The Write Escape

by Charish Reid

  “Oh don’t be on that way,” he said. “I’m just winding you up. Takin’ the piss, is all.”

  She barely heard him as she jiggled her door knob. Antonia was met with resistance when she pushed at her door. “Shit.”

  “You need a key, darlin’,” he joked, sounding just like her character, Bryon. The eeriness of his phrasing wasn’t lost on her as she tried to turn the knob.

  “I left it on my window sill,” Antonia said, closing her eyes. She thought nothing of it when she was talking to her sister on the phone. “Jesus, I’m locked out.”

  Aiden stepped back to survey the small house. “I bet you’ve got an open window somewhere.”

  Antonia thought for a moment before clapping her hands in excitement. “My bedroom!” she cried. “I shut it last night when it got cold, but I don’t think I locked it.”

  He gave her an appraising nod. “Then you’ve got a break-in to conduct.”

  “I guess so,” she said with a grin.

  “There’s that smile,” he said softly. “I was wondering when I’d see it again.”

  Her grin fell away as quick as it appeared. “I’ll lead you to the back,” she said, turning on her heel.

  They walked around their connected homes to the grassy area of the backyard, where her bedroom window was located. She prayed that she was correct as she laid her hands on the thin-paned glass. When it slipped open at her tentative push, she beamed at Aiden, who stood off to the side. “Bingo,” she said.

  “Do you want me to pop in?” he offered.

  “I got this,” she said with a confident scoff. Antonia hoisted her body up against the opening and awkwardly stuck her head inside. Sure enough, she could still hear the washing machine rinsing her clothes. “Although...”

  “Hold yourself there,” she heard his voice behind her. “I’ll give you a nudge.” His hands were on either side of her hips, steadying her balance.

  “Hey,” she said in a wary tone. “Don’t try anything fresh.”

  “I’m only helping.”

  With his support, she wedged one knee against the window sill and angled herself halfway in. Aiden held on to her free leg and eased her through. When both feet were on the floor, she gave him a thumbs-up. “I’ll let you in on the other side.”

  Minutes later, Antonia met him at the front door. “It’s still running,” she said wearily.

  He moved past her and went straight to her kitchen. Aiden squatted down before the machine and examined the settings.

  “What do you think is wrong with it?” she asked, hoping that she wasn’t an idiot.

  “It appears you set the machine to intensive wash. That adds quite a bit more time,” he said, squinting up at her. “What were you trying to clean?”

  “Some muddy clothes,” she said. “I fell on my hike today.”

  “Aww, where’d you go hiking? I could have gone with you.”

  Antonia gestured to the machine. “The problem at hand, Aiden.”

  “Right.” He nodded as he pressed one of the buttons. The clothes eventually stopped spinning as the water drained from the machine. “There you are.”

  “How did you do that?” she cried.

  He opened the door. “You have an off button, dear.”

  Antonia shook with fury, cursing herself for panicking in the face of logic. As she reached into the machine and pulled out the garments, she found that all of her clothes were still soaking wet. “Oh my god,” she said. “How am I going to dry these before nightfall?”

  Aiden took a T-shirt from the pile she cradled away from her body. “We start wringing,” he said, twisting the excess water into her kitchen sink. “And then we’ll hang them on the line.”

  Antonia stared at him, his powerful forearm muscles rippling as he wrung her clothes. “You don’t have to do that,” she said in a tired voice. Her day had started off so productive and now this frustration thwarted her. Watching him help her made her feel foolish. “You’re spending the day cooking and cleaning for me.”

  He smiled to himself. “It’s not a big deal, Antonia.”

  But it was a big deal. A man had never helped her with the little things. His easy confident manner was a stark contrast from her constant anxiety. Between the mess she left in Chicago and this new environment, hypervigilance was threatening to break her down. Right now, this did not feel like a relaxing vacation in the Irish countryside. Antonia’s heart began to pound and her face grew warm. Before she could stop herself, her face crumpled and she began ugly crying. “It’s just very nice of you,” she said, wiping her nose.

  Aiden looked up from his wringing in alarm. “It’s just a washing machine.”

  She shook her head. “It’s not just the washing machine,” she said as the heavy pile of clothes slipped from her tired arms. Antonia stared dumbly at the wet articles that plopped onto the kitchen floor. Great, I’ll have to wash those again. “I’m making a mess out of this trip.”

  “But it’s only been a couple days.”

  The dam broke and she didn’t know what to do. She was officially crying to the handsome man from next door. She probably looked like an unhinged lunatic. “But it’s the start of something shitty,” she wailed.

  Aiden gathered her in his arms and pulled her head against his muscled chest. “You don’t know that,” he said, his voice gentle in her ear.

  She wanted to stay like this forever, his arms wrapped like a warm blanket around her body. One damp hand kneaded the middle of her spine, while the other cradled the back of her head. His fingers wove through the tight curls of her nape, massaging the ache away. She sniffed and said in a low voice, “I’m getting your shirt wet.”

  “Not as wet as your intensive-washed clothes.” His voice rumbled deep from his chest.

