Unfixable

by Tessa Bailey

  Without waiting for a response, I slide off the stool and head toward the hallway, but not before I see the strain on his face. Oh, I’ve hit a nerve. A Bigfoot-sized one. His eyes flash with intent and suddenly he’s lifting the bar’s hatch and letting it slam back down while he pursues me. My heart begins to pound, echoing in my ears as I pick up my pace, my boots quickly carrying me down the hallway. It has become imperative that I get away from him.

  Not because I’m scared of Shane. I’m scared of the fact that when I’m around him, the numbness I’ve felt since breaking up with Evan fades, at least for a little while. It doesn’t matter that irritation pops up in its place. It’s too much, too soon.

  At the base of the stairs, he curves his hand around my elbow and he pulls me to an abrupt stop. When I face him, we’re both breathing heavily. I don’t know what’s going on. It’s simultaneously thrilling and daunting. Every rational part of me is screaming, begging for me to wrench free and leave him standing there. But I can’t. I can’t move when he’s so close, looking at me like he doesn’t know whether to shake me or kiss me. I don’t know which is scarier. “What the hell did you mean by that?”

  With a concerted effort, I think back, but I can’t remember what I said to piss him off. As far as parting shots go, it must not have been that memorable. To me, anyway. He appears to remember it well enough to be blowing steam from his ears. “Maybe if you can’t take a little criticism, you should stop dishing it out.”

  “You don’t know a damn thing about me.”

  “That’s exactly how I plan to keep it.” As soon as the words leave my mouth, I remember what I’d said to kick the hornet’s nest. “I don’t care what you’re running from. So why don’t you follow suit and stop asking me about—”

  “Evan?”

  Fucking ouch. Hearing his name spat like a curse, intending to hurt…well it works. Again, the guilt arrives on a shiny, silver platter, making me question what I’m doing standing in a darkened hallway with Shane and his too-big presence. I’ve done nothing wrong and yet if I strain to hear, I swear I can hear the gentle ticking of a countdown clock until I do. No. No, it’ll never happen. It can’t.

  “Why didn’t it work, Willa?” Shane all but whispers. “Did he try and tame you? Turn you into a nice girl?” His eyes are unkind, but there’s something else lurking underneath the hostility. Something a little tortured. Is he attracted to me? If so, he must hate it. The worst part? I don’t seem to be quite as immune as I want to be. Excitement is threatening to outweigh my urge to push him away and end whatever is happening.

  When I make no move to leave, he backs me up against the hallway wall, bracing both of his hands on either side of my head. My heartbeat has graduated to a roar. This feeling of being dragged under is wholly unfamiliar, a realization that intensifies the guilt even more.

  “Don’t you dare,” I manage breathily, when his gaze drops to my mouth. “I bite.”

  Damn him, he presses closer. “Maybe tonight I fancy being bitten.”

  Ignoring the unwanted thrill those growled words deliver, I search for a way out of this. His lips cannot, will not, be allowed to touch mine. Shane will drown me again when I’ve only just breached the surface. My skin feels paper-thin and he’s a sharp object. “I still love him,” I blurt out, refusing to examine the lack of conviction in my tone.

  His gaze finds mine quickly, self-awareness creeping back in where none existed moments before. In the blink of an eye, his belligerence is back in place. “That has nothing to do with this. Don’t flatter yourself.”

  He’s backing away from me, the action contradicting his words. Obviously there is a small part of Shane Claymore that won’t kiss a girl whose heart is elsewhere. Briefly, I wonder if I’m wrong, if maybe I’m an exception to the rule, then decide that line of thinking is pointless.

  I’m not sure where the shame comes from, but it barrels in, suffocating me. Even the idea of kissing someone besides my ex-boyfriend feels like cheating. It’s made even worse by Shane talking about Evan like he did something wrong, when it was me all along. I was the unfixable one. Still am.

  Trying to swallow my guilt and muster some pride at the same time, I look him straight in the eye as I back away on shaky legs toward the staircase. He looks like sin personified, standing in the shadows with chaotic eyes, hands clenching at his sides as if fighting the need to drag me back.

