East Rising (Naive Mistakes #2)

by Rachel Dunning

  "Is that enough for you? Can we eat now? I'll tell you the rest. But not here. Not now." He shook his head, upset that he had to tell me all of that already, before he'd been ready.

  I nodded an agreement, scooped up a forkful of red beans and chewed.

  We ate the rest of our meal in silence.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  -1-

  In all the time I've known Conall, in the states and in the UK, I've seen him cry once.

  Today was not that day. Although it should have been.

  He should have burst a faucet or something. It was only here, today, where I got a glimpse of how much Conall kept inside him, repressed, hidden, buried like an H-Bomb three-hundred miles deep.

  He took me to Hyde Park.

  "She loved it here," he said as we walked past the endless benches with dedications on them for people who had died. They do that in England, you know. Dedicate benches to loved ones who've passed:

  For Jonathan Stone, Friend, Father, Husband: 1932 - 2004

  Or:

  In memory of Catherine Remington. 1956 - 2012

  We walked the cement paths surrounded by dead flowers. It must be quite a sight in the summer, but not today.

  "She was three years my junior, the only girl in the family. She had goldilocks hair and eyes so wide it looked like something out of an anime film. Huge, innocent eyes... I was with her, here, when it happened. Come, I'll show you."

  The sun had come out since. That's the way it goes in England, completely unpredictable. One second warm, the other, filled with black nimbus clouds. The sky was now clear but the wind cut my skin with its chill.

  Despite the lush evergreens and lawns, the park now took on a sinister quality I didn't quite understand. Perhaps it had been the dead rosebushes I'd just seen...

  Conall's words echoed around in my cranium: I was with her, here, when it happened.

  "The worst part about it," he continued, "is that it was senseless. A senseless killing. A random bullet, aimed for nothing at all, and finding, as its target, Vivienne."

  We passed small brass shields, embedded in the ground, with a flower in the middle and the words Diana of Wales Memorial Walk surrounding each one.

  "This was Vivienne's favorite walk. The Princess Diana Walk. She loved Princess Diana. I think all little girls like princesses, don't they?"

  I hadn't really heard him. I mean, I had, but the words only sank in a few moments later. I'd been put in the moment. Where? Where did "it" happen? Were you on this very path? Did she suffer?

  A squirt of bile entered my mouth. I swallowed a lump.

  "Leora?"

  "Um, sorry, sorry... Y — Yes, yes, all little girls like princesses, I think. I mean, I did, at least..."

  My eyes tracked the dead branches. We passed a gazebo. A shadow covered me. The sun had again disappeared. A drop of cold rain fell down the nape of my neck.

  "Here we are," he said. We faced a bench.

  My hand shot up to my mouth. The tears were so sudden that I didn't realize they were coming out until they were at my cheeks. Then I fought them back. I clenched my teeth, fought the sudden pain at my glands under my ears:

  In Memory of Vivienne Williams. Our Diana. Our Princess.

  1992 - 2006

  -2-

  "This is where she died, in this garden here." He pointed behind us, a circular garden without flowers sat there. Its flowerlessness felt appropriate. "The Diana Walk. She and I had been taking it. We took it often. Diana was her heroine.

  "The first shot came from there, the entrance. I turned, a man was running. There were bobbies — cops — behind him. He had a pistol in one hand, a bag in the other. He shouted, 'Get the fuck out of the way!'

  "I grabbed..." Conall tensed his jaw. No tears. No single fucking tear. "I grabbed...my sister." He breathed in deeply, coughed, shook his head, cleared his throat. Then he was composed again. "Sorry, I grabbed her. The guy was running, charging for us. I don't even fucking think he meant to fire the bloody thing. That's the most sick and ironic thing of it all. Because when the gun went off... It all happened so quickly. He was there" — Conall pointed — "then I pushed her, like this." He showed me, pushing my shoulder with both hands lightly. "And then..." He looked around. "Well..." He pointed to the ground, cleared his throat again.

  Surely you need to cry about this, Conall. Surely.

