He pokes his head in, his face grim. His duffel bag’s over his shoulder. “I’m taking off, yeah. I’ll see you in Sarasota, Claire.” His voice is flat, devoid of all his playful charm. He looks as if he can’t wait to leave.
“You’re leaving?”
“My flight’s in two hours.”
“Gah. They must have filled that plane. The next one to Sarasota isn’t until tonight.”
He just looks at me and nods. And without another word, he pulls his head back and shuts the door.
As soon as I hear the outer door shut too, and I know I’m fully alone, a weird ache squeezes my chest. What the hell? Am I already missing him? Already missing the connection we briefly shared?
But that doesn’t matter. While it’s hard finding the right person that I’m attracted to, I can’t be with someone who’ll steamroll right over me.
My throat tightens as I slip off the bed and wander into the living room and see the evidence that yes, we hung out here and had a fantastic time, but that time is gone. He’s gone. This was just a side road away from our regular lives.
We had fun, but it’s over.
It’ll be awkward at the league get-togethers, but we can be mature about it. I pace the room, excess energy coursing through me. When I see the bathroom door, I stiffen and step haltingly there as a need to purge hits me.
I pull in a shuddering breath. And release it. Blood pounds in my ears as I stare at that door and what lays beyond it.
I clench my fists. Close my eyes, blocking out the sight.
No.
I’m stronger than this. I count down from twenty as I concentrate on pulling in one measured breath after another in time with the count.
God. This only happens lately when I’m at my weakest.
I collapse onto the couch and hear and feel a crinkle. I fish out a bent-up playing card. Jack of Hearts. If that’s a sign, I don’t know what it’s trying to tell me.
Out of curiosity, I open up the itinerary he sent.
The flight to Denver is in three hours.
I stare at that email and bite my lip. I could pack up and head to the airport and catch that flight now or hang out here for eight more hours until my flight home.
The walls feel as if they’re confining me. They’re also mocking me—a shell that contained the great time we had. The quiet in the room is like a weight, loud in the absence of the sound we made here. Now that we’re no longer having fun in this shell, I want to get the fuck out of here.
Yeah. I jump up and look at everything in the room. I’m getting out of here. Out of this limbo. I hustle over to the hotel phone and call the bellhop to bring a box. Thankfully, he has one, and as soon as he arrives with it, I throw in all the unopened food. Wow, yeah, we bought way too much.
With that done, I pack up my own belongings and check out of the hotel, leaving the box of food with the concierge. I call a Lyft and wait for it to take me to the airport. God, I hope I won’t run into Conor, though.
If I take the Denver flight, I’ll get out of Atlanta earlier. It doesn’t mean I actually have to see my mom. I can turn right around and use the return ticket.
Speaks to the state of my brain right now that I don’t think this is at all bananas.
Chapter 17
Conor
I’m sitting near the front of the puddle jumper flight to Sarasota, on the side that only has one seat, which suits me perfectly fine.
The thing with flying in one of these is that you can feel every bump in the air. The flight’s not long, but long enough for thoughts to plague me. I boarded the plane still pissed off, berating myself for even thinking things might be developing into something with Claire. This is why I don’t date and don’t have a go at relationships anymore.
But Claire’s words—about my reason for helping my sister—follow me. All during the flight, I poke and prod at why that is, when did it start, and why a flutter of panic rose up when she said she wasn’t needing my help.
And I remember that weak moment when I was asking her if the storm was our only feckin’ glue. She’d wanted to know why, and I redirected that line of questioning because, Jaysus, it was cutting close to the bone, yeah. It’s as if I believe helping others is the only good quality I have to offer. I’m doing it as a way to compensate for some “lack” I see in myself. Evidently, I must have been thinking I was a bit of a dosser for a mother to not even want to stick around.
No. Her leaving was on her, not me.
And I might not have had what Brianna wanted, but it didn’t mean there was nothing in me for anyone else to be wanting.
By the time we land and everyone’s jumping up to grab their bags, my mood’s different. I’m still pissed off at myself but now for a different reason. I stand in the cramped space, sling my laptop bag over my shoulder, and turn on my mobile. If Claire decided to go to Denver, her plane’ll just be taking off from Atlanta.
I clamber down the ladder, my steps dully thumping against the metal. My foot hits the tarmac, and I’m breathing in the hot humidity of Florida at high noon. The heat is murder—something my Irish arse still isn’t used to.
Palm trees line the landing field of Sarasota airport. I thought taking this job in a beautiful beach city would be compensation for working so hard—a reward—but I’m never having a chance to enjoy it. So how much of a reward is it really, yeah?
I work too feckin’ much.
I stomp across the tarmac, hiking my laptop bag higher on my shoulder.
Yeah, my pissed-off flavor has changed to me realizing I’ve been a complete gobshite. I made a right hames of things with Claire.
I should have trusted she had her reasons for not wanting to see her mother in hospital, and I shouldn’t have pushed her.
She’s got the right of it. I’m always trying to fix things for people and be ever so helpful.
Heat visibly rises from the black tarmac as I trod to the door they’ve marked Enter.
