by Roxy Reid
“Skype! Zoom! Sean, you invented a video chat app,” she says. The reporter seems to be taking this unusually personally. The psychologist in me wonders what’s going on in the reporter’s own love life to make this such a touchy subject.
The liar in me just wants it to end. I open my mouth to say something, anything, when Sean squeezes my hand hard to cut me off.
“I know I made a fortune telling everyone that a video chat was as good as the real thing. I was young, and I believed it. But the older I get, the more I know that while technology is amazing, it’s no substitute to simply being there with the one you love. My mum hasn’t met Grace yet because I want them to be able to meet in person, just like I met Grace’s parents.”
Well, hopefully, not just like meeting my parents. I give a mental shudder at the thought of reliving that moment twice.
The reporter looks marginally mollified. “I think we can all understand that sentiment. So when will you be heading to Ireland?”
I want to strangle this reporter. Also, Nora. Also, whoever came up with the whole idea of book tours.
“We’re flying out as soon as Grace’s book tour ends,” Sean says smoothly, and I blink.
“Oh, that’s lovely. A vacation in Ireland,” the reporter says happily. “Well, that sounds like a great start to your marriage. To everyone else out there who has questions about how to improve their own long-term relationship, be sure to check out Dr. Grace Blackwood’s new book, We Can Fix This: Why Your Relationship Can Be Saved and How to Do It. Grace, Sean, it’s been a pleasure talking to you.”
The interview ends, and Sean and I are hustled off the set. We grab our coats and luggage from the room where we were waiting before. Before we know it, Sean and I are back out on the sidewalk in front of the station.
We stare straight ahead, waiting for the taxi the resentful intern called for us.
“So,” I say. “Ireland.”
“Yep.”
The cars pass.
Sean says, “You did say—”
“I know what I said.”
It starts to rain. Apparently, we’re getting the full Seattle experience.
“Does this mean I’m not getting laid tonight?” Sean asks.
I shoot him a glance. He’s giving me an out. I should take it. This whole thing is getting wildly out of control. I’m now flying to a foreign country. Thank God I got my passport renewed this summer.
The last thing we need to do is keep adding the combustible fuel of sex onto this bonfire. But then I look at him, standing there in the rain. He’s beautiful, brilliant, and crude. He acts like he doesn’t care what anyone thinks, but he’ll fight anyone who talks shit about me. I don’t know anyone else like him.
Also, he wants me. For right now, at least, I’m the one with the power to drive this complicated, sexy, irreplaceable man out of his mind. Slowly, I shake my head. Sean grimaces, but he’s ready to accept my rejection.
“I think,” I say, “that now you’re the one who owes me.”
For a moment, he freezes, and then he turns to face me, his grin big and joyful.
“Is that right, now?” Sean asks.
“I don’t make the rules,” I say.
“Ah, sure you don’t,” Sean says.
He takes my face and kisses me in the Seattle rain. I laugh against his lips, feeling suspiciously like a girl in a fairy tale. When Sean lifts his head, the taxi is here. Sean loads our luggage and ushers me into the car with enough urgency that I laugh again.
As we drive to our hotel, I look out the window and grin.
I’m going to Ireland, and I’m going with a beautiful man who can’t keep his hands off me.
15
Sean
Mum, I’m not bringing someone home for Christmas because I’m not seeing anyone. Relax. It’s not like I’m going to marry some American and forget to tell you about it.
—Sean Bronson, email to his mother, age 27
The rest of Grace’s book tour is uneventful, except for the fact that we have fucking amazing sex every night. It’s getting to the point where all she has to do is take off her wedding ring, and I’m instantly hard. The other day, she took it off just because she wanted to put some lotion on her hands between book signings, and I ended up seducing her in a supply closet.
At least, I think I was the one seducing her. Grace gave me a sly, satisfied look as she left the supply closet, and now I’m wondering if she was actually the one seducing me.
Either way, I’m grateful to be home when we walk in the door to my house. It’s a brief stop-over since, thanks to my big mouth, we have to turn around and fly to Ireland in two days. But it’s good to be home. It’s been fun touring the states with Grace, especially since that first night. After eating out once, we’d made it a point to go out to eat in every city we’d been in.
I don’t know if it’s the new scenery or simply the act of sitting across the table and looking her in the eye every night, but I’m getting to know Grace better than I ever have before. Everything she tells me makes me want to know more. I am positively greedy to know everything I can about Grace Blackwood. I can’t be certain, but I think this is what dating is supposed to feel like.
I drop my bags in shock.
Shit. I think I’m dating my wife.
I look at Grace in panic, but she’s oblivious to my realization. She flops down on my couch in blissful exhaustion.
“It’s so good to be home,” she says.
I shut the front door with a click. That’s the first time she’s called my house home.
Bradley comes racing down the stairs to jump on top of Grace, purring madly. She laughs and pets him, talking in that baby-talk way people do to their pets.
“Can we take him to Ireland?” Grace asks.
“I don’t think customs will allow that,” I say.
“Can’t you bribe someone?” she protests.
“Ha. Very funny.”
She half rises on her elbows to look at me. “What’s with you?”
