by Penny Reid
This plant was going to survive if it was the last thing I did.
7
@ECassChoosesPikachu: @TheContainerStore is having a sale!!! I’m having difficulty *containing* my excitement… get it? #SeeWhatIDidThere?
*Eilish*
Disorder was my kryptonite.
After Patrick was born, keeping my place clean and tidy felt like the only thing over which I had any control. I couldn’t control when (or if) I slept, but I could control whether or not my sock drawer was organized by sock length, thickness, then color.
“I’ll just tidy up a bit,” I whispered to myself, proceeding with extreme caution. I knew Connors was gone for the rest of the afternoon, I’d overheard Alice in the office say he’d taken time off.
Alice, the lead admin on the top floor, had allowed me to use one of the shared office spaces so I could do my charting for the past week. She’d shown it to me during my first day; it was a welcome and quiet alternative to Connors’s dodgy physio room. As well, according to Connors, I still didn’t have privileges. I wasn’t going to make a fuss over it; if motherhood had taught me one thing, it was to pick my battles. If there’s a workaround that’s almost as good, do that.
So I’d been using the gym and locker room, no big deal.
But maybe if I straightened the place out, ordered and restocked the supplies, and demonstrated that I could be an asset, he would relax a little and stop freaking out every time I neared the physio room.
Or maybe he’s got an unknown object stuck so far up his arse, he’s just going to be a fecking wanker for all eternity.
. . . shame on me.
“That was unkind, Eilish,” I muttered, stepping into the therapy room and flicking on the light. As soon as the space was illuminated, I took a step back. The sight before me was—as it had been the week prior—daunting. And disgusting.
Plus, I thought I spotted what looked like Jenna McCarthy’s lunch container, open and empty on his charting area.
He stole her lunch!
“That forking freak,” I said before I could catch myself. I scrunched my face and shook my head. “Stop it. If you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all.”
Fine. I’ll just think it. He’s a fecking freak and a fecking slob.
“Best not to think about it,” I told myself, pushing those thoughts—and the usually dormant portion of my personality—to the back of my mind. “Just clean it, organize it, and take inventory.”
The sound of footsteps from behind had me leaning out of the doorway and peering into the hall. I spotted William Moore coming my way. I’d learned over the last seven days that the tall American flanker was basically the nicest, most polite person on the face of the earth.
His eyebrows lifted high on his forehead and he slowed as he approached. “Hi, Eilish. How are you?”
“I’m well. And you?”
“Good, good. And your son? Patrick is his name, right?”
“That’s right.” I smiled quizzically at the big guy. “How’d you know that?”
“Sean was telling us about how he’d bought him a tuxedo.”
A trickle of fear between my shoulder blades had me standing taller. “Who? Who was he telling?”
“Just me and Ronan.”
At that I relaxed and smiled my relief. Ronan was the team captain and—as an aside—also happened to be the spitting image of Colin Farrell. “Yes. He likes to buy Patrick suits and matching pocket squares. I’m running out of closet space.”
Patrick’s existence wasn’t a secret, but I thought it prudent to leave pictures of him at home.
William’s attention skipped to the room behind me and then back to my face. “Are you finally allowed inside?”
I gathered a breath and debated how best to respond.
I must’ve taken too long because he said, “You should let us speak to Coach Brian about this, about Connors and how he—”
“No. Don’t do that. I’ll take care of Connors, I will. I’ll get him to see reason. I’ve only been here for one week, I need more time.”
William made a face, and I thought for a moment he was going to argue, but then he took a step back, nodding. “Fine. Well, the guys are just down the hall and Ronan’s with them if you change your mind.”
“Thanks, William.”
“See you later.” He nodded politely.
“See you.” I gave him a little wave as he left, his footsteps retreating down the long hall.
Turning my attention back to the disaster area known as the therapy room, I made a quick survey of what needed to be done and in what order.
Trash first. Then supplies.
