My Secret Irish Baby: A Second-Chance, Secret Baby Contemporary Romance (Irish Kiss Book 7)

by Sienna Blake

  "Another," I said, tapping the bar as the bartender passed with two beers for businessmen across from me.

  My words were already starting to slur, but the bartender, reassured by the three Benjamins in his pocket, gave me a quick nod.

  "Sure thing."

  Whatever math I'd planned on doing to perfectly time my descent into blissful unconsciousness flitted away in my mind as the warm, fuzzy sensation in my forehead took over. I glanced at my wristwatch to see how much time I'd managed to kill and groaned that it was still an hour and a half till boarding. At this rate I'd be under the table before they even started calling for passengers with young babies and people in wheelchairs. But the warm, fuzzy sensation was nice, and I didn't want it to go away.

  So when the bartender placed yet another scotch and water along with a please-wait-till-the-next-guy's-shift-to-get-alcohol-poisoning tray of bar mix in front of me, I raised the glass immediately to my lips. I was closing my eyes to cherish the drowning when I heard a disturbing noise over the airport speakers. It was like the blare of an alarm clock when you were in a warm cocoon of sleep; all I wanted to do was tug the covers up higher around my ears and turn away from the disruption.

  "Flight T299 to Albuquerque is now beginning its preboarding," some woman said.

  I cursed over my scotch. Of fucking course you couldn't make out a single word from those announcements when you actually needed the information, but the one time you would rather cut off your ears than hear it, every goddamn word came through crystal fucking, fucking, fucking clear.

  "Fuck."

  "What's that?" the bartender asked at the sink.

  I looked down at my still mostly full drink.

  "Once again, ladies and gentlemen, Flight T299 to Albuquerque is now beginning its preboarding."

  I gritted my teeth and looked up at the bartender, who was eyeing me still. "I said, I'll have another, please and thank you."

  By the time my new best friend returned with a refill, I'd drained my current drink. My brain was thick as wool, my vision was swimming, and my fingers moved without a trace of coordination, but somehow my ears alone managed to maintain perfect function under the barrage of alcohol.

  "Alrighty folks, if anyone needs assistance boarding, please come on up now," the cursed woman said, her voice clear as if she'd been sitting right there on the barstool next to mine. "Those with young children may proceed to board as well. This is flight T299 to Albuquerque at Gate C32."

  I grumbled irritably at the pale-yellow liquid in my glass like any good drunk. Did she really need to keep repeating Albuquerque? I mean, we got it, right? It was flight T299 to Albuquerque.

  "For anyone with wheelchairs or young children who need assistance boarding, please come on up to Gate C32 for Flight T299 to Albuquerque."

  "God fucking damn it!"

  I reached across the bar and grabbed a cocktail straw so that I could cover my ears while still slurping scotch into my veins, a two-fronted defence, so to speak. It didn't matter, I told myself. I just had to get through the next twenty minutes. Flights these days were always double-, even triple-booked by the greedy airlines. There wouldn't even be room if I wanted to go to Albuquerque to finish what I started.

  And that was the last thing I wanted to do—go to Albuquerque.

  I kept drinking and tried to block out all the noise, but when the woman came back over the announcement system, it was as if she was prying apart my fingers with her own and shouting into my ear.

  "Looks like we have plenty of extra space on today's flight to Albuquerque, folks. So anyone who was on standby go ahead and come on up to the counter to get your seat assignment."

  "Are you fucking kidding me?" I turned around in my barstool to shout in the general direction of Gate C32.

  People passing with their suitcases stopped to stare as I almost toppled right over to the floor.

  "What the fuck are you looking at?" I growled and watched them all scurry.

  It didn't matter, I repeated to myself as I turned around and threw back the rest of my drink. It didn't matter that there was room on the plane, because I didn't want to go to Albuquerque. I wanted to go to Dublin.

  "We are now boarding our first-class passengers for Flight T299 to Albuquerque at Gate C32."

  I didn't want to face my father. I wanted to keep running. I didn’t want to turn around to see the dark shadow that'd been following me all my life. I wanted to cover my eyes and hide. I didn’t want to measure myself against that standard. I wanted to shrink and cower and let it continue controlling my life.

  "Groups one and two, go ahead and head on up for Flight T299 to Albuquerque. That's Flight T299 to Albuquerque here at Gate C32."

  In running from my father, I ran from Abbi and Zara, too. But that was done. There was no coming back from that. No fixing that. I wanted to go to Dublin. I wanted to go to Dublin. I wanted to go to Dublin.

  "All remaining groups, please proceed to Gate C32 for Flight T299 to Albuquerque, Flight T-2-9-9 to Albuquerque."

  Albuquerque…Albuquerque…Albuquerque… The word rang in my head like the tolling of a bell no matter how hard I squeezed my palms against my ears.

  "Folks, we're just about all boarded here. For any more passengers on Flight T299 to Albuquerque, please proceed to Gate C32 immediately. Gate C32 immediately."

