by Eden Butler
Each night seemed to build on the one before. Each night, more inhibitions tossed aside, more liberties taken. But on one particularly exuberant night, while they lay in his bed with their bodies exhausted, their hair tangled together and their breathing slowing, Donovan and Layla had done something she never thought would be possible for them. They had a conversation. They lay in bed, calming, breath still overworked and Layla moved her distracted gaze around his room, flippantly wondering why his clothes were put away, why the mess that usually cluttered the floor was suspiciously absent. She hoped he wasn’t making efforts for her.
The conversation wasn’t anything she’d expected and she’d had doubts Donovan would volunteer anything personal, anything remotely private with her, but that had been a particularly rigorous night and the orgasms had been many. Donovan’s sated state must have loosened the tight hold he had on his emotions.
It was his tattoo that started it all. That beautifully inked Irish flag on his left pec and the elegant scrip, all loops and swirls of Never Again underneath it.
“What is this?” she’d said, drawing her fingernails over each letter.
Donovan, eyes closed and breath still panting, grabbed her hand to still her fingers. “Something to remind me not to lose myself. Ever.”
“You mean over a woman?”
One eyelid opened, followed by the next and Donovan had watched Layla’s expression as if he needed to see if she could handle his truth.
“Don’t get anxious,” she finally told him when he’d continued to stare at her. “No promises, remember?”
“I remember. But Layla…”
“You don’t have to tell me.” Tired of his hesitance, she rolled onto her back, telling herself she didn’t really care about the damn tattoo or how distant Donovan always wanted to keep himself. “I was just under the impression that there were no lies between us. Not here anyway.”
“If that’s what you think, then fine, but Layla, you might not wanna hear this.” He’d turned his head, giving her a stare that made her stop thinking of anything but the concern, the worry that had kept the humor from his expression. “It’s not just my secret.”
There had been a million thoughts clustered in her head just then. They were random and ridiculous, but the most constant, the most worrisome was the invented idea that Donovan would unearth some great mystery about someone she cared about. Impossible, devious images of Declan or, God forbid, Donovan and one of her friends had made her stomach twist.
“I was just curious, Donley. It’s not…”
He shook his head, leaned up on his elbow to give her a better look at his ink. She’d let him take her hand, rub her fingertips over the flag, ignoring the quick lick of heat she’d felt when he’d moved her hand in slow, small circles.
“For my blood, yours too, all of ours. For the country who birthed us. I don’t live here because my father pays my way. I could go anywhere and he’d support me. I live here because it’s where my people have lived for a hundred years, same as yours. I live here because I’m proud to be Irish, I’m proud of the mother land, just as proud, maybe more so, than I am of this one. This flag reminds me who I was born to be. Who I’ll be when I die. Erin go Bragh, Layla. It’s who we are, who our people will always be.”
She’d caught the meaning, the importance of it all. She and Donovan, like most of their friends, had been born American, as had their parents and grandparents before them. But Cavanagh was a proud place. It was a town that had not forgotten the struggles of their ancestors or the importance of their traditions. Unlike most foreigner—built settlements in America, Cavanagh had not been diluted by the country, by the lax belief that who America’s citizens were, where they had come from, made up the beautiful melting pot that the country had grown from. To the townsfolk in Cavanagh, that pot was important, but it was not more important than the deep wells of culture and pride and tradition of Ireland. Nothing ever would be. It was like her father always said; they were Americans, sure, but they were Irish first.
But it wasn’t that flag Layla stared at as she nodded her understanding. Her focus was on those words, the ones she knew didn’t have anything to do with ancestral pride. She moved her chin toward his chest, catching Donovan’s gaze. “And the words?”
Sighing, Donovan fell back against the mattress, resting his head on his arms. “You remember that year we went to Mardi Gras? I think I was eighteen and you were almost the same age.”