  Antonia couldn’t help her laughter. “Shut up,” she said through her tears.

  He squeezed her closer. “I’m sorry, but the Irish laugh to keep from crying.”

  “My mother has said something similar,” she replied. “I think I need a drink.”

  “The Irish also do that to keep from crying,” he said. “Let’s hang these and go to the pub.”

  Antonia looked up at him. She hadn’t noticed, until now, how much he had shaved down his beard. The planes of his face and the angle of his jaw were more defined with less scruff. His aquiline nose and straight forehead fit perfectly with the rest of his features, she realized. At this angle, only inches from his face, Antonia was keenly aware of their embrace. Her hands were still planted on his sturdy chest. Beneath her fingers, she felt his muscles twitch. Antonia was close enough to notice the small flecks of amber set in the backdrop of emerald irises.

  She felt his hands move along her body, one sliding to the small of her back, the other tilting her head away. Antonia understood that, in this moment, she could kiss him. She could sink into his body and taste what she was too afraid to try. Judging by his half-hooded lids, the way he teethed at his bottom lip, Aiden would surely return the kiss. “It’s not too late?” she breathed. She was half referring to her clothes and half wondering if she could share another man’s bed.

  “The pub is open until midnight.”

  Antonia blinked before laughing. “To hang the clothes.” The water in her eyes began to recede.

  “Of course not,” he said, reaching up to wipe a tear from her cheek with his thumb. The gesture was simple and sweet enough for her to lean her cheek into the palm of his hand. “We might not have the sun for too long, but we’ve got plenty of wind.”

  Aiden’s certainty of everything made her feel better. He assured her of the best when she was constantly expecting the worst. “Alright then, let’s get that drink.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  “We’re getting a fierce gale tonight,” Danny announced to no one in particular. He was emptying the cash register and clearing dow
n the bar.

  Aiden looked up from his laptop to find that he and Steven were the only patrons left at 4 p.m. “You’re not closing down, are you?”

  “Aye, didn’t you hear me?”

  Aiden glanced out the window. Sure, the clouds were dark but it didn’t look any worse than the seaside weather he was accustomed to. “But I was actually enjoying my work, Danny.”

  “Enjoy it at home,” the barman said, slamming the register closed and slinging his dishtowel over his shoulder. “I’m planning to.”

  Aiden reluctantly closed his laptop and shoved it into his bag. He was nearly done with his paper, but he was still mulling over his introduction. Antonia didn’t know it, but she was a large part of why he returned to his work with enthusiasm. Talking to her yesterday morning had jogged something within him. Even their night, right here in the pub, was the shot of energy he needed. After her sudden crying fit, Aiden sensed that something, much larger than this trip, weighed heavy on her mind. Cradling her tear-stained cheek in his hand had stirred something deep within him; Aiden just wanted to make her happy. He had a desperate desire to kiss her tears away. The very thought made him nervous because she wasn’t his to make happy. Aiden finished his beer in one last gulp and took his glass to the bar. “Thanks anyway.”

  “I’ll probably open the shutters sometime tomorrow,” Danny said. “Say, how’s your friend, Antonia? She was a real craic last night.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if she had the brown bottle flu,” Aiden said.

  Danny nodded as he took the empty glass and went back to wiping down the bar. “The girl was bolloxed before she left. Seemed like one of those knackered Americans.”

  She did seem very stressed out. But once she got a couple drinks in her, she loosened up and started taking the piss with a few patrons. By the time their night came to a close, she was on her way to learning a few seafaring shanties. Unlike Lisa, who had always quietly sipped her white wine in a corner, Antonia had definitely been a hit.

  Danny told him as much. “Lot more fun than the lace curtains from last year. What’s her name?”

  Aiden laughed at the expression. Apparently his mother wasn’t the only one who used it. “Lisa,” he said. “We broke up.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Danny said without much sympathy. “What’s the American’s story?”

  “Honestly, I don’t know. She’s from Chicago and she published books.”

  “You might want to find out more,” said Steven, who was still hunched over the bar. “I like the lass.”

  “Yeah, Steven,” Aiden said. “You like all the young lasses.” Aiden hitched his bag over his shoulder and made his exit. Outside, the air was filled with warm static. A light breeze swept over his face, sending a chill down his spine. Perhaps Danny was right. The clouds coming in from the west were menacing, blowing fast and black. He hurried across the road, whistling an old familiar tune that came to him out of the blue. His father, who was a shadowy presence in his youth, always sang shanties from the boats he worked on. When he was in a fair to middlin’ mood, he’d belt out in a thunderous voice, “Oh, a plate of Irish stew wouldn’t do us any harm.” It signaled that he was ready for his mother to get in the kitchen, Aiden recalled with chagrin. He also remembered his mother rolling her eyes in response, but a sly smile played on her lips. As he approached his cottage, he saw Antonia’s car parked outside. Relieved that she wasn’t on the road, he unlocked his door and let himself in. Under his breath, he caught himself singing, “So we’ll roll the old chariot along, An’ we’ll roll the old chariot along...”