Stepping forward, I kicked a pile of takeout containers to one side, wanting to clear a path to the cabinets so I could look for latex gloves. But then I stopped, stiffening, an odd scratching sound coming from the pile I’d just nudged with my foot.
Turning back to it, I crouched on the ground and lifted a greasy paper at the top of the mess. And that’s when I saw it.
A cockroach.
In Ireland.
A giant behemoth of a bug, the likes I’d only ever seen on nature programs about prehistoric insects.
Okay, perhaps I was overexaggerating its size. Perhaps not. Honestly, I didn’t get a chance to dwell on the matter, because the roach-shaped locust of Satan hopped onto my hand.
I screamed.
Obviously.
Jumping back and swatting at my hand, I screamed again. But evil incarnate had somehow crawled up and into the sleeve of my shirt. The sensation of its tiny, hairy legs skittering along my arm had me screaming a third time and I whipped off my shirt, tossing it to the other side of the room as though it was on fire.
“What the hell is going on?”
I spun toward the door, finding Ronan Fitzpatrick and Bryan Leech hovering at the entrance, their eyes darting around the room as though they were searching for a perpetrator. Meanwhile, I was frantically brushing my hands over my arms and torso. I felt the echo of that spawn of the devil’s touch all over my body.
“Cockroach!” I screeched. “Do you see it? Is it still on me?” I twisted back and forth, searching.
Bryan and Ronan were joined in the doorway by more team members, but I barely saw them in my panic.
God, I could still feel it.
I. Could. Still. Feel. It.
Now I knew what those hapless women felt like in horror movies when they realized the serial killer was still inside the house.
“Oh! I see it!” Bryan darted forward, grabbing me by the arms and turning me to one side.
And then he smacked me right on the arse. And then he grabbed my arse, squeezing.
I squeaked, too shocked to do anything but stare at Bryan. He met my startled gaze, apparently also too shocked to do anything but stare at me.
Then he lifted his hand, covered in roach guts, looking equal parts proud and bracing. “I got it.”
“Disgusting.” This came from Malloy, loitering by the entrance as though he didn’t dare venture into the physio room lest more dragon-sized roaches be ambling about.
“I’ve never seen a roach that big before.” Daly, one of the other team members, sounded positively scarred.
Realizing I was out of breath—and wearing no top but my bra—I yanked my gaze from Bryan’s and glanced around the room, the burning heat of embarrassment crawling up my cheeks.
Crawling . . .
I shivered. Poor word choice.
My shirt had landed on a computer monitor at one of the workstations. I hurried to retrieve it.
“All right, all right. Nothing to see here. Crisis averted.” I listened as Bryan lifted his voice. Glancing at him, I saw he had his hands up, like a moving barricade, and was walking everyone out of the room.
“Keep that hand away from me,” someone said.
Followed by another of the lads chiming in, “Yeah, we know where it’s been.”
“Very funny. You’re all a bunch of crack-ups.�
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Once everyone was out, Bryan shut the door. There was a short pause before he asked, “Can I turn around?”
I swallowed, my limbs feeling loose and wobbly—likely the aftereffects of the adrenaline—and nodded. “Sure. Yeah. I’m—I’ve got my shirt on now.”
Bryan peeked over his shoulder, then gave me a sympathetic smile. “Are you okay?”
“Yes. I’m just sorry.” I huffed, crossing my arms over my chest and resisting the urge to scratch my arms raw. “I’ll be even better as soon as I get a hot shower.”
His eyes flared and he flinched, just slightly, before averting his gaze to the floor and clearing his throat. “Uh, speaking of which. I guess I better wash this hand.”
“Oh, yeah. There’s soap by the sink. Miraculously.”
The side of his mouth hitched ruefully and he nodded once, moving to the built-in sink along one wall, next to the supply cabinets.
I waited for him to wash his hands before I moved to the door, opening it and strolling out to the hall. I couldn’t stand another second in that room. Given the fact that I had the remnants of a dead cockroach on my arse, all my plans to clean the physio space fled.
