Deserving It

by Angela Quarles

  Then her words sink in. For her to be saying such a thing means she’s been aware of me for longer than I knew, whether I’m laughing or not.

  Now I’m the one catching my breath. Especially when she’s going scarlet as she must be seeing…what she revealed. And she’s that mortified.

  All the hairs rise on my skin, and my heart does an odd thump. And then it starts coiling down, stirring my pipe.

  Claire’s gaze darts to the side. Then she does a strange hop and gets behind the trolley. She wants to play it cool. But I know better now.

  Claire’s been hiding a secret.

  Claire’s thinking I’m mighty feen.

  Has she been thinking this the whole time, and I was too much of a muppet to notice?

  And just like that, the woman I forced from my mind several years ago is back, front and center and fully crowding my thoughts.

  Jaysus.

  Claire

  Groceries split and paid for, we face an interesting dilemma. We forgot we didn’t have a car to put it in. And we still need to pick up our clothes. And while it’s not far away to the hotel, it’s pounding down rain.

  We’re staring at the buggy, and then we laugh at the same time. He’s got a ton of bags in each hand, and so do I. And we still have bags in the buggy. Thankfully the strip mall has an overhang covering the sidewalk.

  Conor heaves his bags back into the buggy.

  “What are you doing?”

  He gives me a big grin, and my heart does another kick. When he laughed in the grocery store, it made his serious face five years younger. He was beautiful. And I’m seeing that beauty again.

  “We don’t need to be carrying them yet. We’ll just roll this into the laundrette, put our clothes in here too, and then load up the Lyft car when it gets here. I’ll give him a bit extra for helping, yeah.”

  “Sounds like a plan.” I place all mine back in and flex my fingers, getting the blood flowing again. “Good thing the only cold item is the pizza.”

  “And we’ll cook that up when we get back.” He pushes the buggy down the sidewalk of the strip mall, and we bump it into the laundromat. We get some weird looks, but whatever.

  We managed to combine our clothes into one machine for colors and one for whites. Both are done now, so we throw them into the big dryers. It’s weird having our clothes mixed together, as if we skipped to some future stage of dating, but I try not to focus too much on that.

  We have thirty minutes to wait, so I fish around our grocery bags and pull out the pack of cards. “You ever play Spit?”

  His footsteps bring him closer, and he's by my side, and I'm acutely conscious of how close he is to me. “Never heard of it.”

  I motion to two empty red Formica chairs with a short table between. I love Spit. “Prepare to learn from the master.”

  He brushes past me, his scent brushing me too, and folds his large body into the tiny chair. “The master, is it now?” He glances up at me.

  And I proceed to kick his hot Irish ass at the fast-paced game.

  Chapter 6

  Conor

  The Lyft driver pulls up to the curb in front of the launderette and runs out with a massive golf umbrella. Thank fuck, he helps us load all the scran we bought, as well as our bag of clothes. Somehow he manages to keep us both relatively dry.

  We scramble into the back seat, and I pull out a twenty, placing it on his console. “Here’s some for helping us, yeah?”

  The driver looks down at the bill and grins. “Thanks.”

  A few minutes later, we pull up under the hotel’s awning. I retrieve a luggage cart from the lobby, and the unloading goes faster than ever since we don’t have to be messing about with his umbrella. As we wave a farewell to Pete the driver, I check the time on my mobile. It’s almost gone one. I’d like to give my sister a bell before it gets too late to call someone in Ireland.

  Claire and I make quick work of unpacking all of our stuff in the kitchen, and I laugh again.

  She lifts an eyebrow.

  “We have enough to last us two weeks or more, I’m thinking.”

  She glances over the mound of bags of taytos, pastries, and canned goods she’s organized along the counter. She rubs her hands together. “I think you’re right.”

  I chuckle and pull out my mobile, holding it up. “Going to ring my sister, yeah.”

  She nods and unearths the pizza. “I’ll get this started. I’m starving. You?”

  “I could eat the lamb of Jesus through the rungs of a chair.”