  “Don’t ever touch me again.”

  His only response is a muscle ticking in his jaw. I make it to my room and slide down the door before the tears start to fall.

  Chapter Four

  Friday night, I stand in front of the full-length mirror, not really seeing my reflection. After taking a quick shower to rid myself of another day of on-again, off-again rain, I’d pulled on skinny jeans and a T-shirt that says Bad Samaritan on it.

  A friendly disclaimer, if you will.

  Halfway through the process of pulling on my boots, though, I’m hit with another Evan flashback. Since arriving in Dublin, I’ve been having them with increasing frequency, almost as if the distance gave my subconscious enough space to try and figure out if my screw up could have been avoided. I also suspect Shane’s presence has something to do with it, but I’m not willing to explore that worrying notion just yet. At the mere thought of Shane, I willingly dive headlong into the recurring flashback, just to escape him.

  “Why do you keep running away from me?”

  “Because you don’t belong with me, Evan! Dammit. Look how different we are. And I’m not just talking about what’s on the surface, even though those differences are more than enough. My past is ugly. Really, really ugly. You shouldn’t be anywhere near me.”

  “Willa, whatever happened in your past, it made you this girl. This girl I want to know more than anything. You think I’m so great? Then give me enough credit to decide who I want to be around.”

  Affected by his words against my will, I considered him across the car. “I do give you credit. I do. But you’ll change your mind.”

  “You’re wrong.” He grabbed his bag from the backseat, pulling out the envelope of photos I’d given him. The ones I’d taken at his basketball game two nights prior, focusing more on his brother in the stands who’d recently returned from a stint in Afghanistan with a heavy case of PTSD.

  Embarrassed at having my rare kind gesture thrown in my face, I looked away. “Please don’t make a big deal out of them.”

  “I won’t change my mind about the girl who took these pictures because she wanted to show me I made my brother happy, even if just for an hour. I won’t change my mind about her.”

  A quick rapping knock on my door drags me out of the bittersweet memory. I shoot a glance at my reflection, horrified to see a tear rolling down my cheek. I swipe at it with a curse, then cross the room to open the door, completely forgetting to ask who is on the other side. It’s Faith. When she sees I haven’t left yet for the night, she smiles like I’ve just presented her with a giant oversize check à la Publisher’s Clearing House.

  “Willa. Sure, you look lovely, don’t you?” She breezes past me, leaving perfumed optimism in her wake. “What are your plans for the evening, then?”

  I’ve decided to take the pickpocketing musicians, Patrick and Brian, up on their offer to see some live music down on Sheriff Street. While I’ve enjoyed the solitude of walking around a foreign city by myself, I haven’t really talked to anyone in days. Unless you count Kitty, but she handily forgets who I am each morning. Not exactly meaningful conversation. Not that I’m looking for a heart-to-heart with a couple of thieves, but part of this experience involves getting outside my comfort zone. Getting back in touch with old Willa, while learning who she can be on her own. Since I would normally rather saw off my own arm with a rusty blade than go out with the sole intention of making new friends, this is a huge step, especially without the crutch of Evan’s affable personality to help me.

  Faith is watching me hopefully, and I know she’s fishing for
an invite to wherever I’m going, be it a pub or the Moon. My first reaction is to just ask her along. I’ve been here a little over a week, and I’ve witnessed the girl working herself ragged. Waiting tables, cleaning rooms, stepping behind the bar when Orla has to take a phone call. Yet her personality never dips below a rapturous-sunshine level. I don’t know how she does it, and dammit, I kind of like her.

  Still, I’m incredibly aware of Shane’s warning to stay away from his sister. It’s not that I don’t want to anger him—I’m afraid of what comes with that anger. Him getting up close and personal. More of his irritation directed at me. More of mine directed at him. We both appear to be volatile people, and I don’t want to find out what will happen if we get too close again. Just thinking about it gives me an uncomfortable feeling in my stomach.

