by Donna Alam
‘I’m not doing this.’ I stand so quickly the kitchen chair squeaks against the pale bamboo floor.
I give up. Give in. What am I thinking even being in the same zip code? Even if Rory isn’t marrying Beth, I can’t be here. Can’t stay here. I begin to make my way through the kitchen, my feet moving faster and faster as I reach the back door. I pull the handle, telling myself I’ll text Savannah and say I vomited. Fainted. Caught the bubonic plague! Whether Rory’s single or not, I have to leave.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Rory
I have no idea what I’m doing here tonight. I wasn’t invited, that’s for sure. It’s not even like Kit is here. For the good of the business, he’d said, we politely decline. That she might not have been lying; that she might really have lost the baby. But he doesn’t know her like I do. She’s certifiable and only dropped her psychotic plans when it became obvious I wasn’t playing along.
That night and many, many other times following, I’d told her I’d step up. That I’d father our child, but that would be the extent of our relationship. Next thing, she’s calling me from a fucking restaurant telling me the baby is no more. That’s it—not lost or terminated just, leave it Rory. You’re off the hook. What the hell am I supposed to make of that, other than she’s callous as well as fucked in the head?
Then a couple weeks ago she announced her engagement to some other chump. She fucked me over. In more ways than one. Drove away the only woman I’ve ever loved, but I’m not here, skulking in her garden for revenge. That would make even less sense, because no way I want to be a target again. I just want . . . God, I don’t fucking know! Maybe I’m here to make her to suffer a little of what I did when she turned up at the house?
I followed Fin, of course, ran after her, only to see Kit bundle her into his car. The bastard gave me a look as dark as the devil before climbing in himself. He refused to answer his phone and fucked off to London afterwards. He wouldn’t even say where he’d left her—refused to tell me for weeks—until it became obvious I was a mess. Fin’s face that night, I can’t get it out of my head; the anguish and betrayal. Do I want to make Beth’s fiancé feel the same? Kit may say a lot of things, and most of them to piss me off, but he was right about not coming here tonight. Whatever the fucked up reason, I shouldn’t be here. I think I’d rather have a root canal, or a prostate exam from a proctologist with huge great sausage fingers than ever see Beth again. In fact, I’d rather rim a fucking—
‘Oof.’ As I turn someone catches me right in the guts. The ball of something that’s partially winded me murmurs an apology, attempting to pull her elbow from my grasp. ‘Where’s the fire, hen?’
Her reply is incomprehensible noise made through gulping breaths. The words might be garbled, but the voice? The voice I know.
It can’t be, can it? It has to be my mind playing tricks on me again. It’s been weeks since I’ve chased her ghost through the street only to find some other girl’s elbow in my grasp. Why the fuck would she be here? It’s like some fucking conspiracy.
‘Please,’ she whimpers. ‘Let me go.’ Her voice brings me back to the moment, though I do the exact opposite holding that particular joint so tight I know it must hurt.
‘The fine fucking Finola.’ My words are more than merely hard edged and her body stiffens under my grasp.
‘Please.’
She gasps as I drag her closer, pulling us both under the glow of some kind of garden light. Her hair is a little longer and a little darker, pulled tight to the nape of her neck, her once blunt fringe now pinned back. Other than these small differences, she looks the same—feels the same—other than maybe the paleness of her face.
‘So you do remember?’ Her expression morphs through shock and mortification to something angry and resolute.
‘I wished to God I didn’t.’ Full of piss and vinegar, the phrase jumps to mind. It’s a pity her voice doesn’t follow through. Because it’s reed thin.
‘Ah, there she is. My little viper.’ Someone choke me—choke the words right out of my fucking throat. I’m hurt, yes. I’ve hurt for months, but if I carry on like this, I’ll blow it for good.
‘I . . .’ Her chest begins to heave, her breaths matching my own. We’re both emotional—fuming—but I’ll take being fucked before I let her go this time. ‘Rory . . .’ To hear her call my name again. ‘Rory, I . . . I’m going to . . . barf.’
She twists in my arms, a stream of vomit raining down and narrowly missing my shoes.
