Maybe You

by Marie Landry

  “Yes.” I’m sure he’s used to making people cower, but I’ve dealt with scarier things than Eamon O’Malley. I infuse my voice with a hint of challenge as I explain, “I say amusement park, but really it’s a self-contained village minus the living quarters. We have restaurants and cafés, boutiques, a bookstore, plus everything you’d expect from a traditional amusement park: rides, games, that sort of thing. I’m responsible for dozens of employees and helping to ensure the entire operation runs smoothly.”

  For the briefest of moments, I swear a hint of respect flashes across his stony features. It’s gone so fast I’m sure I imagined it, especially when instead of acknowledging me, he turns to Kieran and says, “You could learn a thing or two about work ethic from your friend.”

  Kieran doesn’t even flinch. I have to resist the urge to reach across the table and high five him…and then smack Mr. O’Malley with the same hand. Kieran gives his dad a level look before sliding his eyes to me. “That’s just one of the many things I could stand to learn from Meredith.”

  I’m not exactly sure of the meaning behind his words, but I am sure I’m blushing. I can feel Kieran’s siblings’ eyes on us, but mine remain locked with his. I don’t know which of us reaches out first, but our hands meet across the table and he gives mine a squeeze.

  “Are you sure you two are just friends?” Teagan asks.

  Kieran’s fingers loosen around mine as if to release me, but I hang on tight. “Just friends,” I say lightly. “Kieran’s used to me being touchy-feely by now. I’m like that with all my friends.”

  “I doubt Kieran minds,” Sean chimes in, nudging Kieran with his elbow.

  Ugh, this guy. I’m sure he’s the type who doesn’t believe it’s possible for men and women to be ‘just friends’. I’m also sure he’s the type who would never understand the mission of Human Touch Companions and how platonic touch and companionship can have life-altering healing powers.

  “Are you happy where you’re living, Kieran?” This unexpected question comes from the other end of the table. Mrs. O’Malley is tucked so far back in the booth I’d nearly forgotten she was there. Her voice is soft and almost rusty, as if she doesn’t get to use it much. After just fifteen minutes with her family, it wouldn’t be much of a stretch to think she’s often spoken for or spoken over.

  “It suits me for now,” Kieran says. “It’s in a good part of town, close to school. I’ve everything I need.”

  I can’t see Mrs. O’Malley, so I watch Kieran instead. His expression has softened considerably, and he looks at his mother like she’s the only one at the table.

  “Do you like your housemates? Are you getting enough to ea—”

  “Maeve, really,” Mr. O’Malley snaps, causing Kieran to sit up so quickly and so straight, it’s like he’s a puppet who’s just had his strings yanked tight. “The boy is an adult, not a child. He doesn’t need your incessant questioning.”

  I stiffen, mentally rolling my eyes. Three questions—normal mom-type questions—cannot be considered incessant. Also, referring to him as ‘the boy’ and calling him an adult in the same sentence? Kieran wasn’t kidding about his dad’s control issues. They came all this way to visit their son and he didn’t expect his wife to have questions?

  Ignoring his father, Kieran leans toward his mom as much as he can. “My housemates are grand. One of them is an excellent cook and often leaves me leftovers since we have different schedules. I was thinking of getting a meal card from the school cafeteria, though, just to make things a bit easier.”

  Mr. O’Malley draws a breath beside me, likely to say something derogatory about cafeteria food. Before he can speak, Don arrives with our drinks expertly balanced on a tray. I could kiss him for his timing. He takes our food orders, shoots me a wink, and disappears as quickly as he arrived.

  I expect the questions to resume, but Teagan and Mr. O’Malley start talking about business, and Sean jumps in once in awhile to make sure none of us forget he’s a big, important lawyer. The three of them give off enough hot air, they could power a balloon all the way back to Ireland.

  Silence falls for a short time after our food arrives until Mr. O’Malley resumes the work talk. Kieran and I keep meeting each other’s gazes over our bowls of spaghetti. After awhile, we begin making faces at each other—a poked-out tongue here, a flared-nostril look there—until we’re both holding back laughter.

