by Eden Butler
“What do you mean?”
“If you’d been here on time, you’d have realized Quinn is MIA.” I ignore the snap in Autumn’s voice, chalking it up to pre-wedding nerves. Still, she manages to earn my forgiveness with an apologetic smile.
“I don’t know why this surprises you,” Mollie says.
“But they’ve been getting along so well,” Autumn explains. The trip to Atlanta actually had gone well, and Quinn had started watching matches with Declan, Donovan, and the others on the squad. “He didn’t even fuss when Declan asked him to be his best man,” she said, plaintively.
“Really?” Mollie sounds skeptical and I had to agree. That did seem wildly out of character for Quinn.
“Well, I did get the impression that he was annoyed that he was Declan’s second choice, but I can’t see that being a reason to ditch us.”
“No one’s heard from him?” I say, stopping Autumn when she chews on her thumb nail. “Don’t. You’ll mess up your manicure.”
“Do you have any idea where he could be?” she asks, holding my wrist when I swat her thumb out of her mouth.
I look at the clock sighing at the time. “Give me twenty minutes and I’ll be right back.”
“We can’t start without you or Quinn.”
“Yes you can, friend.” When I smile at her, Autumn’s shoulders lower as though I somehow will save the day. “But you better not.”
QUINN HAS ALWAYS disliked Cavanagh, that he’ s made abundantly clear. It is nothing, I assume, like Dublin. He is used to the excitement of a large city, the fast pace and diversity, the buzz of something always going down. Cavanagh is the opposite of all that, so Quinn took to his warehouse, hiding from his brother, from the slow pace of our lives and the natural environment of our surroundings. Shitehole. That’s what he made of our small town. But it was Quinn who hid in near squalor. He was the one who chose to retreat to a run down, dank building and dusty room rather than join his family and the life he could have with us.
Nevertheless, that warehouse had been a haven for us, and it is where I hurriedly drive to retrieve him, to bring him back. I’m sure he’ll be there.
I have no illusions about how he’ll welcome me or if he will at all. I only know that returning to this place and dragging him to the wedding—kicking and screaming if I have to— will calm my best friend and make her wedding day the sweet, simple affair she’s always wanted.
The sidewalk is empty of parked cars and there is little traffic that surrounds the building. I fuss with my dress—a simple, pale purple baby doll number with a understated beaded bust and a tapered skirt —adjusting it as I near the building. But when the mural on the side of the building comes into view, it stops me cold, save for the pounding of my heart in my chest.
He finally finished Rhea’s mural.
It is everything she would have wanted—light and magic, a wonderful cosmic fantasy that seems to breathe like a living creature. The blues and blacks of the backgrounds are lush, the brilliant cluster of stars seems to blink and shine even in the midafternoon light. Rhea is positioned right in the center of the building—the mountains guard and protect the town as Rhea soars from the ground, away from the trees and mountains. She flies into the ether, arms outstretched, hair flowing down her back, cascading against her cape. She is fierce. She is power. She is amazingly free. And below her Quinn and I hold each other, watching her fly away.
Before I realize it, my face grows wet with tears, threatening to mess up my makeup. But as much as I want to just stand and stare at the precious mural, time is wasting, and I hurry into the building, traversing the cluttered lobby and up that massive stair case, listening for any activity, for any movement that might give Quinn away.
There is none. Not in the front room or hallway on the second floor, not in the makeshift bedroom he’s crafted near the back of the room. But all around the small mattress stuffed in a corner, littering on the floor and pinned to the walls, are sketches—hundreds of sketches that paint a picture of the life Quinn has led in the month since Rhea died—or the life he wishes he had.
There is Rhea playing on the pitch with Declan—this version of the Irishman with a kinder, gentler face and a brilliant smile. There is Rhea and Carol sitting on the edge of a long pier, their feet floating in the still water with a brilliant sunset behind them. There is Quinn and Rhea leveling the villainous Death Doctor C, eradicating him and his poisonous needles with karate chops from their fists and fearsome kicks from their feet. Then Rhea, with wings that stretch and seem to flap, that beautiful green and blue fairy with iridescent skin and hair that fans out to touch her wings. She is remarkable, so beautiful, and I can only lay my palm flat below my collarbone to keep my heartbeat even and calm.