  I fall into the couch and punch the icon for my sister.

  “Con,” Siobhan says when she answers, and I hear the smile in it. Her voice—Christ, every time it’s like a tug on my heart—part affection, part bittersweet. I love my sister and would do anything for her, and I miss her. But it comes with some baggage I hate facing every time we’re after chatting. Some of that baggage is guilt for leaving her to tend to the family farm after our da passed five years ago.

  I couldn’t get away from the farm—and Ireland—fast enough. Too many memories. Of my old life, my old culchie self. Thank fuck my sister was ever too young to remember our mother. She only misses her as a concept.

  Me? Yeah. I remember the woman. My most vivid memory, and the last I have of her, is permanently seared into my memory bank. The farmhouse seems larger in mind than it would later. The hall going on forever. Dark. And my mam looking down at me, her mouth moving with angry words, most of which I’m not recalling to mind. But one word registered. “Useless.” And then the dropping sensation my seven-year-old heart felt. Especially when I woke the next morning to find she'd left us. For good.

  Claire

  Conor’s talking to his sister, whom I’m assuming is still back in Ireland judging from some of the things he says. Beyond him, the picture window highlights a gray world of angry rain, with trees swaying to one side.

  The oven dings, telling me it’s done preheating, and I slide our pizza in and set the timer.

  While our room is larger than a standard hotel room, it’s still small enough to hear Conor’s conversation. A farm is the main topic, and while his tone’s light, he’s gone from sitting on the couch to pacing circles around the living room. There’s an underlying tension in his voice that I can feel.

  Finally he hangs up.

  “Everything okay?” I ask.

  He pivots quickly but gracefully for such a large guy. “Yeah, just having some…business to be dealing with over the family farm.” His accent grew thicker during the phone conversation, and it still has a deeper lilt than usual.

  Dammit. It’s sexy as hell. “You have a farm in Ireland?”

  “My sister holds onto it, yeah.”

  I pull down two plates. “But it sounds like you’re a part of it too?”

  He rubs the back of his neck. “It’s where we grew up in County Galway, near Kilbannon. A sheep farm. When my father passed, I didn’t want to be running it, but my sister did. I signed my share over to her before I left for the States.”

  “She must love it.”

  “That she does. Always has. She’s trying to strengthen the Galway breed of sheep and took out some loans, which scares the shite out of me.”

  I search the cabinets for glasses and pull down two. I find silverware in the drawers. “How come?”

  “She’s my little sister. I’m going to worry, yeah.”

  I have no idea what that’s like, as I’m an only child. And while he’s been answering my questions, I get a vibe that he doesn’t like to talk about it, so I change topics. “Sounds like your presentation is a big deal.”

  I hear him moving behind me and glance over my shoulder. He sits at the small dining table and looks down, laying his palms flat down on it. “That it is. Part of my yearly evaluation. If it’s bang on, I’ll be getting myself a pure savage bonus.”

  “Savage?”

  He leans against the table and crosses his arms, his mouth pulled up at the corner. “Savage as in excellent. F
ierce. Big. Still floors me how much tech companies throw around in this country, even in this economy. Bleeding flahulach they are. I love America.”

  I knew he worked at some high-power tech firm, but he didn’t strike me as money hungry. “Oh. That’s…cool.”

  He leans back against his chair, his broad shoulders straightening, and looks at me. “Yeah. I want to be paying off my sister’s loans she has on the farm, though she doesn’t know it yet. And snagging that bonus will leave me standing in line for a promotion.”

  Okay, that fit better into my impression of him. “Now I can see why you wanted to get your beauty sleep last night.”

  He snorts. “The farm’s been in the family for donkey’s years.” His voice has an odd quality to it, and because I’ve always been able to easily pick up others’ emotions, I can feel a guilt come off him that I’m not even sure he’s aware of. And I can see the result—he works as hard as he does to compensate for all that guilt.

