“Your sister has a writer’s imagination, and maybe you just want to find something that will help you cope with your grief, but really, David, it’s just fiction. Maybe she came up with the idea when she was at the hospital and they gave her some medicine that caused hallucinations, but that doesn’t mean—”
“Don’t,” I snapped, gritting my teeth. “Don’t you dare say a word about my sister. You can call me all the names you like, tell me I’m crazy, delusional, or whatever, but don’t you dare bring my sister into this.”
She rolled her eyes, and I took a step back away from her. With every passing minute I needed to put more distance between us, between this stranger and me. “This thing between us has only been some kind of shallow, meaningless relationship that wasn’t meant to go anywhere.”
She let out a gasp, and for a second I felt sorry. She’d been a part of my life for more than a year, and I’d be lying if I said that I’d never cared for her, but it meant nothing to me now. I’d been dragging this out for months, even though I’d felt that things had changed, that my feelings had slowly withered like a plant that had been neglected. Then Claire came along, and she was like a boost of chlorophyll to my withered leaves. When she was around, I felt alive again.
“What are you doing, David?” Her eyes filled with tears and, in spite of all her cold behavior, now I was the one feeling like a monster. I wished I could pretend things hadn’t changed and that I was happy, but that wouldn’t be me. I wanted what my sister and her fiancé had. I wanted love—real, deep, unconditional love that made your heart skip a beat whenever you kissed your partner.
“I should’ve done this months ago. I ignored the signs because I didn’t want to hurt you. I thought we’d get through this, but—”
“No, no, you can’t be dumping me. You just can’t.” She took a step forward and reached out for me. I took a step back.
“Michelle, it’s been over for months now. There’s no reason to keep dragging this on.”
She threw her hands up in the air, missing the can sitting on the table by an inch. I wondered how much mess it would’ve made if she’d actually hit it. Would it have smacked me on the chest? Would it have spilled all over the floor? Would it have covered me in sticky bubbly liquid? If the situation weren’t so tense, it would’ve actually made me laugh. Whatever. I just wanted to leave.
“I can’t believe I’ve wasted so much time with a double-faced liar like you. Get out.” She pointed her finger toward the door, in an overly dramatic way. I’d never thought someone could have a double personality, but with the way she was behaving now I was starting to wonder if she’d been the double-faced liar all along instead. How had I never seen this side of her before?
“Get out of my house and out of my life, David O’Hagan. I’m through with you. Keep believing in whatever you want: angels, ghosts, even trolls and banshees if that makes you happy. I don’t care anymore.” She shrugged and angrily squashed the can of soda against the tabletop. “I sure don’t want to spend my life with a crazy fool.”
I rolled my hands into fists and felt the urge to punch the wall, but realized it wouldn’t help my case. My mother had taught me principles, and one of them was never to resort to violence. The punch I’d given that gobshite at the pub had been an exception, and only because my emotions got away with me, but if I turned violent now there would be no excuses for it.
“Fine. We’re through.” I spun on my heels and headed toward the door. “I was hoping we’d be able to part on good terms, but I don’t think you’d ever want to be friends with someone crazy so . . . well, goodbye, Michelle.”
I opened the door and stepped through, but before closing it behind me, I looked back at her and remembered the good times we’d had together. “For what’s worth, I’m sorry it didn’t work out. I . . . I never lied to you; I just wish you’d believe me.”
“Get out!” she yelled, and tossed the squashed can at me, hitting the door with a loud crack when I closed it just in time. A very dramatic exit indeed, O’Hagan.
I got into my car, sat with my hands on the wheel for a few minutes, and relished the quiet. Michelle’s words spun like whirlpools in my head, and all I could hear was her calling me crazy.
I’m not crazy.
Colin had never thought Kathy was crazy; maybe he’d been shocked at first, but he loved her and he’d trusted her. Michelle hadn’t even believed me about the nightmares being a message from Declan. I was so glad I hadn’t told her the whole story about my brother.