Quinn had drawn the world he envisioned. He’d left these characters here, illustrating the life he must have wished for, the one that existed in his mind. Rhea alive and happy. Declan generous, kind, how we saw him all the time, how Quinn had only just discovered his brother to be.
But there, next to the bed in the center in the wall, is a sketch that seems to have been carefully drawn. Time and attention had been paid to each stroke, the barest hint of erased and redrawn lines. The image is more finished than the others, an elegant depiction that staggers me, leaves me breathless.
Of all the things I have seen Quinn draw, nothing, not even that remarkable mural or the treatment he’s given to my sweet cousin’s image, felt as real, as alive, as cared for as this image.
My face. My mouth, my nose, the oval shape of my eyes, even the arch of my brows. Quinn had created me as he saw me. Beautiful. Luminous. Looking at the picture, I take in the smooth lines, the subtle curves. They feel kissed, touched by his hands, fashioned from whatever it was he felt for me and as I study the sketch my heart shudders again with the basic, absolute knowledge that Quinn loves me.
If I know anything, I know that.
Quinn loves me.
It’s in the pout on my lips, the way they look well kissed and full. It’s in the perfection in my imperfections, the scar on my temple that he somehow made to look flattering. It’s in the arch of my cheekbones, how they are pronounced, not dulled by my full cheeks.
With every stroke he promises to love me.
With every line, he shows me what lives in his heart.
The sudden vibration of my phone pulls my attention away from the sketch and the sensation of want, of love and desire that courses through me.
Quinn is here. Get to here asap! Autumn’s text reads and I nod, as though she can see me, not to acknowledge what she says, but to settle in my mind my intention.
I want to claim what’s mine.
THERE HAS NEVER been a more awkward moment in my life. Back straight, stomach twisted in knots, I stand across the aisle as my best friend marries her love. It is sweet, the way they look at each other—attention focuses, eyes never flicking away from each other’s faces—there is real love, real trust and companionship in the looks they give each other. It was a long time coming—years, in fact. So many broken promises that became impossible hopes, that became guarantees that the past had been forgiven, and it all led here, in this moment as Autumn looks up at Declan, as they watch each other surrounded by the small congregation of family and friends.
I don’t think either one of them listen much to what the priest says. Declan stretches his hand, touches her face as though he can’t keep his hands to himself. As though he must touch her, just to see if she’s real.
It’s sweet. It’s enviable.
And then, there’s Quinn.
God help me, I can’t look at him. It’s ridiculous, really. I shouldn’t be acting this way. The man has seen me naked. He’s touched and tasted the most intimate parts of my body. He’s rendered me breathless just with his mouth and fingers. And, damn it all, I love him. If I’m not completely wrong, he loves me too.
So why the hell can I not look at him?
“If there is anyone who objects to this union�
�” the priest’s pointless words pull my attention back to the altar, to the smile illuminating Autumn’s face—and the almost humorous glare Declan sends around the church. His threat isn’t necessary. The only people in this building are friends and family, none of whom want anything more than for Declan and Autumn besottedly bound forever. There’s a vain hope among us that marriage will calm them, possibly take some of the arrogance out of them. Those two think they invented romance and love. It’s a little insulting. And endearing.
“McShane,” Declan whispers, slipping on that ring that has burned a hole in his pocket for two years. Her name comes out like a wish and the big Irishman doesn’t seem able to stop himself from kissing her forehead, from holding her cheek as she slips his ring on his free hand.