“Yeah. My cousins in New Orleans have an apartment right on Bourbon Street. Balcony and all. That was the last time our dads spoke.” Mr. Donley and her father had been friends for decades, more like brothers than poker buddies. It had always been an annoying factor for Layla since Donovan had decided at twelve it would be his life’s work to piss her off. That teasing and torture didn’t stop when their families barbequed together or took weekend trips to Georgia. “It wasn’t long after that weekend that Daddy stopped mentioning your dad and we stopped doing much with each other. When he announced we were all going to a ball during carnival and your dad and mom were coming with us, well… I didn’t want to go.”
“Why?” She cocked an eyebrow at him and he laughed. “Because of me?”
“Because the week before you poured mustard into my gym bag when I was in the showers after P.E. I had to walk to the principal’s office in Lost and Found clothes.” Donovan cackled out a laugh and she slapped his chest, not amused by the memory or how funny he’d seemed to find it. “Shut up. God, you’re such an ass.”
“Never denied that.” The laughter stopped just then and Donovan looked up at her, not smiling, raking his fingers through her hair as though another memory had taken apart the humor at her humiliation. “This isn’t about any of that,” he’d said, pointing to the words. “It’s about my father and the stupid shit he did when he was drinking. And, it’s about… Jolie.”
Layla frowned. “Jolie?”
He’d nodded, looked away from her. “Jolie Keller, Layla. Your cousin.”
Layla could only blink at Donovan and that worry of what he’d explain to her came back full throttle. Jolie was her first cousin. She was five years older than Layla and a vain, spoiled girl who always made stupid choices. But Jolie and Donovan? It hadn’t made any sense at all to her. “I don’t…”
“She wore that red mask, remember?” he’d interrupted, eyes closing as he spoke and the softness of his voice, with the way that the edge in his words cooled the longer he’d spoken had Layla sitting up, covering her naked chest with the sheet.
She remembered that ball. Her mask had been purple and Layla had spent the night listening to the hypnotizing sounds of the horns and music below on Bourbon Street. She wanted to stay there, hidden under that mask, pretending to be someone no one knew; desperate to keep back from her parents, her brother, the Donleys all the things that would out her as a simple, boring seventeen year old from Cavanagh.
Donovan had blinked, exhaled slow and when he’d spoken again, that softness covering his words was gone completely. “She was beautiful and smelled like wildflowers. I danced with her for two hours straight, then I kissed her on the balcony of the Royal Sonesta hotel after the ball. I thought I loved her. Stupid, right? Four hours knowing someone and,” Donovan’s fingers snapping had broken the quiet in the room, “just like that, my stupid eighteen year old brain thinks I’m in love.”
“Jolie isn’t… I mean Donovan, I don’t know if she’s capable of loving anyone other than herself.”
“Yeah, that’s information I could have used before I invited her to stay with us for the summer. You remember that, right?”
Layla had shifted back, leaned against the headboard as Donovan angled his neck, watching her movements. Jolie had been there, she remembered that clearly because it was so out of character for her. That girl had never thought much of any place that wasn’t New Orleans. “I remember her being here for a couple of weeks. She told my dad she was staying with some friends in Gatlinburg but I saw he
r on campus and downtown more than once.”
“That’s because she was in my guest house.” Donovan had spoken then with a cool calm, one that she could tell was tense, that hid something he’d struggled to keep to himself. “My mom was on a cruise with her sister and Michael and John were at a soccer tournament in Maine.” Layla frowned, remembering all the vacations Donovan’s twin brothers had missed. The twins had always been too busy for the family. Five years older than Donovan, those two were equally competitive and had left Cavanagh just as soon as they found a college with a great soccer team, miles from their small town.
Donovan nodded as though he was trying to remember what had happened when he was eighteen in the right order. Layla got the feeling he didn’t want to mess this up. “It was just me and Jolie and, I thought, my dad when he could break away from work.”
“God, Donovan did you sleep with my cousin?” The idea had Layla feeling sick. She’d always known Donovan wasn’t innocent. He’d never been remotely quiet about the girls he’d been with; it was one of the things she’d always hated about him—how easily he’d admit to taking someone, how it had always seemed like nothing at all to him. But her own cousin? No.