  I told myself I wanted to go to Dublin, but that wasn't true, no matter how many times I repeated it. The truth was I wanted Abbi. I'd always wanted Abbi.

  "Fuck," I cursed.

  The bartender began to reach for another glass as he glanced at me over his shoulder, "Same thing?"

  "No," I said, climbing off the barstool and wobbling.

  The bartender raised a curious eyebrow. "Something else then?"

  "Nope," I slurred, throwing a few more bills onto the counter. "I've got to go to Albuquerque."

  "Hey," the bartender called after me as I stumbled toward Gate C32. "I thought you were on the flight to Dublin!"

  I dismissed him with a wobbly wave over my shoulder.

  "Hell, I did, too, buddy."

  Michael

  I was somehow both drunk and hungover as I stepped onto the doormat outside my father's place.

  After landing in Albuquerque I'd called him on a number I'd only gotten from Ma after begging years ago and asked if I could come by to see him. He'd said yes and an hour cab ride later I was there, just a knock away.

  I'd imagined this moment countless times over the years, and not a single one looked quite the way reality turned out. For one thing, I never intended to show up reeking of scotch and sweating from just the start of what promised to be a raging hangover. I imagined myself in my finest suit, shoes shined, shirt expertly pressed, Rolex gleaming, and silk tie hanging straight as a ruler. Instead the best I could do before knocking was to try to smooth out some of the wrinkles of my pants, make sure my shoes were tied, and double-check that my fly was up.

  I had wanted to present to my father the perfect image of a successful businessman on top of the corporate world, and there I was looking like a bank teller who just got hammered after getting laid off. My hair was a mess. My facial hair screamed less “impressive, well-educated, wealthy young man” and more “dude screaming about the end of times at a street corner”. To put a summary of my appearance succinctly, I looked like someone you would avoid sitting next to on the subway.

  I was here to prove to my father that I was enough, and I didn't even look employed. I was here to display for him my very best, and I was at rock bottom. I was here for his approval, but even I would have slammed the door in my own face, I looked that rough.

  Squaring my shoulders and lifting my chin was like putting lipstick on a pig, but it was all I could do as I knocked and waited for my father to answer.

  My chest clenched in fear and apprehension and nervousness when the door creaked open and a face appeared in the sliver of darkness.

  "Michael?"

  I stared into the green eyes o
f my father for the first time since a young child and nodded shyly just like a young child. A thought of horror went through my mind as I looked at my own eyes on his face: did Zara look at my eyes, so much like her own, for the first time with as much fear as I was feeling in that moment?

  "Well, come on in," my father said, holding open the door for me.

  I managed a smile and stepped inside. I'd imagined this part of meeting my father, too. I'd imagined cast iron gates of a private estate swinging open to a long, paved drive between neat rows of large oaks. I'd imagined tall, light-filled spaces decorated with modern art and custom pieces of furniture. I'd imagined marble and glass and gold fixtures.

  But in the dim light of my father's crowded apartment, I saw old pizza boxes with grease stains on a used coffee table, heavy drapes hanging limply to block the sun, and carpet littered with cigarette ash.

  "Kitchen's this way," my father grumbled.

  I followed silently after him, stepping over a beer bottle here or a pill bottle there. My father seemed smaller than I expected as we went down a dark, narrow hallway. His shoulders were sloped and he was hunched over, his thin legs moving with stiff, halting movements. We entered an old, dingy kitchen, and I stood awkwardly in the doorway as my father swept an armful of trash into the bin from the table.

  "Beer?" my father asked with the voice of a life-long chain smoker.

  "Sure," I said, giving him a small, timid smile.

  It was only just now after noon, but both my hangover and my nerves could have used a beer. My father opened the fridge and as he pulled out two beers with a clink of glass, I saw that there was nothing else in that frigid blue light but a ketchup bottle and a crumpled McDonald's bag.

  The bottle caps went into a drawer of dusty takeout menus and unused packets of soy sauce and even more ketchup. My father and I took seats in what looked like sun-faded lawn chairs opposite each other at the wobbly kitchen table. We each nursed the lingering silence with our mouths on the beer bottles like teething babies.

  "So, um, how's your mother?" my father finally asked, picking at some dirt under his fingernails and avoiding my eyes.

  I shifted uncomfortably in my chair and swallowed a big gulp of Bud Light.

  "Yeah, Ma's good," I said. "Everyone's good."

  I watched my father absentmindedly scratch at the stumble along his chin and wondered if he could even remember all of our names.

  "Um, is it, is it just you here?" I asked.

  I looked around me as if expecting to see more than a lonely, empty kitchen, as if I just looked behind this cabinet or into that drawer, I might see some trace of a wife, a lover, a daughter, a friend, a life.

  "Yup," my father said, his words muffled by the beer bottle to his lips. "Just the way I like it."

  I nodded and retreated back to my beer. The only sound was the metallic click, click of the old clock on the wall.

  "How do you like Albuquerque?" I asked.

  My father tore a piece of his beer label off and shrugged. "It's a place."

  "Quite a bit more sun than Dublin."