And then, the permission for the kiss comes and Declan doesn’t wait, Autumn doesn’t wait, and the couple kiss like their lungs will only fill with the touch of their mouths. All around us, Joe, Mollie, even Ava, claps, smiles and laughs as that kiss lingers. Declan kisses his bride and tears get in the way of my laughter as my best friend hugs me and the couple leave the altar. I hadn’t needed to worry about Quinn walking me down the aisle when I returned from the warehouse. Joe had tugged him bodily to the altar, after making Quinn smooth down his hair and his slightly rumpled shirt. I suspect a long night and lots of whiskey had been the culprit that made Quinn late for his brother’s wedding. But, no, I hadn’t had him forced on me as I walked down the aisle.
But now I do.
His stance is too straight, his look mildly annoyed as we stand side by side and, as though it’s an afterthought, Quinn stiffly extends his arm, offering me his elbow. But there isn’t a hint of amusement in his eyes.
I take his damn elbow anyway just to breath in his cologne. Just to get a private flash of how warm he always is, how his muscles bunch and flex on their own.
Shit.
We stand like this—my arm wrapped in his, our legs touching, my fingers resting on his bicep—while the photographer annoys us with one picture after another. It seems like ages before I can break away, only to have that camera pointed back in my face and Quinn moved directly behind me as the photograph snaps “bridal party” pictures.
“Jaysus, aren’t you done, mate?” Quinn asks the guy, grunting to himself when Autumn glares at him.
“Sayo, you look so pretty in that color,” my best friend offers, beaming like a proud mother as the photographer checks the light and Declan gawks at his new bride, completely under her spell. But Autumn is devious and I know the game she’s playing. Quinn, bless him, has no clue what sort of manipulator his brother just married. “She’s beautiful, right, Quinn?” Autumn asks, stepping next to him and pulling his hand to my hip. “There. Lovely, right?”
“Autumn…”
“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you two look like a couple.”
“Autumn…”
“Is that what we look like?” Quinn asks, sliding his hand over my belly. “Perhaps you’d like an action shot?” And the Quinn twists me around, holding the back of my neck while he dips me. “Play as though you still like me,” he whispers. And then, that smug bastard kisses me slow, taking his time, earning a few whistles from Joe and Vaughn. “See now?” he says, still bending over me with his mouth just inches from mine, before he lets me back up. “I’m not so horrible, am I?”
“You’ll… you’ll do,” I manage.
Before I could give much thought into that kiss or the self-deprecating way Quinn handled me, we are directed away from the church and to McKinney’s for the reception. You know, because what I need is to be surrounded by my friends and my whatever Quinn is under the scrutinizing eyes of my ex-boyfriend-who-recently-kissed-me.
Sure.
No potential issues could arise.
None whatsoever.
AUTUMN WAS A Fraser now. She’d take Declan’s name because she was proud to be his. They had both been dealt some pretty rough blows in their lives, both taking their mother’s maiden names, both had long-reaching daddy issues that made keeping those surnames an easy choice.
There was no doubt that Autumn loved her father, Joe. Anyone who met Joe Brady today, would be hard pressed denying how charming, how generous he is. Sadly, that hadn’t always been the case, hence, Autumn being a McShane for most of her life. And now she was McShane-Fraser. Her children would be as well. But that didn’t seem to matter a bit to Joe, at least not if that proud, wide grin on his face and those watery eyes were any indication.
Joe dances with his daughter, holding her hand between his massive fingers, looking down at her as though he’d had a hand in making perfection and no one could top him.
Sam and his staff at McKinney’s have outdone themselves, working magic with purple streamers and thick swags of mesh netting. There are white fairy lights strewn in every free space, every nook in the ceiling. It reminds me a bit of Autumn’s winter wonderland, and that thought had me smiling, remembering how magical Autumn had made that day, how pleased Carol had been by everyone’s generosity.
“What’s up, then?” Mollie asks, sliding next to me on the free stool, looping her arm in mine. “Aren’t you supposed to be dancing with the best man?”
“Yes, well, he’s disappeared. Again.” Quinn had been scarce during the reception, something that didn’t surprise me.
“That’s a shame really. You look beautiful. Here,” she says, laughing to herself, “you can borrow mine.” Mollie waves over her live-in giant of a boyfriend and the former Marine bowed to us both, his eyes a little red and glassy. “Shit faced yet, Winchester?”