I just realized that I’m way too close to being in love with you, and I don’t know how you feel. Now I’m taking you home to meet my family, and I don’t know if that’s going to make it better or worse.
I don’t want to think about that, and I definitely don’t want to talk about that. So, I take my wedding ring off and watch Grace’s eyes darken.
“Move, Bradley. I’m taking your mum to bed.”
“We had sex less than twelve hours ago,” Grace protests.
“Yes, but not in this house,” I say as I lean over to kiss her.
Grace softens under my touch, making a small needy noise in the back of her throat. When I lift my head, Grace has completely forgotten she wanted to ask me something. Instead, she says, “You make a very good point.”
She unzips my pants and reaches for my cock. I don’t think about Ireland again for several hours.
“It looks like a postcard,” Grace says two days later as I drive us through the Irish countryside. We flew into Shannon about an hour ago, where we picked up the rental car.
I glance out the window. The part we’re driving through is mostly fields and sky, with the occasional building. Rock walls wind through the fields like veins. Which walls are still functional boundaries and which are useless leftovers from centuries past is anyone’s guess. I know it’s beautiful, but to me, it just looks like home. Not that I spent much time in rural areas. I was a city kid.
“Wait until you see Shop Street,” I say, thinking of the old street in Galway that forms the heart of the city’s cultural area.
The buildings are old, but they’re painted cheerful greens, blues, yellows, and purples. It’s mostly the kind of adorable shops that draw tourists. Galway is the place to shop, come Christmas. There are also enough pubs and nightclubs in the area to keep a teenager looking for trouble busy. At least, that was my experience.
“Is that the area you grew up in?” she asks, and I laugh.
“No. We were f
arther out, where it’s cheaper. You know, buildings built in the 1970s, not the 1770s.”
Grace keeps asking questions as we get closer to town. At first, they’re normal tourist questions, but as we get closer to my mum’s house, they shift, becoming more personal. She wants to know where I went to school. Where we went to church. Why we stopped going to church. Why we started again. She even wants to know where we grocery shopped.
“Tesco,” I answer. “But now that my mum’s mortgage has been paid off and she’s not feeding two teenagers, she goes to Dunnes.”
Grace raises her eyebrows. “And who paid off her mortgage?”
“She bought my first plane ticket to the states,” I say like that explains everything. Because it does. Who the hell becomes a millionaire and doesn’t pay off his mum’s mortgage?
She opens up her mouth, probably to ask more personal questions. I don’t feel like answering, so before she can get another word in, I flip on the radio.
It’s playing a very sincere PSA about the dangers of walking home from the pub drunk. Grace eyes the radio incredulously. My own face splits into a grin.
God, I’ve missed this country.
My mum’s house is about an hour outside of town. When we were kids, it was a hassle to be so far out of town, but it was all she could afford. Now, she likes it. She can look out her backyard and see nothing but fields and hills covered in different shades of green. Now that the teenagers are grown and gone, the loudest thing in the neighborhood is the cows a few houses down.
It’s a single-story ranch house built about fifteen years ago and painted a cheerful yellow. Mum, Peter, and I thought it was pretty posh when she bought it, but it’s nothing compared to Grace’s Victorian mansion or her parents’ place. Hell, it’s nothing compared to my place. I sneak a glance at Grace, dreading the judgment I’ll find there, but there’s no judgment to be found. Just curiosity.
I pull up in front of the heavy iron gate blocking the driveway. It’s only waist height and links to a low stone wall that runs around the whole property.
“One moment,” I tell Grace and start to get out of the car. “I’ve got to open the gate.”
“What’s it closed for?” Grace asks, looking around curiously. It’s a fair question since pretty much any human could hop over it, and it’s too ugly to be decorative.
“To keep the cows out,” I answer. “They like to wander.”
“Cows?” Grace asks, alarmed.
The front to the house bangs open. “Oh! You’re here!”
Mum hurries down the two steps, her arms spread wide to hug me. She’s shorter and rounder than me, and, unlike Grace’s mum, there’s nothing polished or stylish about her. She’s wearing an apron with a fresh yellow spill on it, and she’s got the same haircut she’s had for the last twenty years.
I’ve barely got the gate opened when Mum wraps me in a hug, completely oblivious to the fact that she’s getting whatever’s on her apron all over my clothes.
“I haven’t finished dinner yet!” she says. “We lost one of the tourists at the Cliffs of Moher, and we had to double back to pick them up again. Naturally, we hit traffic on the way in.” She lets go of me long enough to look at my face. “You’re getting wrinkles. Are you staying up late, worrying again?”
“Mum! I’m not getting wrinkles.”
“How dare you get married without your mother there?” She hits me in the shoulder. “Sure, it’s not like money is an object for you, is it? You could have flown me out, and your brother, too. Imagine having a priest in the family and choosing to have a stranger do your service. I bet the homily was terribly boring.”
I decide not to tell her that drunken Vegas weddings don’t include a sermon.
“I’ll invite you to the next wedding,” I say.
“Sean Michael Bronson, that’s a terrible joke to make!” Mum hits my arm again. “What would your poor wife say?”