A few paces down the corridor, Bryan reached out and gripped my elbow, staying me. “Are you really okay? The way you screamed, it sounded like someone was murdering you.”
Renewed heat flooded my cheeks and I released a self-deprecating laugh. “Did you see the size of that thing? It was larger than most dogs.”
Bryan chuckled, his lovely eyes twinkling down at me, but he didn’t release my elbow. “Yes. I know. I had a pint of roach innards smeared all over my hand.”
“Well at least it’s not on your arse.” Now I was laughing in earnest and so was he.
I leaned against the wall, feeling like I needed the support for some inexplicable reason. I felt spent. Yes, I was tired. I was always tired. But I shouldn’t have been this level of exhausted.
“Hey. Let’s sit for a minute.” He tugged on my arm, pulling me down next to him as he sat on the floor, and then relinquished his hold.
“Oh God, this is so embarrassing,” I mumbled, pressing my hands to my cheeks and staring straight ahead.
“No, no. This is nothing.” Bryan nudged my shoulder with his. “You don’t know the meaning of embarrassing if you think this is bad.”
I peered at him, a doubting frown on my features. “Oh really? Screaming like a lunatic and ripping off my shirt in front of half the team wasn’t embarrassing enough for your standards?”
“Don’t forget when I smacked you on the arse,” he teased.
“How could I forget?” A slightly hysterical chuckle burst from my mouth. I felt like crying with the sheer frustration of it all.
Why did he have to witness me mid-cockroach breakdance?
And why did he have to be so nice about it?
And why was he sitting so close now?
And are those gold flecks in his green eyes?
I forced myself to swallow and look away. “You have to admit, my display of cockroach-induced insanity is pretty high up there on the embarrassment scale.”
“Nope. Not even close.”
Unable to help myself, I peeked at him. A new grin stole over his lips, also stealing my breath.
Thankfully, he didn’t expect me to speak. “One time, at a victory party—of course I was shitfaced—I spilled my beer all over the general manager’s son.”
I felt my eyes widen. “Ah. That’s bad.”
“Even worse, his son was only six weeks old.”
“Oh no!” I covered my mouth. “You spilled your beer on an infant?”
“Yes. And not a little spill either. The whole beer, a double pint. It was a complete accident, but I felt like such an arsehole.”
“That’s terrible.” I was cringing but also fighting uncomfortable laughter.
“Yes. It was.” He nodded, his eyes growing hazy, the smile slowly disintegrating off his face. The dissolving smile left a ghost, a pale shadow hovering behind his eyes, like the memory haunted him. Like his past behavior haunted him.
My heart chose that moment to twist in my chest, a sudden ache on his behalf. Bryan looked entirely remorseful. Witnessing his sadness made me oppressively sad. The oppressive sadness spurred me to act.
“One time, in my research methods class,” I blurted and then paused, waiting until his eyes focused on mine before continuing, “our professor asked us to arrange our data sets by key demographics. So I raised my hand, and he called on me. In front of the entire class, I meant to ask him something like, You will want to see a categorization of subjects by gender, won't you? But instead—unthinkingly—what I actually said was, You'll want to have sex, won't you?”
Bryan choked on a startled laugh, his mouth falling open, then tilted his head back and laughed again, this time with gusto. The sound was intoxicating, a deep, rich, uninhibited rumble. My worry for him eased as I indulged myself in a rare moment of watching Bryan unabashedly. He looked happy, and his happiness in that moment made my heart swell.
Stupid heart. Stop swelling. Swelling is bad for you. Stay small and protected.
But I couldn’t help it. His earlier guilt had struck a chord with me. My eyes trailed over the curve of his lips, the line of his jaw, his neck.
Forks, he was handsome when he was happy. So handsome. Magnetic. And when he laughed, he was devastating—free and open and alive—he made me feel alive in a way I hadn’t experienced since . . . since . . .
That night.
I wasn’t laughing and I wasn’t smiling, because my heart—the one that had been twisting then swelling just seconds ago—was now lodged in my throat.