  "Emhmm."

  It was quickly apparent that my father was avoiding my eyes. When I dreamed of this scenario, staring up at the ceiling in bed late at night, I always feared something just that. But in those terse nightmares, my father saw me and avoided my eye because he was unimpressed, disappointed, ashamed. I couldn't help but think that this wasn't the reason my father was looking away from me.

  As I sat there at the table, I got the feeling that it was he who was ashamed.

  This man, by all indications, had nothing. He was living in poverty with old furniture, old clothes, old appliances. If he was employed it didn't seem to be a career that inspired or fulfilled him. And worst of all, he was alone. He said that was the way that he liked it, but it seemed to me he only said that because it was the only way it could be: he'd pushed anyone who'd ever loved him far, far away.

  My father finished his beer and without another word, got up to retrieve another from the refrigerator. He didn't get me one, he didn't even ask. This was not a man looking to catch up with his son over beers over a long afternoon; this was a man who wanted to forget this unfortunate reunion as quickly as possible. I fidgeted with the label of my own beer bottle as I watched my father stare blankly at the clock on the microwave.

  A creeping feeling of disgust was starting to crawl up from the base of my spine: this, this was the man I had been living my life for. Whether consciously or not, I had been chasing his approval year after year, making choices because of him, acting in certain ways because of him, ripping away things I actually cared about because of him. I'd created a god out of a man—a sad, simple, pitiful man. In my mind I'd built him up to a brilliant businessman who'd left to create his fortune without the distractions of family. I'd constructed for him a mansion, designed for him sports cars, placed in his bed models, clothed him in designer suits, and mounted him onto a pedestal high out of my own reach. I'd made myself miserable trying to reach a standard no one but myself put in place.

  I'd feared not being enough in my father's eyes and here he was, unable to even glance in my direction.

  As I continued to stare at him, I saw how much control he had over me. It wasn't even his fault. This man had no control over anything, not even his own happiness in life. I'd given him that control over my life, that all-consuming control. That was on me. But the good thing was that it meant I needed nothing from him. It meant that it was me, and me alone, who could take that control back for myself.

  "Look," my father said, clearly uncomfortable as he picked at an old stain on the table. "I don't really know what you want or…"

  I looked at the two bottles of beer already next to him on the table. I knew there would soon be three and then four and then five and then God knows how many before he went to pass out on the couch in front of the lonely crackle of the television.

  My father was getting just about as close as he ever would again to looking me in the eye; he was looking somewhere around my right shoulder.

  "I can't give you money," he said.

  The stack of cash I left for Abbi in motel in Glendalough and the credit card I left in the motel just an hour or so away from here flashed in my head. What was it Abbi had said?

  That was never what I wanted.

  I looked upon the wrinkled, sun-damaged face of my father and shook my head.

  "I don't want any cash," I said.

  He nodded and went to take a sip from his beer, only to remember that he'd already finished it. He shifted awkwardly in his chair.

  "Well then…"

  He couldn't imagine that I was there just to talk, to see him, to get to know him, if only for a few minutes. He saw everything in terms of transactions: debts to call in, credits to settle, pluses and minuses. His heart was a balance sheet, black and red.

  And I was set to follow straight down that path if I didn't change.

  We shook hands briefly at the door. Without another word my father slinked back into the dim light of his apartment like a hermit crab back into his shell.

  It wasn't till I was speeding up the northbound interstate in my rental car with the windows rolled down and the sun hot on my cheek that I realised I had forgotten to ask the one question I'd wanted to ask my father ever since he left: Why?

  Was it me? Was it something I did? Was I not enough?

  I smiled because the answer, whatever it was, no longer mattered. I no longer gave a fuck. I was done living for my father's approval. There was nothing in it but cobwebs and empty beer bottles and more closed doors.

  I stuck my arm out the window and rode my fingers along the breeze like I'd done as a little kid and laughed. I was going to live for endless horizons of clear blue skies, desert flowers, wild and brilliant, moonless nights that glowed with countless stars. I was going to live for Abbi, I was going to live for Zara.

  I was going to live for us.

  Abbi

  I chased a penny ro
lling on its side down the dark wood planks in the hallway outside the principal's office at Zara's private school. I'd been called in this afternoon and I knew exactly what it was about: I was late on Zara's tuition, again. I'd managed to negotiate a longer break from my boss in return for working a double night shift that night and had hurried over to the school without even changing. Between the coins I'd found wedged between the cushions of the couch, the advance I got from Pizza Hut, and whatever was there in the cookie jar, I thought I might just have enough to earn myself a little more time to gather the rest of the money.

  I snatched it up before realising I'd just run past Zara, who was sitting against the wall outside. I hurried back and leaned down to press a quick kiss to her forehead.

  "Hey, baby, how are you? You good? You're good. It's all good."

  I ran back inside the office with a sweaty brow and pleading in my eyes. "Mrs Hamilton, I know that I'm behind, I do," I blurted out, fully prepared to drop to my knees if I needed to. "But I have a partial payment here and—"