  I have no idea what the O’Malleys are talking about at this point, nor do I care. Kieran and I might as well not even be here; in fact, I kind of wish Kieran, Mrs. O’Malley, and I could get our own table and let these three windbags talk amongst themselves. At thirty years old, it’s been a long time since I felt like a child at a table of grown-ups, but that’s how I feel now. The feeling intensifies when I glance up after giving Kieran my best impersonation of a rabbit, and find Sean watching me. Great. That’ll help his impression of me.

  When we’ve finished eating, Don arrives with a server in tow to clear our plates. My eyes are glued to Kieran as he watches his mother with a sense of longing that makes my lungs constrict. I can’t see Mrs. O’Malley around the hulk of man between us, but I doubt it’s a stretch to think she’s looking at her son the same way. I’m ready for this afternoon to be over and I know Kieran is too, except it means saying goodbye to his mother.

  Which is why, when Don returns and asks if we’d like dessert, I say, “Don makes the best tiramisu this side of the Atlantic. You haven’t lived until you’ve tried it.”

  Kieran shoots me a grateful look, and Mrs. O’Malley’s quiet voice pipes up from the far end of the table. “That sounds love—”

  But she’s cut off once again by her husband. “I couldn’t possibly eat another thing. We really ought to be going anyway. One bill, if you please.”

  Don hurries away to get the check. I keep my eyes on him, afraid to see the expression on Kieran’s face. Movement across from me catches my attention as he slides from the booth. I do the same, and as everyone else climbs out of the bench seats, Kieran and I gravitate toward each other, our hands meeting, fingers locking.

  Teagan moves in to hug Kieran first. I expect him to release my hand, but he hangs on, giving her a one-armed hug. I peer around at his family and catch Sean’s eyes on our joined hands. He steps forward next, shaking Kieran’s free hand and telling him it was good to see him. I try to be as subtle as possible as I angle my body toward Kieran and hook my other hand over our already-linked ones in order to avoid shaking Sean’s hand again. I already feel like I need the world’s longest, hottest shower, along with a shot or two of some strong liquor.

  Sean retreats, his gaze landing once more on our joined hands. He shakes his head and laughs quietly before meeting Kieran’s eyes. “Just friends. Wish I had that sort of friend.”

  Kieran’s fingers tighten around mine compulsively. Sean moves away and I inch closer to Kieran, murmuring, “It’s okay, just let it go.” He sighs quietly in response.

  His grip slips from mine when his mother steps forward. She hesitates, as if unsure whether to hug Kieran, but he pulls her gently into his arms. A boulder-sized lump forms in my throat. I swallow hard, staring down at my shoes. Kieran speaks softly to his mother, but I can’t catch the words, which is probably for the best for a number of reasons. Whatever he’s saying is obviously private—thank god Mr. O’Malley went off to pay with a credit card—plus I think if I knew what he was saying, I might start crying and never stop.

  Mr. O’Malley returns with a loud clearing of his throat. Wanting Kieran and his mom to finish their moment in peace, I distract his dad by thanking him for lunch. A glimmer of something human passes over his hard features, and he inclines his head in my direction. “You’re most welcome, my dear. I’m glad Kieran brought you with him.”

  I blink hard. Where was this charming side of him the last two hours?

  “When are you leaving?” Kieran asks his family at large.

  “Sean and I are returning to Ireland day after tomo
rrow,” Teagan says. She appears bored now, ready to go, although what she plans to do in Bellevue, I’m not sure. Maybe I convinced her to check out Bellevue Village; the thought almost makes me laugh. “Mum and Dad are staying a few extra days, though.”

  “Yes, and we’d love to see you again,” Mrs. O’Malley says. Her gaze swings from Kieran to me. “Both of you.” The invitation shocks me almost as much as Mr. O’Malley’s pleasantness. Maybe she’s convinced there really is something more than friendship between Kieran and me. Or maybe she realizes I make a good buffer between her son and husband.

  “Oh, w-well I’m not sure if Meredith will be able to make it, but we can work something out for the three of us…” Kieran trails off, peering at me.