‘Ah, Jesus! Are you pissed?’ I jump well back from the upchuck. Hands braced on her knees, she doesn’t answer, her body suddenly wracked by huge great sobs. I step closer, tentatively laying my palm on her upper back. When she doesn’t stop me, I begin to rub small circles against her shirt when she suddenly stares up at me from under her lashes, and this isn’t as sexy as it sounds. Her eyes are watery, her lashes wet and spiked, but none of this diminishes the glare she’s giving me. Let’s just say, if looks could kill, I’d be feeling more than a mite unwell myself.
‘Yeah, pissed,’ she repeats, still glaring. ‘But not in the way you mean.’ Pushing herself upright, she jerks her shoulders from under my hand, her body swaying like a jakie—like a drunk. Oh, fuck. She looks about to faint.
‘Fin?’ I pull her against me, threading my arm around her waist. I wished to God I could take it all back; press rewind. Begin this encounter all over again. ‘Are you not well? Jesus, you’re burning up.’
‘No . . . shit,’ she manages between small gulps of air.
‘Where the fuck have you been?’ It’s like I can’t help myself, but though my question is harsh and angry, my fingers reach out to curl a loose tendril of her hair. ‘What are you doing here?’
In answer, she plucks apathetically at something pulled across her thighs. An apron?
‘You—you’re never a waitress?’ Why?
Fin barks out a laugh bending forward quickly, beginning to retch again. I rub her back again, more forceful this time, keeping to myself the fact that I’m a sympathetic vomiter. But for the fact that I haven’t eaten since lunch, I think I’d be joining her.
Second round over, she pulls away with less violence, sliding her back against the stucco wall of the house.
‘Please, Rory.’ She tips her head to the darkened sky, her words weary, and understandably, hoarse. ‘Please, just leave me alone.’
‘How can I?’ Fists balled at my side, I step closer, for no other reason than to see her better in the light spilling from the kitchen window. At least, that’s what I tell myself. ‘How can you ask me to go?’ Doesn’t she know how I’ve searched for her?
She holds her arm out as though to ward me off, her trembling hand suddenly—tentatively—cupping my cheek. ‘A jealous boyfriend?’ she asks, her voice wavering in a poor imitation of a laugh.
‘You tell me.’ I smile at the contact, even though it still hurts. Her touch. My cheek. The massive great shiner I’m sporting. ‘This is what your friend calls Scottish hospitality.’ Her gaze clouds with confusion. ‘I think he’s none too fond of my weekend visits. ‘Cos this time I came back with more than a tin of shortbread.’ At least they’re not all hating on me; the old lady gave me a kiss on the cheek and a scone a couple weekends ago.
Her eyes flare, an expression quickly smothered as she exclaims, ‘Nat did this! Why?’
‘I wished to fuck it had been her.’ I scoff. ‘Because the meat head’s got a punishing right hook.’ And I didn’t retaliate. Not this time, at least. It was his one and only shot, as I’d told him . . . once I’d made sure I still had all my teeth. ‘I’ve been there every week since you walked out on me.’ As her hand falls away, I want to grab it. Pull her to me and never let go.
‘I didn’t walk out on you. I left because you already had your hands full.’
‘If only you knew,’ I return bitterly.
‘It seemed there was quite a bit I didn’t know.’
‘Right back at you, titch.’ I can feel
the sneer on my face. Shit, yeah, I’m angry, but not about this—her supposed divorce and widowhood. Not about everything that followed. I’m fucking seething that she ran. Didn’t give me a chance to explain. Didn’t give us a chance.
The fabric of her black shirt rasps against the wall as she straightens, her eyes flashing furiously. ‘You left me in the salon. Told me find you, but I found you with Beth instead. Did you plan it that way?’
‘What? Fuck, no! Did you plan for the reporters to be there?’ I retort.
‘You know I didn’t.’
‘Do I? Only a few hours before you were a widow and I didn’t fucking know about that!’
‘In your own time,’ she almost yells back. ‘That was what you said. Meanwhile, you . . .’ Suddenly she halts, tilts her head and closes her eyes again. ‘But none of this matters. Not now.’
