Irresistibly Undeniable

by Zoey Derrick

  The front door opens, then closes. “Vy, what’s wrong?”

  How can she possibly be clueless about what’s wrong? I point to the roses on the counter.

  “What about them?” Is she really that clueless?

  “Where did they come from?” I snap.

  “They were delivered about an hour ago. What is wrong with you?” Her eyes narrow at me.

  I scowl back at her. “Do you not remember what was on the counter a week ago?”

  She gives me a puzzled look, then it dawns on her. She looks at the roses, stares at them might be a better description, as if she’s joined me in my little moment of déjà vu. “They can’t be from her?” she says as a question, as if she can’t possibly believe it herself. I watch as she starts sifting through the flowers looking for the card. When she finds it, she plucks it off the stick and hands it to me.

  I shake my head. “I haven’t opened last week’s. What makes you think I can open that one?”

  Tears are now streaming down my face, the panic rises once again. I feel the unwelcome snap everyone seemed to think was coming for me. Somehow I managed to hold it together for the last week or so- stepping in and planning the funeral, taking care of all the arrangements and leading the effort of trying to go through mom’s things. It wasn’t until we got to the will reading that we learned the house was free and clear and it was being left to Dusty – my brother – and me. Though that was the only thing I got in the will besides a stupid letter. But I feel it, it’s building inside of me and it’s about to come pouring out of me like nothing I’ve ever felt before. My chest tightens as Becca opens the card.

  Her eyes scrunch up, scrutinizing the card in a way that makes me wonder if it’s really that bad. I watch as she flips it over, then unfolds it. She’s looking at the receipt printed on the back, and then she finally hands me the card. I snatch it from her hand in irritation and my eyes land on the foreign script of the florist who prepared the bouquet.

  Congratulations on your new job, sweetheart. I am so very proud of you. – Love, Mom.

  Before I even finished reading the card, tears are dripping on it, blurring the letters and soaking the card.

  “How?” I choke before Becca scoops me up into her arms and I unleash a flood of tears. Screaming and sobbing in a way I never knew my body was capable of.

  I’ve finally snapped.

  Chapter 6

  Dyson

  “Wish You Were Here” - Pink Floyd

  Ireland McKidd…

  I tap my fingers against my laptop keyboard waiting for Google to do the whole search engine thing.

  I left that conference room with a new determination to find more information about Ireland McKidd, in an effort to prove she’s not the fifteen-year old girl from Joplin, Missouri. But the longer I looked at her sitting in that chair, her eyes and features obviously tear-stained, the more I realized the twenty-something woman in Phoenix, Arizona was in pain.

  Between that meeting and now, I’ve stupidly tried to convince myself she’s not the same girl. It’s just a coincidence.

  I roll my eyes at my own stupidity. Who am I kidding? There is no way. Who names a red-headed, mostly Scottish blooded, all-American girl, Ireland? Lauren McKidd, that’s who.

  I really need some more information on her and I know where to find it, but that folder has been locked away for a long time, no need to dig it out now. The truth is I don’t want to go into that folder and find out that the woman who ran into me today is not my Ireland.

  The information finally loads and a heavy weight lands on my heart.

  The green-eyed tigress is my Ireland.

  It’s a completely futile effort, trying to convince myself otherwise because I knew, deep down, in the darkest, coldest corners of my soul, that it was her the moment I looked into her eyes. The first time I saw those scared green eyes staring at me, she stirred something inside of me that died ten years ago when I walked out of that barn.

  The word Asshole flashes in my mind as I scroll through the most recent search results. I scroll past the initial before my eyes land on Arizona State’s website listing fall graduates and her name is highlighted in the preview box.

  I scroll back up, letting my heart crack for the woman who was in Wellington’s office today.

  The Joplin Globe is the first result to pop up.

  I click the link.

  Local Joplin Woman Killed by Drunk Driver

  Joplin, Missouri

  On Tuesday, while on her way home from work, Lauren Vyolet McKidd was killed in a head-on collision by an oncoming vehicle. The vehicle was being driven by Alex Miller, of Joplin. Miller survived with only minor cuts and bruises but the impact of his vehicle killed Lauren…

  I don’t need to read anymore.

  I hit the back button, then I see Lauren’s obituary printed in the same paper and I read through it until I get to the end where it states that Lauren is survived by her son, Dusty (April) and their unborn child of Chicago, and her daughter Ireland of Phoenix. I can’t read anymore. I close the browser.

  No wonder she was such a mess today. Jesus.

  Something cracks inside me. Something happens that I haven’t felt in a very long time. Dusty was my best friend. We were inseparable. We’d do everything together, which always meant Ireland tagged along with us. It was inevitable what happened between us ten years ago. What I never expected was what I would feel when it was over.

  She was a freshman and I was a junior.

  She was an innocent girl and I was a dickhead with a cock and an itch to be scratched and she certainly did that for me but at an expense far greater than she deserved.

  I pick up my phone and scroll through my contacts, pulling up my mother’s name.

  She answers after a few rings.