  There’s a hint of desperation in his eyes that makes me smile at Mrs. O’Malley and blurt, “I’ll make myself available whenever works for you. I’d like to see you again before you leave.”

  She gives me a genuine smile, one that reaches her eyes, unlike the other timid smiles she’s doled out today. “Wonderful. Kieran, I’ll call you and we’ll set something up.” To me, she says, “It was lovely meeting you, and I’ll look forward to seeing you again.”

  “Indeed, indeed,” Mr. O’Malley says. As he faces Kieran, I utter a silent prayer for him to say something nice, something fatherly, something that will leave Kieran feeling good. “Maybe then we can finally talk about you quitting this architecture lark and moving back home to take your place in the family business.”

  I can almost feel the bubble of hope burst inside me. Kieran’s shoulders start to slump and then he jerks himself upright, angling away from his father. “Mum, it’s been grand. I’ll see you both in a few days. Teag, Sean, have a safe flight home. Sunshine?” He turns to me and holds out his hand. I grab hold of it and call goodbye over my shoulder as he practically drags me away.

  We stride through the restaurant in tense silence. I give Don a quick wave and mouth ‘thank you’ as we fly past him to the door. Kieran veers to the left when we reach the sidewalk, pulling me along beside him. He stops abruptly when we reach the parking lot, dropping my hand and running both of his hands through his hair until it’s sticking up in a dozen different directions.

  “What am I doing? I don’t have a car.” Semi-hysterical laughter bubbles out of him.

  I place a gentle hand on his shoulder and he automatically covers it with his long fingers. “I do. Do you want me to give you a lift home?”

  “Would you?” he asks, as if he thinks I might be kidding. I suppose I can’t blame him after that sneak attack parting shot from his dad.

  “Come on.” With my hand still on his shoulder, I guide him toward my car. He remains silent as I open the door for him and he plops into the passenger seat so hard the whole car rocks. I close the door and take my time walking around to the driver’s side, inhaling several deep breaths of cool spring air. When I finally get behind the wheel and start the car, I say, “I don’t know where you live.”

  “Can we just drive around for a bit? Is that okay?”

  “Whatever you want.” And in this moment, I mean it. I’ll do whatever he wants, whatever will take that haunted look out of his eyes and make the light return. Whatever will make him grace me with that sweet, boyish smile again.

  So I put the car in gear and I drive.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  An hour later, I pull up in front of the house Kieran shares with five other Loyola students.

  The sun is just beginning to set, and the long shadows fall over the car, bathing us in a strange half light. Neither of us has said much since we left the restaurant; I figured Kieran needed time to decompress, and I was happy to simply keep him company while occasionally pointing out various buildings and businesses as I drove us around Bellevue. When I turned into this neighborhood, Kieran said his house was a few blocks over and I could drop him off now if I wanted to.

  The truth is I don’t want to. I want to stay in this quiet car, bathed in shadows and the soft glow of the sunset, just the two of us. I think it’s helped Kieran, and I know it’s helped me. My mind has been quiet for the first time in a long time.

  “Do you want to come in?” Kieran’s voice is barely above a whisper. Maybe he’s afraid to break this spell too.

  Instead of answering, I kill the engine and drop my keys into my purse. I have a second to see Kieran’s lips curves before he opens his door. I follow, trailing along beside him up the uneven sidewalk to the huge two-story red brick house. Old homes like this one are popular in this area of town, and have mostly been turned into student housing because they can hold so many people, which makes the rent cheap.

  Kieran unlocks the front door and motions for me to go first. The entryway is dimly lit, and the smell of burned toast permeates the air. Ahh, student living, I don’t miss you. The thought makes me smile at the same moment Kieran glances at me. He returns the smile with a tilt of his head.

  “My room is at the top of these stairs,” he says, motioning to the staircase a few feet away, “but I’ll take you through the house if you like.” I nod and he leads the way to the left into an enormous living room. My eyes widen as I take in the crimson walls and mismatched furniture. A guy in his early twenties is reclining on one of the couches, his eyes glued to the big-screen TV in the corner. He doesn’t look up as we pass through into what I assume was once a formal dining room but is now a rec room of sorts with a foosball table, a folding table and chairs with a game of chess set up, and a couple of squashy armchairs in front of a battered bookcase. Next is the laundry room, a bathroom, and then we’re in the giant kitchen, which looks like it hasn’t been updated since the 1970s. Hidden behind a wall at the far end of the kitchen is a staircase leading up to the second floor.