Bryan’s laughter tapered, and he wiped a tear of hilarity from the corner of his eye, glancing at me. When his gaze met mine, he did a slight double-take, blinking, his eyebrows inching upward with what looked like surprise.
“Eilish?”
Any minute now, he was going to stand up. Any minute now, he was going to say goodbye. Any minute now, I was going to watch him leave.
Do something!
But what could I do? Tell him I was infatuated with him? Because that’s all this was. Infatuation. Wishing. Dreaming.
I thought I was past this.
“Hey?” His eyes moved between mine, then dropped to my lips. He licked his and whispered, “Are you okay?”
I nodded, also whispering, “Yes.”
He leaned forward, just a hair’s breadth, his attention still zeroed in on my mouth. “What are you thinking about?”
I didn’t answer with words. Instead, I tilted my chin, closed my eyes, and I kissed him.
His lips were warm and soft and essential. He smelled like I remembered, like I’d dreamed about. I would have moaned with how good he felt, except he wasn’t responding.
That’s right ladies and gentlemen. I kissed Bryan Leech, and he stiffened as though afflicted with lip paralysis.
It took me a foggy four seconds before I realized this as fact, but when the news finally made it to my brain, I immediately pulled away. “Oh my God. I’m so sorry.” I covered my mouth with my hand, my heart beating a million miles a minute.
What were you thinking? What the hell is wrong with you?
Peripherally, I saw he’d lifted his hand and it hovered in the air as though to—cup my cheek? Push me away? Who knows? I stood and backed away from him.
He also stood, reaching out and taking a step forward. “No, no, no. I’m sorry.”
I moved to the side and out of his reach, putting as much room as I could between us in the corridor, thankful that we were still alone.
“No. I’m sorry. I’m just, not thinking clearly. I’m tired. And stressed.”
“It’s okay.”
“No.” I gritted my teeth and forced myself to look at him. “It’s not okay. I shouldn’t have done that. It was completely inappropriate and unprofessional, and that’s not who I am.”
Bryan appeared to be endeavoring to a
ssemble a reassuring smile, but his eyes were stormy and conflicted. “You’re a really nice girl, Eilish.”
Ugh.
A brush-off. I stiffened, wincing.
“But the thing is, I’m no good to anyone. I’m . . .” he stopped, clearly struggling, then said on a rush, “I’m too old for you. I’m all used up. You,” he hesitated again, then said, “you deserve someone far better than me.”
I closed my eyes, willing my pulse to slow, willing the burning in my chest to quell. This was the worst. Everything before this moment was not the worst, because this was the worst.
The. Worst.
Get out of here. Leave. Now.
Taking a deep breath meant to push back the renewed tide of mortification, I opened my eyes and lifted them to his, but didn’t really allow myself to see him. “It was just temporary stress-induced absurdity. Like I said, I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”
Thankfully, my phone buzzed just as I finished speaking and I whipped it out of my back pocket, not even really looking at the screen.
Bryan took another step forward and I was thankful for the distraction of my phone. “Eilish—”
“I have to go.” Not giving him a chance to finish, I pasted a tight smile on my mouth as I bolted past, speed walking down the hall, through the stairway door, climbing the stairs two at a time.
At least now you know, a voice whispered between my ears, now you know. Even sober, he doesn’t want you.
8
@JoseyInHeels: Where are you @ECassChoosesPikachu? I need your opinion about these shoes!
@ECassChoosesPikachu to @JoseyInHeels: I’ve been color coding my calendar.
@JoseyInHeels to @ECassChoosesPikachu: Put the highlighter down…
*Eilish*
Avoidance was the best policy. In all things. Take now for instance.
My mobile was ringing, and I was ignoring it. The resulting guilt made my nose itch. I ignored that, too.
“You’re not going to get that?” Alice asked from the doorway, lifting her eyebrows and indicating with her forehead toward the phone on the desk. “Your phone? Are you sure you don’t want to pick it up?”