“Never got the chance.” Donovan stopped, rolled to his elbow to watch her and Layla worried about the look he’d given her. She worried that something worse, something viler than him being with her cousin was about to be revealed. That worry must have been in her expression because Donovan touched her arm, just a brush of his fingertips on her shoulder before he spoke again. “You sure you wanna hear this?”
“I don’t think there is anything you could say that would shock me. I know who you are.” Layla frowned when Donovan moved his hand back, but she didn’t think he’d been offended by her honesty. She’d shrugged, tucking the sheet closer around her body. “I know who Jolie is, who she’s always been. There’s a reason her sister always called her Soily. She dirtied everything she touched.”
“Well, little Soily wasn’t interested in me. She had her eyes on a bigger prize and I was this stupid eighteen year old clueless kid who didn’t think twice about her claiming she had a headache or that she wanted to visit those imaginary friends of hers in Gatlinburg. When she kept leaving the house every night at the same time, claiming that persistent headache, telling me to get some rest, I finally caught on.” Layla didn’t like how easily Donovan shrugged, as though something that clearly wounded him deeply seemed trivial and not worth his anger anymore. “I followed her, went out to the guest house when she thought I was sleeping.” He’d laughed at himself, but Layla didn’t think he’d found anything about that memory funny. “I could hear them moaning and grunting from outside the door.”
“Who?”
Another slow exhale and Donovan’d looked right into Layla’s eyes. “Jolie and my father.” She’d felt her stomach drop and that acid burn of disgust hitting the back of her throat. She’d covered her mouth, unable to stop the shock, the revulsion from moving her features. But Donovan hadn’t countered her reaction. He’d only continued to stare at her, head nodding as though he understood how disgusted she’d grown. “Turns out I wasn’t the Donley she was into. Turns out that Jolie had her eyes set on someone with more money, someone who could give her whatever she wanted and that damn sure wasn’t me.”
“My dad found out, didn’t he?”
Donovan nodded. “After I busted in on them, my dad was so ashamed, felt like such an asshole that he begged me to take her to your folks.” Donovan looked away from her as though he had replayed that night a thousand times. As though he’d replayed it again, just then, with Layla sitting naked in his bed. “Coach wasn’t too happy when I told him what his brother-in-law’s kid had been doing with my dad… with his best friend since high school. I have no idea if he told your mom. He said he didn’t want her to know and I don’t think he’s spoken to my dad since then, not one word since your dad came to our house and beat the shit out of him.”
“What?” Donovan nodded, lifted his eyebrows when Layla again covered her mouth with her hand. She’d seen her father angry often enough. She’d even seen him tussling once or twice with an opposing team’s coach when matches got heated. But Mr. Donley had always been like a brother to her father. They’d been close. They’d known each other all their lives. It seemed unbelievable. “How did I not know this?”
“Because, Layla, this is Cavanagh. Folks are nosy, yes, but secrets… secrets run as deep as the history here. And probably because my dad was so drunk that Coach didn’t get even a scratch from that fight. He just picked my dad up and drove him to rehab, then wiped his hands of him completely.”
“Donovan…”
He’d sat up then, scooting next to her, and took her hand like they were friends, like there actually was something deeper between them. “I’ll admit, that’s probably why I gave you so much shit, why I had to retaliate every damned time. I blamed you for your cousin’s fuck up. It was stupid. I was angry for a long time because Jolie had me so wrapped up.” He’d spoken without looking at her, with his focus on her fingernails, rubbing his thumb over the smooth nail bed of her forefinger. “She got into my head and it took me a long damn time to get her out.” Donovan moved her hand to his chest, an afterthought that may have been a distraction from the barely there shake in his fingers.