Another consequence of sitting on a plane for an hour—montage city, like I was reviewing snippets of a romcom movie, but of my own past couple of days. And that montage? Showed I haven’t had this much fun with someone in donkey’s years. I’ve kept myself too busy, and it’s all been just a coping mechanism. A way to avoid looking at myself.
Claire helped me find happiness in small moments.
She also seemed to be enjoying my company even when I wasn’t trying to help her.
Claire
I’m cruising at thirty thousand feet, white puffy clouds making a landscape as far as I can see.
I’m on the first leg of my flight to Denver.
I have a two-hour layover in Chicago to look forward to.
Oh joy.
I shift in my seat and swallow back hot tears. I can’t concentrate at all on the book I have in my lap.
I keep replaying that broken look on Conor’s face when I said I didn’t need his help.
God, I was such a bitch to him.
By sticking to the role I set at the start of my healing journey—estranged from my mother—I hadn’t periodically stopped to examine whether it still made sense. I mean, obviously at the start, I believed it was necessary to keep myself healthy. But I just kept that as my default setting and didn’t bother to reassess. To question. And I think it’s because I was too afraid—afraid to face the emotional memories, afraid I wasn’t strong enough not to backslide.
I am strong enough to see my mom. I am now.
The earlier, sick me was very weak and very afraid, though.
I lean my forehead against the plane’s hull and stare out at the cotton ball sky. The kicker is realizing this now. If I’d realized it sooner, the fight with Conor would have gone very differently. Hell, it might not have even happened, because I would have felt safe telling him of the time I was weak, and so he wouldn’t have bought that ticket.
Instead, I’d reacted with my old self—the one who still thought she was weak. The irony is, it was that fight that showed me I’ve
come farther on my journey to healing from bulimia than I thought. I just hadn’t taken that final step to realize my own strength and that I can let older coping mechanisms go. Because they’re no longer needed.
Conor’s gesture to purchase the ticket forced me to express my will rather than suppress it. Proved I’m no longer vulnerable to being a doormat, that I can trust that I’ll speak out when my desires aren’t being considered. I just wish I had recognized my own strength in time to not go all tantrum on Conor, marking my territory, scared to not be in control of every single aspect of my life.
Because if I had? I’d have seen that Conor wasn’t trying to control me, only help.
And I know I’m closer to being recovered, because despite wanting to be with him, I took an action I knew would drive him away in order to protect myself. I’m no longer someone who rolls over when I have feelings for someone. And I didn’t purge earlier.
I do a mental check. And I’m surprised to find that my walls are still there. But instead of having them crumble, Conor’s on the inside of those walls.
The shock of that realization has me falling back against my seat.
I can be strong. Be myself. And…
I can have Conor too.
Conor
Jaysus. I’m gone in the head for doing this, but I put myself back on another plane.
Heading to bleeding Denver.
I have no idea if Claire even used that ticket I bought her. For all I know, she’s now boarding the plane to Sarasota.
But I’m wagering she’s not. And d’ya know, I fair hope I’m right. Here’s my thinking—no matter what’s going on in that clever head of hers and even with her acting like a hurt animal backed into a corner, she’s tough. She’ll want to prove herself capable of facing whatever it is that has her scared.
And if I’m right, I want to be in Denver too. To face whatever has her scared with her.
If I’m in the wrong of it, then I might have buggered my chance for the promotion for nothing. I bunked off work, telling them I had to reschedule due to a family emergency.
They weren’t happy.
But Claire’s more important than chasing money. The bonus, while a fine thing, isn’t something I’m needing—I’m making plenty and putting enough aside.
So, yeah, here I am, on a plane to Denver.
Somehow, I manage to take a kip for the rest of the flight, and soon enough I’m pushing through my fellow travelers to exit onto the concourse. I aim straight for the digital display showing incoming flights. I’m going to risk letting my duffel circle in baggage claim so I can stay in this section of the airport and meet Claire at her gate. I could text her, but I’m worried her mobile will have given up by now, and she might not have had a chance to recharge it. I don’t want to risk depending on that, plus I’m feeling as if I need to take a fucking risk and be showing her how I’m feeling. If she thinks I’m near, she might avoid me altogether.
I scan the display until I find her layover flight from Chicago.
On time.
I look at my mobile.
Shite.
Not lashes of time. Thirty minutes until it lands.
Of course her gate is on the far concourse. I rush through all the travelers, feeling like a salmon swimming upstream.
I near one of those stores that sells every-fucking-thing a traveler might need and duck inside, hoping in the few minutes I have that something will inspire me. For a gift, you know? I still have no idea what I’m going to do.
My mind’s churning in a mad panic. I’m searching the aisles. What’s fucking romantic?
But would Claire even want something sappy? She doesn’t strike me as someone who’d go for the overly sentimental.
Jaysus, I’m screwed.
Maybe if I’d dated more, I’d have a better idea.
Then I see them. I grab the gift and head to the register, even though part of me is thinking, What the fuck, ya tool?
Bloody all if I’m understanding how my brain is working just now, but I grab some red heart balloons too, in case this is a rotten idea.
Chapter 18
Claire
I bump onto the gangway from the plane and clutch my purse tighter to my side with one hand while the other pulls my carry-on.