“Ma’am? Me? Indeed not.” His wink came easy and he didn’t bother trying to apologize for the way he wobbled standing there or why he smelled quite a lot like Jamesons.
“Good. Then you can dance with Sayo.” Mollie pushed me toward her boyfriend with a pat to my back. “She’s in need.”
“We live to serve.” Vaughn bowed, worked some sort of ridiculous hand wave and then tugged me off onto the dance floor.
He was at least a foot and a half taller than me so anyone looking at Vaughn’s back would think he was dancing by himself. Ridiculous, but not exactly an unreasonable assumption to make since half the party was shitfaced. While the ceremony had been a simple, private affair, the reception was a debauched, proper Irish party. Between Autumn’s godmother Ava, and Joe, no expense had been spared and damn near the whole of Cavanagh had been invited to celebrate the happy couple.
I was in a sea of loud, laughing, dancing depraved partiers, my folks and siblings among them, not to mention Aunt Carol and a hesitant, awkward Uncle Clay. He’d missed Rhea’s funeral, most of the aftermath of her death, but was making strides, asking for forgiveness I wasn’t sure Carol would give him.
“Never seen so many happy people in all my damn life,” Vaughn says, twirling me around the dancefloor like I weigh less than a feather.
“Any excuse in Cavanagh to party will be used. Guaranteed.”
He says something then, but the room is loud and his laughter is louder, then Vaughn spins me again and I lose hold of his hand, only to be twirled back around by Mollie, who kisses my cheek, then Joe, who hugs me tight, until all the spinning and twirling and bodies and moving this way and that among the loud music, the thick scent of liquor and the grasp of strange, friendly fingers and then, finally, I stop and find myself in Quinn’s arms.
“Oh.”
But he either doesn’t hear me or doesn’t care how awkward I feel. Quinn navigates us away from the crowd, dancing past Autumn and Declan, beyond the reach and ear shot of Mollie and Vaughn until we are next to the end of the bar.
“Thanks,” I say, keeping my eyes on the bar, on the dance floor, anywhere but at Quinn.
“Are you ever going to bloody look at me again? And I don’t mean to glaring at me, or otherwise giving me shite for one thing or another I’ve done.”
“I don’t give you shit.”
“Jaysus, you do so.” Hands in
his hair, Quinn shakes his head, looking around the bar before he steps close to me. “God above, Sayo, you nearly ripped my throat out when that Heather girl was chatting me up.”
“Long damn history, O’Malley,” I say, with a bit of a growl in my voice, and he grins. “You should be thanking me for that one, trust me.”
“Oh I bet you think I should be thanking you for loads of things, don’t you?” Suddenly, he isn’t really joking anymore.
“I never said that.”
“Putting Rhea in my space,” his voice is low, but gentle and doesn’t match the angry frown on his face or the way he backs me away from the crowd. “Making me fall for her, worry over her, grieve her. And you,” he says, reaching for my face, then dropping his hand at his side as if now is not the time nor place. “You invading my head space, making me think thoughts you damn well wouldn’t want me thinking.”
“You got something out of it.”
“Did I now? Did I really?”
Quinn’s hand on my arm is firm but not tight, and I can’t decide if I still love or hate his touch on my bare skin. “You saying you didn’t?” I work my way out of his touch, and watch the room, returning my attention back to Quinn only when no one pays attention to the rise of our voices. “You got what every man wants, didn’t you? You got that a hell of a lot.”
“That what you think?”
“I think you got more than you bargained for. I think you fell in love with that little girl and it hurt you when she… when she died.” When I drop my gaze, blinking fast, Quin moves my chin, but I take a step away from him, needing to say my peace without him distracting me. “I think you did everything you could to make sure she got the treatment she needed and when it still didn’t save her, you got angry. At me, at her folks, at the hospital. And then you shut yourself away from me, from everyone. Because being alone was better than the risk of caring for someone again.”