  "The man ran, this way, beyond me. I was so shocked that I... Well, all that blood. I didn't even process it until...until it was too late. The perp ran this way..." He showed me. "...like this. He turned, I turned, I looked at him. He shouted, 'Oh, fuck, bugger! Mate, I'm so sorry.' He looked at his fucking gun, smoking in his hand, dropped the fucking thing. And that's when I finally realized what had happened.

  "I turned to my..."

  Conall bit his fist, breathed in slowly, he turned away from me. I put my hands on his shoulders but he shrugged them forcefully away, put his hand up in a gesture that said, Just give me time. I saw him give another heave. Then he turned back to me.

  Dry eyes. Drier than fucking Death Valley in the middle of a ten-year drought.

  This is not healthy...

  "I turned to my sister, here." He pointed to the ground. "And her body... Her little, fragile body..." His chin trembled. No tears. "...was lying there. She gurgled once. So much blood. So much. It went through...through..." He hit his chest, then pointed at it. I understood it. The bullet had gone through her chest.

  "I, um, I fell...to my knees." He did this now again, in his suit pants, on the cement. Rain started falling harder now, enough to sprinkle his blazer with big blotches of water. "I had blood..." He showed me his coat. "Blood...here...and here."

  Then he stopped talking, made a motion to pick a body up and hold it. I fell to my knees with him. I was in a dress and random pieces of gravel cut into my knees. It felt real.

  Rain slammed down on us now. We may as well have jumped in a lake and just gotten out of it. He held this imaginary body in his arms, real as the downpour when looked at from his own eyes.

  "And then she died, right here, looking at me." He hefted his arms, then dropped them. "I should've had my wits about me. I should've smothered her as soon as I'd heard the first shot. Then the bullet would've hit me and not her. I should've..." He shook his head.

  The water on his face was from the rain. I knew he wasn't crying.

  -3-

  "This is why I hate being all fucking emo," he said. "Because I end up getting wet and probably ruining a very good set of clothes."

  So he was joking now? I held his hand. I understood now. I understood how deep this went. I didn't believe I'd scratched even the surface of it, not a little bit. The rain eased. "Oh, brilliant, how's that for fucking irony?" he said.

  I wanted to tell him he didn't need to joke. I wanted to tell him it was OK to break down, to let go, to show me that he wasn't all tough-guy. I wanted to be that person for him.

  I remembered one of my dad's pep-talks:

  Just hug them, sweetie. Men are, well, we're not as smart as women. We talk with our fists. We're a pretty fuckin stoopid bunch if you ask me. But we're also easy to please. A good hug, a head on the shoulder. Make a man feel like he means something. Like he's strong. Never acknowledge his weaknesses, his vulnerable moments, even when they're in plain sight. That's all a man needs. Never forget that behind every strong man is a babe benching three-hundred. Capisce? But never make him feel weak. That's all the pride a man has: He needs to feel, even if it's not true, that he's protecting his woman, that he's strong. I know, ape-monkey think. But it's true. And if he fails at it, provided his intentions are good, never let him know it. Never. It's the only thing that will ever kill him.

  "Thanks for bringing me here," I said. "I appreciate it." I rubbed his hand, and I left it at that. I didn't push it. I didn't hug him. I didn't tell him it was OK to cry. This was a major step. A mammoth step, for him. I'd be there for him, without making him feel like I was doing it.

&
nbsp; "I think you might need to buy me a new dress," I said.

  He smiled. "And me a new suit! Come, let's get out of here. I hate this fucking place."

  He looked at the bench once more, and we walked away, our clothes sopping wet.

  -4-

  As we put distance between ourselves and that bench, Conall spoke more, as if being there had simply been too close to the wound. But now, he eased up.

  "Leora, I said I hate that place, but I really don't. I've walked that Diana Walk at least a thousand time since...it happened." He cleared his throat. "But I've always done it alone. It's always been my thing to do. It hasn't had that much effect on me before. I thought..." He shook his head, weaved his fingers through his wet hair. "Well, I thought I'd put this all behind me, but, as you can see..."

  "I get it." I squeezed his hand. He squeezed it back, hard, steadying himself, or his mind. "No need to explain."