Crazy.
What if I really was crazy? What if the nightmares weren’t Declan’s way of communicating with me? Yes, I knew he was still alive somewhere, but maybe these nightmares were just my imagination—maybe they really were hallucinations. What if Michelle was right? What if I’d been hiding behind the notion that Declan was still around so that I wouldn’t have to face the fact that my brother was dead?
I shook my head. No. Declan was still around. I wasn’t crazy. But how could I know if the nightmares meant anything? My brother had never given me a clue; he’d never answered my questions.
I took my head in my hands and squeezed my eyes shut. I just wanted the nightmares to stop. I just wanted to get over the pain that shot through me whenever I thought of my brother.
I just want my brother back.
Tears filled my eyes as the memories of that day crowded my mind. My father’s call informing me Declan and Kathy had been involved in an accident. My mother’s call to tell me Declan was dead and Kathy was unconscious. The moment I’d told Maggie, and she’d crumbled against me. The day of the funeral, when I’d carried my brother’s coffin on my shoulders, and when the urge to jump into the pit and let them bury me with him had overwhelmed me.
A massive rock settled on my chest and I found it hard to breathe. I needed a drink. Not that I’d ever been a heavy drinker, apart from the usual pint with my friends, but after Declan’s funeral, when my parents had stayed in Dublin for a day and Maggie had locked herself up in her bedroom, I’d gotten quite shit-faced, and it had felt good to be totally oblivious for a few hours.
If a few glasses of something strong could erase the pain I was feeling right now, and bring back the confidence Michelle had all but ripped from me, I’d endure the hangover tomorrow.
I inserted the keys in the ignition, threw one last glance at Michelle’s building, and headed toward the Latin Quarter.
Chapter Thirteen
Claire
Friday didn’t seem to come fast enough, after the incident with Peter and David. I’d been tense every time David walked into the office, afraid he’d say something about Sunday night. I felt bad enough that he’d taken a punch because of me; I didn’t want other people at work to know and blame me. When he’d walked into the office on Monday morning and Susan had seen his bruised cheek and slightly purple eye (which, luckily, turned out to be less purple than I’d thought), he’d blamed it on getting a little too excited during a hurling game with his friends. I’d smiled behind the screen of my computer, and was glad he’d kept our little secret.
Even so, we danced around each other all week, both of us clearly trying to avoid being alone in the same room. I didn’t know his reasons for doing so, but I knew mine were caused by the fear of saying or doing something stupid that would show him he was more than a colleague to me. My feelings for him were starting to go way deeper than a crush on a handsome guy, and I needed to protect myself from disillusionment and heartbreak. The last thing I wanted was to make a fool of myself in front of a guy who was already taken, and lose my job at the same time.
When I left the university grounds on Friday night without any awkward moments between David and me, I exhaled with relief. Ciara had organized a girls’ night with a couple of her friends. We’d gone to watch a romantic movie at the multiplex—cried our eyes out during the most romantic scenes—and then we’d headed back into town for a drink or, as far as I was concerned, a hot chocolate—with marshmallows. I’d o
nly met the two other girls on that dreadful Sunday night but even so, I had lots of fun and enjoyed their company, as if we’d been best friends forever.
It was shortly past eleven when they decided to call it a night and left the pub in the Latin Quarter. Ciara and I lingered a few minutes longer to make one last stop at the ladies’, since we’d be walking home. When we walked out into the chilly night, happily chatting about the movie we’d watched, I felt something twist as I spotted the silhouette of a guy who very much resembled David—with the only difference being that this guy was staggering and could barely stand on his feet. I couldn’t say I knew him well, but I’d gotten the impression that David wasn’t one of those guys who enjoyed getting drunk every weekend. I hated those kind of men, especially since my ex had turned out to be one of them—and I didn’t want to believe that David could be anything like Peter. It would be a major disillusionment to know he wasn’t the Prince Charming I’d pictured him to be after he rescued me from Peter.