Folks crowd the space in front of me with their rollers, their free hands thumbing away on their phones, some still doing the ding-ding-ding of repeated incoming alerts that happens when you turn airplane mode off. Through the tunnel weave the strains of some guy singing, which is really weird, but to each his own. I can’t make out the lyrics.
I pull out my phone too and open Lyft to see if they’re in this city. I booked my hotel room while I was on layover in Chicago, so I just need to take each step as it comes. First, get to hotel. Second, call Conor and apologize. Third, see my mother.
A wisp of worry seeps in at that last step, but I straighten my spine. I’ll be fine. I’ll be okay. It also reminds me of the distance between us, because I don’t know why she’s in Denver.
It’s only as I get closer to the gate that the singer’s lyrics penetrate. My hairs stand on end. The guy’s voice is clearly singing the lines from "Total Eclipse of the Heart." Memories of Conor and me playing that weird form of strip poker swamp me.
God, my throat. It’s getting all swollen and shit.
I must be allergic to something in this godforsaken tunnel.
Ha. Who am I kidding?
Regret hits me, deep and hard. Conor and I parted so horribly. Hearing those lyrics—now—man, that has to be a sign.
Whoever the singer is, he’s trying admirably to hit those gutsy notes, but it’s not quite working. He doesn’t seem to care, though, as he keeps going gamely on.
When I clear the door of the gate, I stop.
Holy shit.
I swear, my heart does this weird swoopy thing and then falls straight through my stomach. It’s probably a big, throbbing, bloody mess on the floor, because the guy singing is Conor, and he’s looking at his phone as he belts out the lyrics, a plastic bag in his other hand.
He’s also holding a bouquet of heart balloons. Several women are standing around watching, wistfulness in their gazes. Some of them are chiming in with the “bright eyes” chorus at the appropriate moments in the song.
I choke on a half-sob, half-laugh, which he hears. He looks up, smiling hugely, but even through the glisten in my own eyes, I can see the worry and vulnerability in his light green ones. My heart squeezes right then and there. He’s obviously unsure of his welcome, but he doesn’t let that hold him back.
Conor
Mother Mary, I’m trying to project confidence as I belt out this tune, but inside my guts are tied in fucking knots. There’s more riding on this presentation than I’ve ever had before. Add to that the fact that I have not a ball’s notion how it’ll go over and I had bloody all time for prep.
But sure, I’m feeling as if I have to do this, not only for her but for myself.
Shite. She’s just standing there. Unmoving. Her eyes wide. I glance back down to get the next line from the song, and my voice is faltering, but I’m not quitting.
A clunk sounds in front of me, and I glance up. Claire’s let go of her carry-on and is lurching forward, but she takes a hopper over her bag. She stumbles toward me, trying to recover her balance, and I catch her.
As her skin touches mine, everything inside me notches back into place. She looks up at me, her eyes glassy. She opens her mouth, but before she can be saying anything, I tell her, “Wait.”
She arches a brow.
Of course there’s a ring of folks around us watching, but I’m not letting that stop me. I do, however, lower my voice. “I’m sorry I didn’t take your feelings into account. I should have trusted you at least enough to know you’d be having a good reason for not coming here. I shouldn’t have been making assumptions, yeah.”
I hand her the plastic bag and the balloons. “Got you these.”
She looks in the p
lastic bag. Closes it. Then looks up at me, confused. “You got me panties? White panties?”
My heart’s beating like mad, while my brain is going, You gowl, muppeting plonker, over and over. But I soldier on. I take a deep breath. “Yeah. I was wanting you to know I like you the way you are.”
She tilts her head, and the eyebrow goes up again. “And white panties say that? Is that one of the designated couple gifts for anniversaries? I don’t keep track of those things.”
I laugh. “Yeah, sure. Never hide from myself. That’s what they’re saying.” Since she still looks confused, I continue. “That first night, I saw you tuck your knickers out of the way when you showed me around the hotel room.”
She blushes a beautiful shade of pink, and her eyes get big and tender. And it says volumes that I even notice that shite. And then, thank fuck and all the saints, she’s standing on her toes and planting one on me.
Cheers break out all around, and since we’re giving them a grand show, I give in to what I really want to do—I cradle her face and return that kiss with one of my own, pouring into it all the hope and relief I’m feeling in this fine moment.
Chapter 19
Claire
An hour later, the Lyft driver drops us off at my hotel. We didn’t say much in the car, just logistics. We held hands, though. I think we both needed the time to absorb what this all means.
I know I needed that time. I mean, this is huge, him just showing up like this, and my heart’s fluttering in excitement and panic, and I want to make sure the excited part of me prevails.
Maybe that’s also why I need the time too.
Plus, I still have things I need to tell him.
We register and make our way up to the room. Inside, it’s a standard hotel room, no business suite like we shared for several days in Atlanta.
Conor throws his duffel on the floor. “You hungry, yeah?”
My stomach growls. “I think that’s a yes.”
“You grand with ordering room service? I’m famished, but I don’t want to be going out, yeah. I’m just wanting to be here, with yourself.”
Deserving It Page 10