  But he seems to shake himself, as if he didn’t mean to share that much. He pushes away from the table and walks over to the TV, settling into the couch.

  Conor

  I’m watching some reality show on the telly where these blacksmiths compete to make weapons, and it’s hard core. But then it penetrates my thick skull that Claire’s cooking the pizza—a whiff of it’s after cluing me in—and she’s bustling around the table. I lift off the arm of the couch, holding myself up to see. She’s setting it?

  I hop up. “What can I be doing?”

  She pauses, a plate halfway to the table, and glances up. “If you could grab the pizza, I think the timer’s about to—”

  The timer buzzes, and I hustle over to the kitchen, grab an oven mitt, and slide out the grand gooey goodness. Cheese bubbles expand and pop. The crust is a perfect gold. Feckin’ deadly. I place it on the counter and start cutting up the slices.

  I glance over my shoulder. Sure enough, she’s set two plates—two paper towel napkins are folded and tucked under the rims, with forks and knives on top. She’s poured the cola-flavored fizzy drink we purchased into tall glasses. I frown—the formality of the table setting doesn’t fit with the tough girl, captain of the camogie team, I’ve always seen.

  “You didn’t have to be doing that up. I’d have been perfectly happy to eat sitting on the couch.” I don’t say that I normally eat standing up in the kitchen.

  She glances up. “I like to make meals an event. Doing this helps me savor it, be conscious of it instead of rushing through it unnoticed.”

  Huh. Okay. “Grab your plate then and be savoring this, yeah.” I shove the oven mitt back on and hold up the pizza.

  She picks up both plates and brings them over, and we load up. She sets her plate down at her spot. “Is it okay if I turn off the TV?”

  I shrug. “Sure. Why not?”

  She walks over and turns off the telly and settles herself, placing her napkin on her lap with some care.

  Now I’m watching in fascination. I mean, I’ve seen people eat before this. But she’s treating it as if this is some grand do, even though it’s just heated-up frozen pizza. She probably was doing the same thing at breakfast, and I wasn’t noticing.

  She cuts the tip off a slice, purses her lips, and blows on it.

  Fuck if my lad doesn’t pop my zipper just then.

  She takes a bite, the cheese stretching across to the rest of her slice, and closes her eyes. She looks…she looks happy. And then she moans. Now I’m after being seriously chubbed up.

  “Mmm, so good,” she murmurs.

  I look at my slices, which I haven’t even touched yet. I bring my plate to the other place setting and pick up a slice, biting into it. It’s better than your average frozen pizza, but it’s still fucking frozen pizza. So I chew a little more thoroughly and try to taste what she’s tasting.

  By my third bite, I’m picking out more flavors that I’d normally miss—a hint of some spice, the deep tones of the tomato sauce. Damn, this pizza’s deadly.

  We eat in silence, but it’s not awkward. She picks up her second slice and asks, “Is there anything I can do to help you prep for your presentation?”

  I stare at her in surprise. “Yeah, thanks, got it done, not that I don’t appreciate the offer.”

  “Do you want to practice it in front of me?”

  For some reason, the thought’s making me squirm. I’ve already shared more about my past with her than normal, and this feels like even more, though it’s just a dry presentation.

  Maybe because it’ll be solidifying that I’ve not much going on in my life for this presentation to be taking up so much space in it. Like a bleeding placard I’m waving, yeah, that says, “Tech nerd: nothing interesting here. Move along.”

  A memory surfaces of Brianna at the pub back home. I’d known her all my life, and we’d been dating seriously for several years. Everyone assumed I’d be marrying her. I think I did too.

  It was like any other night we spent at the local, but that night she told me she was giving up on me. That made a right bags of it. I panicked and said we could get married, and she rolled her eyes.

  “You’re beyond understanding,” she said.

  “Why don’t ya tell me?”

  She waved a hand at me, as if searching for words. “You’re just…empty. You’ve got no weight to you.”

  “Weight?”

  “Yeah, you’re sitting there like a lump, but you’re not taking up space here, yeah.” And she tapped her fucking heart. “There’s not a lot to ya, Conor.”