When he turned and my eyes settled on him, my heart skipped a beat. It was David.
“Do you think that’s David O’Hagan?” I asked Ciara, faking a nonchalant tone I didn’t feel. David stopped by the bridge a few feet from us and leaned against the cement railing, looking down at the river. I feared he could topple over and drown, so I quickened my pace to reach him. Ciara followed without questioning my urgency, and when we reached him, I was torn between taking him in my arms and slapping his gorgeous face for getting so drunk. Obviously, I did neither.
“David?”
He gave a start and spun his head toward me; the movement was too quick for the state he was in, and he wobbled a little.
“Hey, look who’s here!” he said with a cute smile and a slurred tone. “Must be my lucky night.”
“Been out celebrating, O’Hagan?” Ciara was right behind me, and her tone was amused. I, on the other hand, was scared out of my mind. What had caused him to get so wasted?
David looked at Ciara and glared at her, or at least that’s what I thought he meant to do, but he was too drunk to look the least menacing.
“Should we call you a taxi, or were you planning on walking home to burn off the alcohol?”
David waved her away and blew a raspberry through his lips. “I’m okay. I’m going home in a minute.”
He staggered and leaned against the cement railing of the bridge. Ciara and I huddled closer, one on either side of him. “I just need to find my bloody keys, and I’ll be out of your hair in no time.”
He fumbled in the pockets of his jacket and when he produced a set of keys, Ciara snatched them out of his hands.
“You’re not gonna drive in this state.”
He grunted. “Ah, leave me alone, woman. Give me my keys back. I’m fine.”
He grasped for them but Ciara moved out of his reach, and he nearly face-planted in the attempt. I pulled him by the arm and righted him.
“Seriously, David, do you really want to get behind the wheel like this? Are you crazy?”
His head snapped up, and the stare he gave me could have burned a hole through my head. “Don’t call me that!”
I flinched at his tone and let go of his arm, taking a step back. Oh God, please don’t let him be one of those violent drunks. Images of Peter the night he’d hit me flashed through my mind and I started shaking, his strong grip still ghosted around my wrists, bringing back all the memories: the stench of beer on my face when he sloppily kissed me, his bulky body pinning me down against the back seat of his car, the pain I felt when he pushed himself inside me even as I was begging him to stop, the burning throb of my cheek and lip after he backhanded me. Sweat broke on my forehead, in spite of the chilly night, and a drop trickled down the side of my face.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw Ciara stare at me. I needed to get a grip. I couldn’t panic in front of her—in front of David. A drunken David. A version of him I would never have wanted to see.
“Don’t you ever call me that again. I’m not crazy.” His tone changed from angry to defeated, and as he deflated, sliding down to the pavement, he kept chanting, “I’m not crazy” until he reached the floor and held his head in his hands, repeating the words like a mantra.
In spite of my previous thoughts, my heart broke for him. He looked so vulnerable and lost, and I wanted to kneel down and hug him, tell him whatever had upset him was long forgotten and that I’d be there for him.
Ha. As if he needed me to take care of him. Idiot.
“David, why don’t you give me your phone so I can call Michelle and she can come and pick you up?” Her name on my tongue felt like poison, but I had to get over it and do what was best for him. He couldn’t drive in this state, and I wasn’t going to drive him home either. His girlfriend was the best option.
He let out a wry laugh, and shook his head. “Don’t think she’ll come pick me up, and if she did, she’d probably drive my car straight into the river and get rid of me.”
I frowned and stared at Ciara, who’d crouched down beside him too. She shrugged.
“Come on, O’Hagan, give me your phone. I’m sure your girlfriend will come and pick you up even though it’s late.”
“Make it my ex-girlfriend.” He hiccupped and let out a raspy chuckle. My heart skipped a beat and I hated myself for the joy those words caused me when it was clear he was going through a bad heartbreak. From the amount of alcohol he must have gulped down, I was pretty sure he’d been dumped, and not in a very nice way apparently.