  Aidan sighed, wondering when the bothersome memories of his father would finally fade into the background of his life. He didn’t think that his brothers felt this way; they probably moved on long ago. They were now fathers themselves. But there were odd flashes of childhood scenes that still haunted Aiden, the songs were just some of them.

  When Liam Byrnes left for the last time, Aiden had been fifteen and convinced that he’d take to the sea like his father. The restless beauty of open oceans and getting his hands rough tying ropes seemed more appealing than taking his school exams. Luckily, his mother had berated the notion from him, citing that he was “too smart to be wasting his time on a fishing boat.” Once he was accepted into university, Aiden had let the drifter’s career and the idea of his father go by the wayside. Liam wasn’t coming back, and he had to catch up with the revelation like his mother and brothers.

  Luckily, he didn’t have too much time to reflect on his past when he heard his phone ring. He sighed again, this time out of frustration because it was probably his mother, checking up on him. While turning on the television and flipping through all seven channels, he debated even taking the call. In the end, his mother always had him on a tight leash of Catholic guilt.

  “Mam,” he answered.

  “Aiden, I’m glad I caught you,” Clare said in a breathless voice. “Have you seen the weather service?”

  “Does the pub owner count?”

  “I don’t know what that means,” she replied. “A strong gale is going to hit the peninsula. You’re going to get a hearty blow this evening.”

  “I felt it in the air,” Aiden said.

  “You’ve got your father’s sailing nose.”

  Aiden rolled his eyes. As much as she warned him off his father’s track, she still recognized he had the calling and chided him about it. “I think anyone could feel a storm coming in from the Atlantic.”

  “I didn’t say it in offense,” Clare said in soothing tones. “You’re so sensitive sometimes.”

  “What can I do for you, mother?” Aiden asked settling himself in front of the television.

  “Well, have you got provisions?”

  “Have I got enough spuds in the root cellar?”

  “You’re a smart one, you know that?”

  “Yes, Mam, I’ve got plenty of whiskey and crisps.”

  “And candles?”

  “And an actual torch,” he said, stretching out on his couch. “With batteries. Creely keeps them in the kitchens for emergencies.”

  “Very well.”

  When he successfully reassured his mother, he switched gears. “Hey Mam, do you remember that song Da sang?”

  Clare chuckled. “Liam sang so many songs...”

  Aiden grinned. “The one about Irish stew.”

  “Oh lordy me, that terrible one.”

  “It just came back to me,” Aiden said. “I hadn’t thought about it in years.”

  There was a long silence on the other line before his mother finally said, “Your old da held the drink better than he could a tune, but I suppose it wasn’t his worst song.”

  “It’s got me thinking about the origins though. I might like to write about it.”

  “I haven’t a clue as to where it came from,” Clare said absently. “I just assumed it came from those awful boats he worked on.”

  “It’s an African American work song adapted by Irish sailors. I might want to make reference to it in my paper.”

  “Is it now? I didn’t know that. How is your writing doing?”

  “Slow and steady,” Aiden replied. “I’ve been struck with inspiration.”

  “Really, now? What’s her name?”

  Her knowing tone disturbed him. “I’m sorry?”

  “I know you heard me.”

  He sighed. “She’s an American woman. Her name is Antonia.”

  “Isn’t that a lovely name!”

  “She’s a lovely woman,” Aiden admitted. “I can’t tell if she’s interested in me.”

  “If I know anything about my Aiden, I’ll bet she’s curious.”

  “I’ll let you know how it goes.” Outside his window Aiden saw the trees sway wildly away from a harsh gust of wind. It shook the cottage’s shutters and howled down the chimney. “Until th
en, pray to the pagan spirits that this gale doesn’t blow the sheep to sea.” Just as he said it, the television screen went black. He hated it when his mother was right.

  Chapter Fourteen

  He took her by the hand and brought her close to him. As he nuzzled her neck, inhaling her fragrance, her body relaxed against his. “Let’s go back to the guesthouse,” he whispered in her ear.

  Augusta quickly pulled back, staring up at him. “Wow, you think this is going to be easy, don’t you?”

  Bryon cocked his head in curiosity. “Yeah.”

  “Tell me that you’re willing to work on this story with me.”

  “Tell me that you’re willing to consider the possibility of seduction.”

  Augusta burst into laughter. The spell was broken. “You’re so full of yourself!”

  He sure did like seeing her smile, even if she was teasing him. “I can wear you down, darling.”

  “Give me your word,” she said, trying to be as stern as she could.

  “I can give you something else.”

  She shook her head. “Keep ’em coming, Bryon.”

  “So you’re going to make me work at this?”

  Augusta appeared to think about it. He wanted to know where her head was. Was this a possibility? “Yeah.” It was like a lightbulb went off in her brain. “Yes, I want you to work at it. If you help me on this story, I will let you try to—” She used exaggerated air quotes for this. “Wear me down. Happy?”

  Actually, that did make him happy. If she was open to the chance of picking up where they left off, he would find a way to help her navigate this city. They had five days to either write a Pulitzer Prize–winning piece on Bangkok’s sex trafficking culture or they could finally reunite as past lovers.