“I don’t ever want anyone to do that to me again. I don’t ever want to drop my defenses.” He’d stared at her then, frowning, but more defeated than angry. “I meant what I said when all this started between us.” A quick squeeze of her fingers and then Donovan placed her hand in her lap. “It’s why I don’t make promises.”
Layla hadn’t wanted to think about promises and emotion. The conversation she and Donovan shared had been the closest they had ever come to real honesty and it scared her. But she wasn’t callous. Deep down she knew, she wasn’t so closed off that being with him had been totally emotionless. She’d worried about him then. She’d worried about how he’d recovered from something so heart aching, especially when she considered the aftermath of it all.
“What… what about you and your dad? Are things…”
“He’s sober. He laid all his skeletons out on the table while he was in rehab.” Donovan worried the sheet covering his lap, playing with a frayed thread rather than look at her. “My brothers, my mom, they all forgave him.”
“You didn’t?”
Finally he’d smiled, grinning at her as though whatever he thought of himself was unassuming and routine. “I’m not as well adjusted and mature as they are and something like that, shit, Layla, it runs long and deep. I at least don’t hate him anymore. I know he was lost, but I know everything he offers me, what he gives me, it’s all out of guilt.”
The aftermath had resurfaced in her mind and Layla thought about the muted conversations she’d overheard her parents have anytime Jolie’s name was mentioned. It made sense now. “He… is he the one… I mean, the baby…”
Donovan nodded and his lip started to curl, but Layla covered his mouth with her fingers, wanting to stop his anger before it came. He’d moved her hand away and kissed her palm, calmer then. “I’ve got a six year old little sister somewhere out in the world that I’ll probably never meet. A little sister that my father had with the girl I thought I loved.” Then, just like that, as if the memory, the pain moved out of his body when he lay back against the mattress and scrubbed his face, Donovan had smiled through his sigh, shaking his head one last time. “Damn. This is too heavy a conversation to have while we’re naked. You… you’ll probably want to go now.”
“Hey,” she’d said, moving down next to him. “I’m not her. I’m nothing like her and I told you. I don’t want any promises. Not from you. Not from anyone.”
Something caught in his eyes then, something that had him blinking, considering her in a way that had told Layla he was holding back, maybe trying to sort out what her words meant, if they’d meant anything at all to him. But Donovan hadn’t professed anything. He
hadn’t argued with her or told her he wanted any promises at all. Instead, he’d rested his hand on her hip and squeezed her once. “Come here then.”
And she’d stayed with Donovan that night. She’d stayed with him and tried to forget it was her cousin, her blood, that had likely made him the way he was. Layla hadn’t left until the next morning and when she did, she’d kissed him, something quick, something brief, but still a gesture that had Donovan tensing when she moved away from the bed.
Just like that, that openness he’d given her the night before, that honesty and gentleness, left the room and made Layla retreat faster than any other time she’d left his apartment.
“Let’s not do that anymore, okay?” She’d frowned when he wiped his mouth dry, like he hadn’t wanted to taste of her goodbye on his lips. “That kiss goodbye. I don’t want that from you.”
She hadn’t gone back the next night, texting Donovan with a message about the holiday and spending time with her family, but now it was Thanksgiving and she had run out of excuses. It had started out as a low-key, relaxing holiday. During the day, at least. A ridiculously, carb-loaded Thanksgiving feast with her parents, teasing Ethan about his new girlfriend, Clara, who, much to their father’s dismay, preferred American football to rugby. Clara, though, the poor thing, wasn’t from Cavanagh and likely had no idea what madness she had walked into when her father kept the repeat of the All Blacks streamed loud and plugged into their flat screen. That evening, Layla joined her friends, and Donovan—who she stoutly refused to consider as anything but a shag buddy, especially after his little ambush in the cafeteria a few weeks before—at Joe’s house. It promised to be a nice dinner until, of course, Donovan sat next to her.
He sat too close.
He smelled divine, masculine, delicious.
He made sure to spread his legs under the table so that his warm, muscular thigh touched against Layla.