“Well, then give me your phone and I’ll call Maggie. There’s no way I’ll let you drive home and risk killing yourself or someone else. Hasn’t the past taught you anything at all?”
David’s shoulders drooped and he let out a sound that was a mix between a whine and a sob. It sounded like the noise Robbie had made when Ciara had accidentally opened the fridge door in his face. I felt as if someone had poked a knitting needle through my chest and twisted it.
The mention of the way his brother died managed to bring him out of his drunken stupor long enough for him to pull out his phone and hand it to Ciara. As soon as the cell was out of his hand, he wrapped his arms around himself and leaned back against the railing, staring at the dark, cloudy sky. At that very moment, I hated Michelle more than I did before. How could she hurt him like this? He was a wonderful man, and didn’t deserve the pain she was inflicting him. If he were my boyfriend, I’d never in a million years hurt him—let alone dump him. But then another thought replaced the previous one: If he’d gotten so wasted over losing Michelle, he must’ve really loved her, which meant he probably wasn’t going to get over her anytime soon.
When he said they’d broken up I’d been happy—and felt awful about it—because I’d thought I’d finally have a chance with him. But if he were so heartbroken, would he ever want to go looking for another girlfriend? Would he be willing to start a new relationship, something serious with another girl? Or would he only be looking for someone to help him get over her? Because, as much as I liked him, I didn’t want to be his rebound, just as I hadn’t wanted to be the other woman.
I shook my head, realizing how ridiculous I was. The guy had just been dumped and I was already doodling hearts next to our names.
“I haven’t been this drunk in over a year. One year and nine months, to be precise.” He interrupted my thoughts, and when I turned to look at him his head was leaning back against the railing and his eyes were closed. I didn’t know what to say, so I sat motionless next to him, staring at his beautiful profile enhanced by the street lamp above us. “The day after my brother’s funeral, I stole my father’s precious bottle of Jameson and let the whiskey drown the pain. It worked for a while, until the hangover the following morning nearly killed me.”
He opened his eyes, and all I could see behind the alcoholic haze was a broken-hearted boy. Was it really all because of Michelle, or was there more?
“I’m not a drunk, Claire. I’m nothing like your ex.”
His word
s hit a raw nerve, and I recoiled, blinking a couple of times to understand what he’d just said. I didn’t want to talk about Peter right now.
“I’m sorry if I scared you. I’d never want to scare you, or hurt you.” He stretched out a shaky hand and reached for my hair, his fingers missing the lock a couple of times before he squinted and finally managed to tuck it behind my ear. I ordered my body not to shiver at the touch, but it didn’t cooperate. I could only hope he was too drunk to notice my reaction.
“God, you’re beautiful. You’re so beautiful, Claire.”
My heart stopped as blood rushed to my head, and straight down to my toes a second later. I’d wanted to hear those words coming out of his mouth for weeks, and now that he’d finally said them I knew it was only because of the alcohol. He probably wouldn’t even remember it in the morning.
I wanted to cry. What was I supposed to say now? Something like, “Thanks, David, but you’re so drunk you’d probably find Gollum attractive”?
“Maggie’s coming. She was in a pub with her friends and will be here in a minute.” Ciara stepped in and crouched beside David, sporting an ear-to-ear grin.
Gosh, I hope she didn’t hear what he said to me! She’d never let me live this down, like, ever.
“Feeling better, O’Hagan?” Ciara winked at me, then let out a chuckle.
He frowned, squinted a little as if he wasn’t sure whom the girl talking to him was, then lifted a shoulder and let it drop as he let out a sigh—or was it a yawn? In the state he was in, I couldn’t really be sure. Ciara giggled and patted his shoulder.
“You’ll be all right, buddy. It’s her loss, after all.” She sat down next to him and let out an exaggerated sigh. “Ah, if only I wasn’t so in love with Aidan I’d be very happy to help you get over your heartbreak.”
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