  Upstairs, we pass by three closed doors and a bathroom before finally making it to Kieran’s room. He unlocks the door and steps back as it swings open. “Home sweet home. Céad míle fáilte.”

  A hundred thousand welcomes. The Gaelic words are inscribed over the door of Connelly’s, my favorite pub in town. “You speak Gaelic?”

  Kieran chuckles. “Not much beyond that, no. We all had to take Irish in school, and Teagan and Sean can speak it fluently, but I never had much of a head for languages. Another disappointment for my parents.” When I stay rooted to the spot, he reaches around the door to flip on the light before ushering me inside with his hand at the small of my back.

  The room is about a third of the size of my own bedroom, and sparsely furnished. A single bed is pushed against the wall under the window. A nightstand, dresser, desk, and chair are the only other furniture in the room, and the closet appears to be about the size of my linen closet at home.

  “I like to think of it as cozy,” Kieran says. “Serves its purpose anyway, and the rent is dirt cheap.”

  I can imagine what his parents would say if they saw this place. It’s fairly typical as far as student living goes; in fact, I’ve seen smaller, and he’s right about it having a cozy feel. But I’m sure they’d question why he’s living here when he could likely have a place of his own in Ireland with the wages he’d make working for his dad.

  “I like it,” I tell him, stepping into the center of the room and doing a slow spin. The only personal touches are a stack of books on the nightstand and a collage of what appears to be magazine cutouts of buildings and plans on one wall.

  “Inspiration,” Kieran explains when he sees where I’m looking. He moves past me to straighten the stack of papers on his desk and sweep a pair of plaid pants off the floor. “Would you like the bed or the chair?”

  For some reason the question makes my cheeks tingle. “Uh, bed, I guess.” I slip off my jacket and shoes and crawl onto the bed, propping one of his pillows against the wall to lean against.

  He continues moving around the room, but there isn’t much to tidy, so he’s mostly just shifting things from one place to another. My mom would call it ‘puttering’. I call it stalling, since he seems nervous. “Would y
ou like a cup of tea?” he asks, only now removing his own jacket and shoes. “I know you prefer coffee, but I haven’t got any. I suppose I could nick some from the kitchen.”

  “Tea would be nice. Just not as strong as you like it.”

  This finally draws a smile from him. His hunched shoulders lower a bit as he nods, going for his desk and pulling an electric kettle from one of its drawers. Before I can question the whole kettle in a drawer thing, he’s out the door.

  He returns a moment later and plugs the kettle in, setting it on the desk. He glances at me over his shoulder and does a double take when he sees my expression. “I know,” he says with a laugh. “I know. But there’s no room in here for a microwave and we’re not allowed to have hotplates. A man needs his tea, though, so a kettle seemed the safest bet.” He rummages in the drawer he pulled the kettle from and withdraws a tin full of teabags.

  When he bends to reach back into the drawer, he pauses, peering at me over his shoulder. “Promise you won’t laugh.”

  “I didn’t laugh at the kettle in the drawer, did I?”

  “Mm.” He looks uncertain for a moment. With a sigh, he reaches into the drawer, and this time when he straightens he’s holding two teacups. But not just any teacups: dainty china teacups, complete with matching saucers.

  I press my lips together. I didn’t actually promise I wouldn’t laugh, although considering the afternoon we’ve had…

  “My mum sent them with me when I came over,” he says, setting them on the desk. “Said I should drink tea out of proper cups. She’d have a fit if she knew I was using bags instead of loose leaf.” His voice is faint. I can only see his profile, but he’s wearing a small, bittersweet smile. He opens what I assumed was a cupboard under his desk, but is actually a mini fridge. “I prefer a nice hearty mug of tea, or better yet a pot. Needs must and all that.”