian.” He doesn’t sound convinced. “Just tell me how bad it is. Really, just be honest for once in your life, Killian Walsh.”

  37

  Killian

  I can’t remember the last time my cottage was so clean and proper.

  That’s not to say that I live in squalor or anything. My cottage—for the most part—is usually more cluttered than dirty.

  But after my call with my publisher, I fixed that.

  I demonstrated some initiative. I didn’t grab Ida and go for a ride. I didn’t grab a bottle of whiskey and seek some unattainable solace in the bottom of it.

  In fact, I completely fucking rejected my usual trip to the pub for a pint or two.

  You read that right: not even a pint or fucking two.

  In other words, I acted like a proper fucking adult.

  The epic cleaning session had felt like nothing less than an endless battle when it began. And truth be told, it felt that way to the fucking end.

  But still, I was happy to struggle through every goddamn second of it.

  The broken bulb from my knocked-over lamp got picked up first, and I took care of the spilled whiskey.

  From there, I swept my floors. I dusted—which could quite possibly be the most tedious and soul-crushing task ever created—and even fucking mopped.

  The dirty clothes all around my bedroom were finally put into the damned, unloved hamper.

  All the empty whiskey bottles in my possession—and there were a lot of them—were rinsed out and put into a bin of some kind that I hear I’m supposed to leave outside every Tuesday.

  Come on, I fucking jest. I know what a recycling bin is.

  On the off chance there are any recycling fanatics from my little village reading this, all I can tell ya is t
hat I’ll see you next recycling day.

  Recycling is an important part of being a responsible adult, after all.

  But the cottage wasn’t the only thing that I had cleaned up.

  I shaved the week’s worth of beard I’ve grown and took a shower that lasted until the water turned cold.

  I even used actual, proper mouthwash and not whiskey. I deserve a goddamn medal for that one alone.

  Hell, I put on some of my nicest clothes. I’m wearing the softest black turtleneck ever made, the comfiest pair of dark jeans I own, and my brown suede suit jacket.

  I look like a proper fucking adult who has his life together.

  But I don’t.

  I’m not even close to having my life together.

  But I do at least look the part.

  And that has to count for something.

  Now, I’m sitting here at my desk with a pen and a pad of paper. I’m ready to jump into this new novel. I’m ready to write out this wonderful story that will have everyone buying copy after copy until there are none left to be sold.

  Only that isn’t what is happening as I sit here.

  The left side of my face is sitting against the palm of my hand. I’m bouncing the end of the pen against the paper in a synchronous rhythm with the water dripping in my kitchen sink.

  I stare blankly out my window at the rain that has started to fall from the darkened sky.

  Part of my mind is telling me to write down a reminder to have my tap looked at. The other part is thankful that I didn’t take Ida out for a ride.

  Getting caught in the rain again would’ve been rather annoying.

  But since a certain arrival from the past, it’s turned into a regular occurrence.

  “No, Killian. Don’t even go there, boyo. Focus.”

  I figure if I say the words out loud it’ll have a deeper effect.

  It doesn’t.

  I’d love to blame her for my writer’s block, but I know that it’s not her fault at all. She certainly hasn’t helped me get over my writer’s block though. That much I can blame on her.

  Or try to.

  I drop the pen onto the pad of paper and get up from my desk.

  I pace around my cottage like it’s some kind of track field.

  I want to sit down and write. I want to get this novel done and published.