  On top of this very valid reason not to risk The Wrath of Shane, part of me wonders if he’s right. If she and I become friends, will my returning to Chicago affect her somehow? The thought leaves me feeling uncomfortably crummy. Hurting Faith would be like kicking a puppy. Like kicking…Evan.

  I don’t know if I can take on any more guilt without capsizing.

  “I’m, uh…” Still trying to decide what to do about the situation, I sit down on the bed and shove my other foot into its boot. “Probably nothing. Just going to walk around, maybe catch some musi—”

  “Oh, I love music. All kinds. Are you a line dancer? I Googled Nashville and it said right there on the computer that you all just love it. Did you know Colin Farrell used to teach Irish people how to line dance? I’m not making that up—I saw it on the telly. Can you imagine? Now he’s famous.” She sighs dreamily, and I think she’s finished talking. I’m trying to decide which part of that to respond to, when she starts up again. “Did you bring a cowboy hat along? Can I try it on? I reckon if I wore it in the pub, I’d make quite a splash. What do you think about that idea?”

  “What part?”

  “The cowboy hat.”

  I shrug. “Fashion equals risk?”

  Faith lets loose a bubbly laugh. “You’re gas, Willa.”

  “Likewise.” I rise from the bed, knowing I can’t bring this girl out with me to hang with a couple of thieves, in a neighborhood I know nothing about. “Listen—”

  “Sure! I’ll get my coat.” Her shoulders slump when she catches a glimpse of my expression. “Oh wait, you weren’t going to invite me?”

  Shit. Watching as uncertainty replaces the sweet, outgoing attitude from seconds before, I feel like an epic asshole. At that moment, I want to kick Shane. I also need to understand why this girl who is only one year younger than me apparently never gets out. I know it isn’t my business, but in that moment I don’t care. It seems depressing and unfair. Despite the resolve I’d arrived in Dublin with, the determination to remain detached, I can’t help wanting to fix this one little injustice. “It’s chilly out, so wear layers. That’s all I was going to say.”

  A squeal traps itself inside her throat, but she struggles to looks serious. “Deadly. I’ll just meet you ’round back, then.”

  I nod, then frown. “Wait, why around back and not in front?”

  “To avoid Shane, of course,” she calls over her shoulder, all businesslike now.

  I’m pretty sure I’ve just been had.

  …

  Nighttime Dublin whizzes past as our black cab maneuvers in and out of traffic through slim gaps between taxis and pedestrians. We fly over the Liffey on one of the many bridges spanning its dark, calm length. Droves of people pass in front of the cab every time we stop at a red light, but as we get closer to our destination, those crowds begin to thin.

  Before I can express my concern, Faith distracts me with her easy chatter. “You’ll have met our ma by now, so. What did you think of her? She’s off her trolley, isn’t she?”

  “Off her trolley?”

  “Senile. Crazy. Gone ’round the bend.”

  “Aha.” I shake my head. Faith is growing on me rather quickly, especially after that stunt she pulled back in my room. I’m keeping an eye on her now. “Maybe. But a lot can be overlooked when someone brings you toast in the morning.”

  She smiles. “Who do you think makes the toast?”

  “You?”

  “Shane.” Her right leg starts to jiggle. “He doesn’t like her operating the toaster. Or anything with a plug attached.”

  I don’t know why, but the fact that I’ve been eating toast prepared by Shane’s distinctly masculine hands makes me simultaneously mad and anxious. “Oh. How does he plan to stop her once he leaves?”

  Faith shrugs. “I suppose I’ll just do it.” Her legs stops bouncing. “How did you know Shane was leaving us?”

  Okay, I really need to stop letting my guard down around Faith. She’s a lot smarter and more observant than I’ve given her credit for. “I think Kitty mentioned it one morning in passing.” Sure, Willa. Pin it on the crazy lady. Class-y.

  She watches me curiously for a moment. “She must have been having one of her good days. Most of the time she pretends Shane never left in the first place.”

  For some reason, that makes my throat ache. “Maybe he’ll change his mind,” I say offhandedly, praying she’ll change the subject. I don’t want to know any more about this family than I already do. Every new piece of this dysfunctional jigsaw puzzle that slips into place adds to my curiosity.