The way her fists are clenched say otherwise. I want to take them, prise them open, and slide them around my waist. But I don’t. She looks so fragile, and yeah, ill, but still so beautiful. The urge to touch her is almost overwhelming. I slide my hands into my pockets, fighting it.
‘I agree. None of it matters.’ The only thing that does is what happens now. ‘So, what have you been up to?’ I ask blandly. Keep calm; keep it casual. Keep her here.
‘Really? You want to do small talk?’
I reply with one savage nod.
‘Working,’ she says, the word expelled in a sigh, like she can’t believe she’s even talking to me. ‘Moving on.’
‘Fuck that.’ I laugh bitterly, because that fucking burns. ‘It’s not what this looks like. No one hides because they’ve moved on.’
‘I wasn’t hiding—’
‘Not true and so fucking wrong! So what if you didn’t know about my visits? You didn’t bother to wait around—to ask me. What about me? What about the truth?’ My voice rises along with my temper, my hands pushing through, what must be now, hair as wild as I feel. As wild as my heart beats. ‘When were you going to tell me you’d let me go?’
‘I never had you, Rory,’ she replies, soft and earnest. ‘And I was never yours.’ Gentle voice, cutting words; they slice through me—through skin and rib bone, piercing my heart.
‘This is about him, then? The bastard husband. The one who, turns out, isn’t dead.’ More’s the pity. I get an odd sense of satisfaction from her shocked expression. ‘Yeah, I watch the news.’
She lowers her gaze, her shoulders doing the opposite. ‘Then I’m surprised you’re even talking to me,’ she says. And again, I want to swallow my words—take her in my arms. ‘All those awful things they said.’
‘Tabloids newspapers print shit all the time,’ I mutter through a clenched jaw.
‘We’re getting divorced,’ she says quietly. And that short sentence feels like a blanket of relief. ‘Kind of ironic, really.’ She raises her head, her smile sad. ‘When you think about it.’
‘Moronic, more like.’ She physically recoils as though kicked. ‘Him, I meant. Because he must be a total fuckwit to have left you, in any form.’ As I step closer, her body withdraws even more. ‘Because I’d never leave you, titch. I haven’t given up.’
‘Please don’t.’ I reach out wiping her single tear with my thumb, almost giving license to those that follow. ‘You don’t know me,’ she says, tears tracking her face. ‘You don’t know the stupid things I’ve done.’
‘We’ve a lifetime to discover what kind of fuck ups we are.’ My knuckles scrape across bare brick as I wrap my arms around her waist. ‘Like I told you in that God-awful café, you’re it for me, whether you like it or not.’
I tilt her head as, through streaming eyes and nose, Fin huffs out some semblance of a laugh. ‘Oh no, please not the patter.’ Her eyes are shining as she lifts her gaze to mine. ‘Lord save me from a smooth talking devil.’
I smile as my stomach unclenches, but before I’ve a chance to answer, the kitchen door swings open, an arc of bright light drawing both our gazes.
‘Ah, shite,’ I hiss out under my breath, because there stands Beth, head to toe in pink, looking like Psycho Barbie’s older sister. The evening edition. And that would be bad enough, but over her shoulder appears another of the bunny-boiler clan. Blonde and posh. Heavy on the sense of entitlement. What was her name again? Selena? Serena? Didn’t she have the same name as a city, or was it something to do with Africa?
‘Savannah?’ Fin says quietly.
‘That was it!’ I exclaim, as the pair at the door gasp, then say my name in unison.
I tighten my grip on Fin’s waist. I might be screwed six ways from Sunday, but I’m not letting her go without a fight. Turning my head from the mental twins, I can’t make out the look on Fin’s lovely face. Her eyes are so blue they shine, though the way she has one eyebrow quirked makes my balls feel a little anxious. I resist stepping out of kneeing range, but her body isn’t actually tense. And is that . . . maybe the ghost of a smile? Hopefully, it’s not the vengeful kind.
‘Friends?’ Her tone is bland, but her question cryptic.