  “Dyson, what’s wrong?” I look at the clock and it’s nearly seven here in Phoenix, which means it’s nearly nine in Atlanta and for my mother, it’s late.

  “Sorry, mom, I didn’t think when I called.”

  She yawns on the other end of the line. “It’s okay, what’s up?”

  “Don’t worry about it, sorry I called so late,” I tell her but she stops me before I can hang up.

  “It’s alright, what’s going on?”

  “Did you know about Lauren?”

  I hear her sigh into the phone. “I did.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” My voice is much harsher than I intended it to be.

  “I didn’t know I had to,” she snaps. I deserved that.

  “I’m sorry, I just… do you know anything about Ireland?” I ask before I can stop myself.

  “I just know she moved to Phoenix to go to ASU after high school graduation. I remember Lauren emailing me something about her graduation from ASU, but I don’t remember when that was.”

  “I didn’t know you and Lauren were talking again.” It comes out more statement than question.

  “I wouldn’t call it talking, exactly. I found her on that social media website, thing,” I can’t stop the smile that spreads across my lips at my mother’s description. “We messaged back and forth, became friends, but it was never anything like what it was before we moved.” She pauses a moment. “Come to think of it, I remember her posting something a few months back about Ireland’s graduation and Lauren leaving to visit her daughter. Then it was followed up with something about Ireland staying to find a job.”

  I pinch the bridge of my nose in frustration and anger. Not at anyone but myself. Ireland is going through something no child should have to go through so young. She has no one to turn to besides her brother and maybe some friends. But I doubt any of them really knew Lauren or could sympathize with her. And here I was treating her like complete and total shit. When I saw her crying in the lobby, I should have known something wasn’t right, but I was too stubborn to see it.

  After a beat, I ask my mother, “Did you go?”

  “To the funeral?” she clarifies.

  “Yes.”


  “No, I didn’t. I didn’t feel it was my place to go. I haven’t seen either of the kids since they were teenagers.”

  “Lauren was your friend, I’m sure they would have understood,” I tell her.

  I hear her quiet sob on the other end of the line. “I know,” she sniffs, “But we’d grown so far apart…” She doesn’t say much else beyond that in regards to Lauren or Ireland and my heart cracks a little over the sadness in my mother’s voice.

  If she’s this shaken up about Lauren, I can only begin to imagine how Ireland feels right now.

  “Thanks, mom.”

  She yawns again. “Anytime, you doing okay?”

  “Always,” I tell her and we end our phone call.

  I put my glasses on and decide I need some more information. I call Shelly on her cell phone. My curiosity is getting the better of me.

  She answers on the second ring. “Dyson, you finally decided to take me up on my dinner invitation?”

  I snort into the phone. “No. But I need some more information from you.”

  “Dinner first.” She tries to negotiate with me and I’m not having it. I’m not in the mood.

  “You finished your interviews last week. Why were you interviewing her today?”

  I hear her resolve on the phone, changing our conversation from pleasure to business is enough for her to drop the persistent dinner invitation she keeps throwing at me. She’s not my type and I don’t date women, period, especially if they work for me. I prefer to fuck ‘em and leave ‘em. No strings, less complications and none of the morning after mess.

  “I did,” she answers my question but offers no further information.

  “Then why were you interviewing her today?”

  “I think that’s kind of a personal question, Dyson. Maybe you should ask her yourself.”

  I snort. “No, you can tell me.”

  I hear her sigh into the phone. “She showed up for her interview, on time, early in fact, and she was waiting in reception when she received a phone call from someone. I don’t know for sure who the first phone call came from but then she got a second one and was then on the floor in a total daze. Elle rushed over and took the phone from her. Someone named Dusty, I think, was on the phone.” I let out a slow, painful breath as she finishes, “Her mother had been in an accident. She didn’t make it.”

  “Thank you,” I tell her.

  “She overheard you after she left the conference room today.”

  I hang my head. “I didn’t mean for her to overhear it.”

  “Then maybe you shouldn’t have been spouting a bunch of bullshit,” she snaps back at me. I’m not hearing it, not from her or anyone else, and especially not tonight. “Give her a chance, would ya? If she doesn’t work, you know Wellington will fire her. But she’s had it rough enough this last week, she certainly didn’t need to overhear your hatred for her, just because you ran into her and got coffee spilled all over one of your precious suits.”

  You’re way off base here, sweetheart. “Tell me something. If Wellington hadn’t walked into that interview and hired her on the spot, would you have chosen her over all your other candidates?” I try to keep my question and my tone professional. I don’t need anyone catching on to the fact that this girl is tearing me up inside. Especially someone like Shelly who is notorious for latching on to the slightest hint of something she can use against someone.

  “Yes.” She doesn’t hesitate. “She’s highly ambitious, but unafraid to start at the bottom. Kerrigan at Stauffer gave her a glowing recommendation. When I’d asked Kerrigan about why they hadn’t hired her on after her internship, she said they offered her a position a few days before her mother died. Under the circumstances, they’re waiting for her acceptance or rejection.”

  “So there is a chance that she won’t take Wellington’s offer?”