“I thought it was kind of funny,” Grace says. We both turn to see Grace, standing shyly beside the car. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear.
Grace feels shy about meeting my mum, and something about that makes my heart lurch sideways.
My mum’s hands fly to her cheeks like she’s seeing a movie star. “Sean, is this her? Is this your Grace?”
I swallow past the sudden tightness in my throat. Because she’s not my Grace. Not really. As soon as her book takes off and she signs the TV deal, we’ll be signing divorce papers. Mum will be heartbroken.
“She is,” I say, hoping Mum doesn’t notice the thickness in my voice.
Mum spreads her arms wide, coming at Grace for the same kind of giant hug she just gave me. Too late, I remember the yellow splotch that now decorates my black shirt.
“Mum, your apron—”
It’s too late. My mum is already wrapping Grace in her arms and rocking her side to side like a long-lost daughter. Then she pulls back and takes Grace’s face between her palms. “I am so glad to finally meet the woman my son loves. He’s been talking about you for years.”
“Mum!” I protest, my ears turning pink.
“He noticed you even before you filed that noise complaint,” she tells Grace conspiratorially. “He told me he lived next to a beautiful, quiet girl who liked to sit in the window across from his, reading. But she never looked up or noticed him. He told me you left him that noise complaint, and I said, ‘Sure, Sean, here’s your chance. Invite the girl over to your next party.’ And he did, and now you’re married!”
Then she notices the yellow spot on Grace’s pale blue button-up. “Oh dear, did I do that? Well, nevermind, I’ve got just the thing to get it out. Sean, pull the car in, and we’ll get you both settled in. Oh! The curry!”
Mum turns and runs back into the house.
I look over at Grace. “Well, now you’ve met Mum.”
She bites her lip like she’s trying to keep from laughing. “You used to watch me read?”
“No, I … she’s exaggerating. I mentioned it once. When she asked if I’d met the neighbors. And it wasn’t her idea to invite you,” I add. “To the party, I mean.”
“No?”
“No.” I get in the car and park it in the driveway while Grace does her best to close the heavy gate behind me. I sneak a peek at her in the rearview mirror. She’s definitely laughing at me.
Well, this is what you get for introducing her to your mum, I think.
I turn off the car and unload the luggage. Then I go to help Grace, who’s still struggling to figure out how to make the gate lock into place.
“Here, you lift here, and …" Our hands touch as I show Grace how to lift the bar then dip it under the latch.
When I look down at her, her face is flushed, and she looks happy.
Damn, I want to kiss her.
“Sorry, about your shirt,” I say instead. “Mum is …" I trail off, not quite knowing how to say, “I know she’s a lot, but she’s amazing, too, so don’t you dare make fun of her.”
Grace’s face softens. “She’s perfect.”
I relax, glad she gets it.
“Plus, now I know you used to watch me from your window,” she teases. I groan.
Grace continues to tease me as we grab our luggage. “She told you to invite me to that party, didn’t she? Don’t worry. You can be honest.”
“She did not tell me to ask you to the party,” I say, but I already know it’s no use.
“What did she tell you to do?” Grace presses.
I sigh as I open the front door for Grace. “She told me to ask you over for tea. I upgraded to the party on my own.”
Grace throws her head back and laughs as she steps into my childhood home. The sound is like a peal of bells. I follow her over the threshold, feeling more right than I’ve felt in a long time.
Dinner is warm and lovely, as only coming home can be. Peter arrives as we’re about to sit down, and of course, Grace loves him, too. Everyone loves Peter. He’s got a wry gentleness I don’t have, and every s
tory he tells shows how much he appreciates his world and the people who fill it.
We eat Mum’s chicken curry. It’s so mild it hardly warrants the curry part, but it tastes like my childhood. It’s kind of like the way Grace makes tacos, which bears very little resemblance to actual tacos but is delicious all the same.
Afterward, Grace helps Mum make tea while I walk Peter out the door. He’s heading out since it’s already dark and it will take him a while to get back home.
Peter gives me a quick hug goodnight. “You’re a lucky man. She’s wonderful. I think Mum’s even forgiven you for eloping.”
I nod. I’m not sure whether Peter would think I’m lucky or not if he knew the whole story.
“I told Mum I’d invite her to the next one, but she didn’t think that was funny,” I say.
Peter snorts. “Of course she didn’t. If you divorce Grace, I’m pretty sure she’ll never speak to you again. How long are you here again?”
“Just for the week,” I say.
“Grand. Let me know your schedule, and we can meet for dinner again or grab a pint.”
Peter gets into the car while I open the gate so he can drive away. I close the gate after him, but instead of going back inside, I stand there with my hands in my pockets thinking. For the first time since secondary school, I’ve brought a girl home. My family bloody loves her.
I kick a piece of gravel.
If only it was real.
16
Grace
Now that you’ve officially met Sean, I expect a full apology. Clearly, I am not into him. Your best-friend spidey senses are failing you.
—Grace Blackwood, text sent to one of her best friends, two years into her friendship with Sean
The next morning, I wake up before Sean. We forgot to close the drapes last night, and the sun is spilling across the bed. We’re farther north than I’m used to, and there’s something about the light that feels different—fresh.