  We walked, a lot. Eventually, now practically dry, we arrived at a DKNY. "After you," he said.

  I shook my head and pointed to the H&M across the street. He shot an eyebrow up. "You're bloody kidding me, aren't you? I mean, no offense to H&M, but you do know they're a little lower end."

  "Mid-range, not lower end."

  "Come on, I owe you."

  "No, you don't. I told you. I want to make it on my own, at least for a bit. But I promise, I'll pick the most expensive dress they have in there. And maybe some gloves, and a hat."

  He smiled. "Go, go. Pick out what you want, I'll be at Gucci getting myself a suit."

  He tried let go of my hand but I clasped it. "No," I said. "Not today. You're not walking away from me today."

  He squeezed my hand back, confirming that he agreed, and that he understood.

  We bought clothes. Conall splurged on himself, buying the most expensive friggin fast-fashion coat and shirt that he could find. He looked like a runway model.

  I actually ended up just getting a pair of black jeans (not from H&M, Dior jeans), and a tee. OK, two tees. Two designer tees. Fine, and a purse. But that was it!

  We sat at a fast-food fish-and-chips joint in the late afternoon for lunch. Conall looked more relaxed.

  "Did you really get no sleep last night?" I asked.

  He shrugged. "I got a little."

  "What, did you sleep on the frickin boxing mat?"

  He said nothing.

  "You did, didn't you?"

  "Sure, it's comfy."

  My. God. I was gonna have to watch this bad boy.

  "You never did tell me why you're looking so brown."

  He chewed on a French fry. (Excuse me, a chip.) "Well, in the summer, I worked in the garden with my shirt off a lot, so I got a little brown. Then, I liked how it looked, so now I visit the salon in the winter."

  I choked on a French fry.

  "Oh, you think that's funny, do you? It's OK for a woman to take care of herself and get her French wax or American wax and do up her nails and all that crap but when a man gets a tan at a salon then it's, what, gay?"

  "No, I guess not."

  We ate some more. A moment later, it hit me what he'd actually just told me.

  "Wait a minute, you say you worked in the garden with no shirt in the summer. I guess that's when Alex was there, right?"

  "Sure."

  "Oh."

  He smiled: A knowing, mischievous smile.

  "What?" I asked.

  "You're jealous, aren't you?"

  "No, I'm not. It's just, well, I'm sure she was taken aback...I mean, flattered, by the fact you put the entirety of W. H. Auden's Funeral Blues on your back in tribute to her passing."

  "You'd think that, wouldn't you?" He smirked.

  "What!?" I threw a mayonnaise-covered French fry at him which thwacked him right on the ear!

  "Hey!"

  We chewed again in silence. He really was enjoying this torture. Finally, out of the blue, as if he'd only been waiting for the appropriate amount of torment, he said, "I told her it was for you."

  "Huh?"

  "The tattoo. The poem. I told her it was for you. That I got it done for you. You're the only other person who ever knew about it, so, there you go."

  I stopped chewing. "Oh."

  "It is for you. Now it is, at least. Because not being with you made it feel like you were gone forever from my life. And I learned, in those six months, that I cannot imagine being without you. Ever."

  Aw, damn. He was back. We were back!

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  -1-

  Kayla: Do NOT break up with Conall or I will break your kneecaps!

  I texted back:

  Leora: Huh? What's up?

  Kayla: These fucking CLOTHES! WOW! I've NEVER had such a huge wardrobe. U SURE u didn't make a mistake???

  Leora: Nope. They're all for you. Oh, and Dani, of course.

  Kayla: Dani ain't here, sista. U snooze u fuckin lose, dig?

  Leora: Dig. You're so retro...

  Kayla: Wait til I call u daddy-o :) Oh, shit, credit is running low. Chat l8a!

  "Kayla loves you," I told Conall. He was finishing up the last of his meal.

  "What?"

  "She loves you. She wants you to buy her more clothes."

  "Oh, I see... Nope. I tried to think of something funny there, but I couldn't."

  "You lie, I'm sure you thought of making a lewd joke about a threesome or something."

  He blushed.

  "Men."

  "Come, let's get the hell out of London before the tube goes nuts."