  “Not bloody likely,” Faith answers brightly. “He has a need. A need for speed.”

  “Top Gun. Nice.”

  “Top what?”

  “Seriously?”

  She stares back at me blankly.

  “Never mind.”

  Our cab pulls up in front of O’Kelly’s on Sheriff Street. Faith reaches for her wallet, presumably to pay the cab driver, but I reach over and stop her. I’ve heard the expression “dive bar” many times and have at least a passing idea of what they look like. That term is pitifully inadequate to describe this run-down excuse for a legal establishment. Watching two men pour out onto the sidewalk trading punches, I heave a laugh. “Oh, no. No. Keep driving, please.”

  Faith gasps. “But we came all the way here. Surely we can have just one drink.”

  “Not in there we can’t.”

  She glances over my shoulder, her conviction wavering before my eyes. “It looks grand to me. You can’t blame the lads for working out their troubles amongst themselves. They even had the decency to go outside. That’s all you can reasonably hope for.”

  I’m positive I’m staring at her like she’s crazy. “Look, we’ll try this another night—”

  “No.” Faith suddenly looks desperate. “It has to be tonight. I can’t spend another night cooped up at the inn, Willa. Please.”

  Dammit. This is what I avoid like the plague. In my limited experience, when you let someone in a little, they’re never satisfied until you’re bleeding in front of them on an altar, every single one of your layers peeled back for them to psychoanalyze. This is the first step in that process. Faith is wiggling her way under my skin, appealing to whatever tiny shred of empathy I have inside me. Next thing you know, she’ll be pouring her heart out and acting wounded when I don’t do the same.

  When she sucks in a breath, I know she can see the thoughts on my face, so I turn my head, casting one more glance at O’Kelly’s. The two men have finished beating the stuffing out of one another and are now…shaking hands? God, the Irish are confusing as hell.

  “Faith, I—”

  A car door slams, and I stare wide-eyed as Faith rounds the front of the cab, marching toward O’Kelly’s with bring on the trouble written all over her. Both bloodied men notice and say something undoubtedly crude to her as she walks past them into the bar. Into the bar. Shit. I spring into motion, throwing a handful of Euro—which honestly looks like Monopoly money to me—at the cab driver and hustle my ass toward the entrance.

  When I walk inside, the first thing I notice is the cigarette smoke. Smoking is banned inside bars in this country,
but this place clearly isn’t following the rules. Red flag number one. Second red flag? The four men arguing over a table strewn with playing cards and cash. And enough whiskey to drown two sumo wrestlers. As if I’d walked in shouting through a bullhorn, every one of the men looks at me. I do my best to look bored as I scope the crowded bar to determine in which direction Faith took off.

  “Bad Samaritan.” One of them shouts over the loud music that has just started. His accent is so thick I can barely understand him. “Show me your tender mercies, and I’ll follow you to the ends of the earth.”

  I pretend to choke on my own finger and keep walking. So many people crowd the bar, calling out drink orders, I wouldn’t be able to see Faith unless she was standing right beside me. I take a moment to marvel over customers having casual conversations with the bartenders in the middle of this chaos, natural and easy, as if they are standing in their own living room. As I move closer to the back of the bar, the music increases in volume. It’s the fast-paced fiddle, foot stomping, storytelling music I’ve heard coming up through my floorboards all week, but tonight it sounds different. There’s urgency behind every word, passion being communicated through the collection of instruments. Patrons surrounding the performance area sing along at the top of their lungs, taking long pulls from their pints in between verses.

  I push through the thick mass of people, searching for Faith. At this point, I’m starting to get nervous. It appears I’ve opened up a Pandora’s Box of issues by giving Faith a taste of freedom, and she’s clearly decided to take full advantage. A fleeting image of Shane’s face when I tell him I lost his little sister propels me faster through the crowd. When I make it to the stage, I do a double take when I see Brian and Patrick are the musicians. Brian, sweating profusely under a newsboy cap, is so focused on his furious fiddle playing, he doesn’t see me, but Patrick’s eyebrows shoot up in shocked delight.