There were definitely benefits in the . . . connection with these two, but hand on heart, we were never friends. I shrug, because only a nutter would repeat what just went through my head.
‘What can I say?’ I shrug. I fucking shrug again! ‘I’m a friendly sort of man.’
‘Yeah,’ she agrees, her gaze slipping absently to the kitchen door and then back again. ‘But tell me, is there anyone at this party you haven’t actually screwed?’
My expression twists as, this time, my mouth runs ahead of my brain.
‘Does the prospective groom count?’
Chapter Forty
Fin
So it’s official. I have flu, or rather I had flu, and truly? I can see how it used to wipe whole populations out. In fact, for a day or so, I’d have happily held hands with the angel of death as a way out. And for a couple days following that, I’d have happily given him Rory, because, man, he’s such a pain!
Man flu-shman flu. I know what it feels like; I had the same!
I do not like being his patient but like being his nurse even less. Yep, fully recovered now, Rory became ill next.
‘Can I get you anything?’ I ask, knocking lightly on the bathroom door.
‘The fucking will to live,’ comes Rory’s mournful response. ‘And some soup. Chicken.’ Despite his complaints, he must be feeling a little better, because he hasn’t eaten in a couple days. ‘And a hot toddy. Not with rum, with whisky.’
‘Is that wise with the medication you’re taking?’
‘What whisky will not cure—’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ I reply, the sound of the shower drowning out the rest; I’ve heard this before. What whisky will not cure, there is no cure for. ‘Bloody Scots.’
I’ve stayed with Rory since that night; the night I fell into his arms and threw up over his shoes. He’d said he’d take me home—once Savannah was done eye-fucking him and once Beth’s store of eye daggers was used—only, when he said home, he apparently meant his. By the time we’d arrived at his apartment—sorry, penthouse—I was in no state to complain. Shivering, feverish, weak with stomach cramps, and a headache that made it hard to see straight.
To his credit, he’s taken very good care of me, even refusing to leave me long enough to go pick up some clothes from my flat. Which means I’m currently wearing a t-shirt I could camp out in and a pair of basketball shorts that look more like culottes.
He’d called a doctor and regulated meds, held my hair while I vomited, even though it made him green himself. He kept me hydrated and held me when I needed to stand and he just . . . held me. For comfort. And I’ll never complain about that.
To begin with, I was too ill to argue. And afterwards, despite my best intentions, I wanted him in the bed, rather than perched on the edge. I can’t help it. It’s like a compulsion. As I began to recover, Rory insisted on telling me about Beth. I hadn’t wanted to hear. No. That’s not true; I needed to know, in a sick sen
se of what if. I human reaction, I think. And quite frankly, I’d needed some convincing, despite the raw anguish of his expression.
He said he knew she was lying that evening. That, given the circumstances he was brought into this world himself, he was always careful. That being rejected by your father is enough to make a man paranoid. That his first condom slip-up in many years of usage was with me.
Some of the other things he said were so outlandish, I didn’t believe him; not at first. Not until he’d showed me just a few from the couple thousand texts she’d sent.
Emails. The gay dating profile. The tracking app on his phone.
She sounds seriously unstable. But now she’s marrying someone else, and that’s a huge relief, to Rory. In his words, she’s someone else’s problem now.
The bathroom door opens, and out he strides. Washboard abs and a torso I’d like to wrap myself around. He looks lots better; a little thinner, still tired and slightly pale, but more like himself.
‘You’re my angel,’ he says, taking the hot drink from my hand. He smells divine; of expensive shower stuff, shaving cream and just Rory. And while he looks sexy in jeans, sophisticated in a suit . . . in pyjamas he looks divine. Navy cotton pants hang from lean hips as he rocks a torso that’s naked but for swirls of ink.
‘You shaved.’ My heart pitter-patters from his proximity, dipping with disappointment as he turns away. He pushes himself up against the padded headboard in a bedroom that would rival that of a five-star hotel, running his hand through his hair, which is shorter these days.
Bringing the drink to his nose, he looks almost blissful as he inhales.
Blissful for about five second, at least.
‘There’s no whisky in this.’