  "Wait, what about Alex?"

  Conall stopped, a cloud darkening his face — an internal cloud.

  "It really must have been a lot of work to take care of her when you got her back, right?" I said.

  "You have no idea..."

  "Gimme a sec."

  Leora: Wanna spend the night with Alex?

  Kayla: Ooh, baby... I didn't know she was that way inclined...

  Leora: Do you or don't you? Conall wants me to spend time with him.

  Kayla: Great. I come to the UK and end up being your babysitter so you can get laid.

  I didn't know how to respond.

  Kayla: That was a joke! Oh, I topped up my phone BTW. Can text you all week now!

  Leora: Cool! :) Let's hang out tomorrow.

  Kayla: Fuck that. You need to get LAID!!!!

  I looked over at Conall to make sure he wasn't reading my phone. Kayla certainly had a way about her...

  Kayla: Anyway. Sure, Alex is AWESOME. Really like her. I'll stay the night. No prob.

  Leora: IOU.

  Kayla: No u don't. U know that.

  "Kayla will spend the night with Alex."

  "Really? Wow. Isn't that imposing — ?"

  "No ways. It looks like they're becoming best of friends."

  "Wow. Fantastic. Brilliant."

  "The appropriate word is awesome. If you're going to date an American, you'd better pick up a little bit of the lingo..."

  He then said "awesome," only it sounded all wrong.

  "Never mind, use 'brilliant.'"

  We walked to the tube. "Maybe she won't have to go to Switzerland after all," said Conall. "Does Kayla want to move to England?"

  The statements — both of them — caught me by surprise. Why wouldn't he want Alex to go to Switzerland?

  And why was I fucking worrying about it? Damn it! I was so friggin insecure it made me sick! "Um, dunno, ask her. I mean, ask them both."

  "I shall."

  I chuckled at his use of "shall."

  Slowly, like pieces coming off the Berlin Wall, I was chipping away at understanding this man. It was as if he carried the burdens of everyone he cared about on his chest. And he carried his own burdens on there as well. Then he blamed himself for all the bad things that happened to people he cared about. And he carried that weight on top of it. And when it got too much, he punched things, or he disappeared into a gym and called up a guy who he'd known for, who knows, six or seven years or whatever it was — T
rey — and sparred with him. Only it wasn't sparring. It was full contact.

  "Let me see your cut," I said.

  He frowned. "The cut is fine." He didn't show it to me.

  I squeezed his hand. "I love you, Conall." It just felt like the right thing to say after today.

  "Tonight I will show you how much I love you, Leora." He wrapped his arm around my shoulder. My heart thumped in rhythm to the rattling subway as we rode it.

  I was looking forward to his "showing me" how much he loved me...

  -2-

  We got out at Crawley. "Hey, what about your car? We forgot it in London!"

  "No, we didn't. We'll catch a taxi from here. I wasn't going to sit in traffic for three hours at this time of day. I called someone to bring it over after the traffic has died down."

  "Of course you did."

  When we entered his house he asked me, "Wanna swim?"

  "In this weather?"

  "Yes. The pool is heated. Very heated."

  "Um, sure. But I don't have a swimsuit." His eyes bored into me. "Oh...you want to skinny..." I blushed.

  He smirked. "No, I have a swimsuit for you."

  Oh... I'd hoped for something else. "Oh, OK, sure..."

  "Then again..." He came closer, grazed his fingernails behind my waist, then eased me to the nearest wall. He kissed my neck and I heard myself whimper. "...I might take it off of you in the pool. That's OK, isn't it?"

  I melted. I put my hands around his neck and spread my legs instinctively. But he didn't take advantage.

  In my mind, this was so far beyond only sexual. We'd passed the physical-love milepost so long ago that a piece of me lost all vigor, all strength. I pulled against his neck for stability.

  "I'd love that," I said.

  An unreasoning fear squeezed at my heart, the dead fingers of a dead man in a dead cemetery.

  Conall kissed my neck again. The shivers made my leg twitch. He moved back, and I clutched him.

  "Conall, I'm so afraid. And I don't know why."

  He tightened his arms around me.