  I sat back in my seat, feeling like the lump she’s describing.

  “I need more, Conor, and you don’t have it in ya to be giving it.”

  And all I could think as I stared at her was, Brianna was knowing me our whole fucking lives, and she felt like I was lacking?

  The electricity blinking out brings me back to the present.

  “Shit,” we both say.

  Chapter 7

  Conor

  With the electricity out, we’re washing up old school, and Claire’s manning the drying towel. We don’t have loads, so we make quick work of it. Though it’s bucketing outside, we’ve light enough to see with the drapes open.

  Ever since our supermarket trip, I’ve been hyperconscious of her—where she is, how close she is to me, things like that. Right now her hip is hovering close to me, and I’ve an insane urge to put this last plate down, reach my hand around her, and tug her body flush to mine. I’m even getting a fine whiff of her scent—clean, feminine, with a citrusy tone, but that last is probably hanging about me too since it’s the hotel’s shampoo.

  All of which adds up to something I never thought would happen—chubby up time doing the washing up. Jaysus. “What is it you might be wanting to do now?” I ask as I carefully hand her that last plate.

  “You could give me your presentation.” She bumps her hip against mine.

  The residue lingering on my skin and on my mind of reliving that moment when my ex-girlfriend and lifelong friend dumped me hangs about. There’s a good chance I’ll get to know Claire better, and she’ll find me lacking too.

  Bloody hell. What’s it matter if she’s discovering I’m a tech nerd and that’s about all there is to me? Better for her to be knowing now.

  “I’ll take a chance on it. Don’t be forgetting you asked to hear me present.”

  “Awesome.” Her excitement pushes against me, transforming my anxiety into dread. The presentation can’t possibly live up to that.

  But like a criminal walking to his execution, I make the steps, slow and dragging, to my laptop and turn it on. She settles herself on the couch, and I sit on the overgrown footstool so she can see the slides on the small screen.

  Conor

  Finishing the presentation, I stand abruptly, flipping the cover down on my laptop to hide it. A nervous energy is skittering through me, making me want to put some distance between myself and Claire. As if by moving away, I’ll dilute the effect of that dry shite presen
tation.

  Unlike how I thought it’d go, she listened intently. And at the end, she gave up some good tips to try. Some of it on the visuals, some of it on my body language and how I was projecting myself. And not once did she give the idea that she was wanting to be elsewhere. The crackling tension between us is still there as well, so that didn’t up and disappear as a result.

  “So what do you want to be doing now?” I ask as I make myself busy over by the dining table.

  Claire reaches over the far end of the couch, which gives me a perfect view of her toned arse underneath her workout shorts. She has no idea what she’s doing or how that looks to me.

  I’ll not be enlightening her.

  She’s practically draping herself over the couch arm, fine as a cat, her elbows moving. We put a basket there of things to keep us entertained in case the lights went out.

  She rises, her face tomato red from being upside down for a few minutes. She holds up the pack of playing cards. “Spit?”

  “Are you sure now?” Even though you’ll beat my arse.

  She sits cross-legged at the end of the couch, her back pressing up against the arm. I settle on the opposite end, and she deals the cards. Unlike at the launderette, the play is a bit more challenging because we keep slapping our cards down, which makes the couch cushions—and the cards—want to go flying.

  Soon we’re laughing and slapping our hands down as hard as we can, and I’m thinking I haven’t felt this light in ages.

  I gather the cards and deal the next round. “We should’ve thought to add something to drink to the survival list.”

  She looks up with a grin. “Hang on.” She launches from the couch with such enthusiasm, all the cards slide into the back crease of the couch.

  She’s back in an instant, holding up an airplane bottle of Jim Beam. “Got this when I thought we were just delayed.”

  “Just the one?”

  “Of course. It was only for me.”

  I gather the cards into a tight stack and shuffle, the sound of the cards snapping against each other filling the room. “Want to play for it, yeah?”