  Shelly snorts a laugh into the phone. “Hardly. She’d be dumb to turn down this job, unless money is unimportant to her.”

  I already know that’s not true.

  There is a long, awkward pause before I hear Shelly sigh again. “One more thing, Dyson.”

  “What?” I toss my glasses onto my desk and pinch the bridge of my nose again.

  “Apologize to her.”

  “For what?” I snap.

  “For slamming into her downstairs.”

  “Is that what she told you?” I argue.

  “Yes, but don’t deny it. You were in such a damn hurry you clipped the corner and slammed right into her. You owe her an apology, and a new blouse,” she tacks on with a chuckle before she discontinues our call.

  Witch.

  I won’t admit it, but she’s more right than she realizes. I owe her far more than an apology for slamming into her in the lobby today. I owe her for walking out on her ten years ago.

  Chapter 7

  IRELAND

  “Wish You Were Here” - Avril Lavigne

  After more than an hour of sobbing uncontrollably in Becca’s arms, I finally manage to calm down. Becca stuck by me the whole time, playing with my hair, hugging and holding me. She knew it was coming. I’m pretty sure everyone did. Sure, I’ve cried the last week and I’ve cried a lot, but nothing at all like this. I cried until the tears ran out.

  Needing some answers, I asked Becca about what was on the card other than what was written by the florist. She said it was just the date the order was placed. She said it was ordered last week Tuesday, the same day mom died, and probably at the same time she ordered my good luck flowers. I can’t help but wonder what Dusty knows about this so I find my phone and call him. I scroll through, looking for his number and once I find it, I hit the little phone icon.

  I’m still a little jumpy from my crying binge and each time it rings in my ear, I jump.

  “Ireland, what’s wrong?” Dusty answers the phone.

  “She sent me roses.” My voice is shaky and uncertain.

  “What do you mean?” he asks.

  “Mom, she sent me roses.”

  I hear my brother take a deep breath on the other side of the phone. Dusty was the only person I could truly cling to this last week. We’d never been close, but for some reason, I needed him. “Did you know about these?” I ask, and although I’m not sure why, something in his sigh tells me he does.

  “I honestly forgot all about it.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask, desperate for an answer to why my mother was sending me roses from her grave.

  “Last week, I talked to her on Monday. She said she was going to order you flowers for your interview the next day. She said she planned on ordering a second set to be delivered this week, but that she planned on changing the card and delivery date depending on when you heard about the job. She must have set the date for today.”

  I had my answer. It was typical of mom to do things like this. Dusty and I talked for a couple more minutes after that. Mom was always a planner. Though it didn’t take away the haunted feeling I had about them arriving, I found comfort in them as well. She’d planned ahead one final time.

  When we were cleaning out her house in Joplin, we found cards already signed, sealed and labeled in a box. They all had a date where the stamp would go when it was time to send them out. There were birthday cards, Easter, fun little Halloween ones, Christmas Cards and so many others. They weren’t just for me and Dusty, but for her friends and what little family she had. There were also some for Dusty’s unborn child. He and his wife April are expecting their first child in four or five weeks. I brought home my cards. I didn’t open them and I put them in a basket on my desk in my room. I have hope that on those days I will be able to open them and smile at the memory of my mother.

  We all fell apart the day we realized Lauren McKidd, the lover of all children, would never meet her first grandbaby. And then we cried for Dusty’s unborn daughter because she’d never know what a wonderful person our mom was. My anger toward my mother didn’t build until after we buried her and we sat in that stale office while some lawyer n
one of us knew read off our mother’s final wishes.

  Dusty and I hung up after promising that he’d call when April was in labor. I’d told him I wanted to try and come up, but I was going to have to see how the new job was going. He congratulated me on getting the job and wished me luck with starting it. That was pretty typical Dusty and while I had hoped the death of our mom might bring us closer together, I don’t know if I can truly see that happening.

  After I got off of the phone with Dusty, I got the lecture from Becca about how I looked, but I didn’t bother explaining to her what happened, just that I’d spilled coffee all over myself when I accidentally dropped the cup. I was thankful the red blotches on my hand had diminished significantly so to her, my story held true.

  She did her best to convince me to go to our favorite bar, Blu Phoenix, but I told her I wasn’t up to it. She argued, telling me I needed to celebrate the fact I got my dream job. She didn’t seem to understand why I didn’t want to celebrate that accomplishment. I’ve noticed little things like this with Becca since graduation. She gets upset at me over the littlest things, like not wanting to go out. She ended up going out, but came back a little while later, having changed her mind and I promised her a rain check for another night, when random roses from my mother didn’t show up.

  After reading the first card and talking to Dusty, I decided to open the card from the first roses.

  Knock ‘em Dead. – Love, Mom.

  Instead of tears, I smiled. The message was simple, but every bit of who my mother was.

  I curled in bed around nine with a glass of wine, my Kindle and the packet of paperwork HR had given me before leaving the office. I prop up my pillows in the way that makes me most comfortable so I can finish the book I’d started this morning about a stuck-up suit. Not at all like Mr. Cole. Nope, exactly like Mr. Cole.