“Answered what?”
“The question, Gavin. The question.”
Gavin knew what Ian’s question was without having to ask. It was the question their mother had never been able to properly answer: Why? Why did you leave your children? Why did you leave your family? And Gavin knew what Ian was feeling. He knew the aching sadness, the despair, the howling disappointment that this reunion with their mother offered. It was exactly how he had felt upon his own first meeting with Bernadette.
“It’s okay,” Gavin told him. He squeezed his shoulder, then patted him a few times. He couldn’t remember the last time he touched his brother. Well, except for the time when he punched him in the face over his lack of remorse for the Vanity Fair article.
“It’s not okay,” Ian said. “She’s a miserable bitch who doesn’t even have the decency to fucking apologize for what—”
Gavin pulled Ian into a tight hug before he knew what he was doing. It just seemed right. His brother who had always pretended to not feel anything over their mother walking away was finally feeling it all, and it was too much for him to handle all at once. At least Gavin had felt the torment and funneled it into his art over the years. Ian had no way to vent all that.
“Get off of me,” Ian said, struggling.
But Gavin held him tightly and spoke into his ear. “Listen,” Gavin said, “I know this is a bullshit situation. I know. It’s entirely fucked up to get to this point after all these years and realize that nothing will ever be made up for. To find the person that was supposed to love and take care of you and realize she’s got nothing to give. Not even regret. Or at least, not the kind of regret you deserve. You’re not alone in this.”
Ian stood completely still for a long moment and Gavin worried he was gearing up to head-butt him to get out of the vice grip he was under. But instead, Ian started to convulse with silent cries. Still Gavin held him. And when Ian lost stability in his legs and started to falter, Gavin went with him to his knees and kept holding him.
As this was happening, Bernadette incongruously decided tea was just the thing. She puttered about in the kitchen, opening and closing cabinets as she set up a tray with teacups, a small milk pitcher, and bottle of whiskey for the splash she invariably added to her own tea.
Later, when Ian had spent his built-up years of emotion, and his hand was bandaged, he told Gavin with a weak smile, “You better not fucking write a song about this.”
Gavin smiled. Rogue had been built on Gavin’s confessional songwriting. He knew no other way of making music. “You know I will.”
“Yeah, I know you bloody will,” Ian said with a sigh. “This doesn’t mean I all of a sudden like you.”
“Well, it sure as fuck doesn’t mean I like you either,” Gavin replied with a wink.
What it did mean, Gavin knew, was that they finally, after nearly a lifetime, had a chance to share their grief together. The catharsis they would get from their mother being in their lives again wouldn’t be from her. It would only come from each other. And that would have to be enough.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The sky was the fleeting shade of pale blue that made it hard to decipher whether it was dawn or dusk. At least for Martin it was hard. He’d fallen asleep as soon as he closed his eyes and slept hard and dreamless. He yawned and rubbed his face and eyes with both hands.
Turning on his side, he reached for his cell phone and saw it was almost eight o’clock at night. He also had dozens of new notifications. With a sigh, he collapsed back onto the pillows and closed his eyes. What a nightmare. A nightmare of his own creation, of course, but a nightmare nonetheless.
He didn’t have any idea where he went from here. The only thing he knew was that he had walked away from his marriage, and by extension, from his kids. God, he missed those boys. What was the immediate future supposed to look like? Especially with being all the way in the States. He had just compounded his fuckups several times over.
Sitting up quickly, he dialed Celia. It would be four in the morning there, but he didn’t stop to consider that. The line rang five times without answer before clicking over to the recorded message. It was Donal’s voice first. He was always keen to be the man of the house. As was the natural order of things, Colm forced his way into the action, and Sean could be heard whining about having his chance before they were all cut off with the beep.
“Hi lads, it’s your Da,” he said. “Just wanted to be the first to tell you good morning. And that I miss you. I’ll ring you again later. Don’t be giving your Ma any hassle while I’m away. Love and kisses, yeah?”
He disconnected the call and immediately dialed Celia’s cell. It’s the number he should have tried first. Somehow he’d gravitated toward the main house line instead. Probably out of fear of her actually answering.
Which is what she did after two rings. But she said nothing.
“Cee?” He waited but still she was mute, though he could hear her breathing. “I know what you must think,” he continued, hunching over his knees and closing his eyes tightly. “I deserve it and more. I’m sorry, babe. I’m so sorry. It was all a weird thing that got out of hand and the tabloids are just stretching the truth as usual. This park ranger that caught me looking round the cabins there, well, he’s one of those Rogue haters. He couldn’t stop going on about ‘Thoughts and Prayers’ like he was just looking for an excuse to hurt the band. Hurt me.” He paused and could hear a catch in her breath. There was nothing good that could come from admitting he’d been complicit in this scandal. It seemed at least slightly plausible that she’d believe the papers were exaggerating things. “Oh, please talk to me. Call me names, curse me, but say something.” Still, she wouldn’t say a word. “I miss you and the boys. Maybe, em, maybe after a little time passes I can come back—”
“No.”
Celia’s voice was flat, devoid of emotion. She said no more, choosing instead to end the call.
“Fuck’s sake,” Martin groaned. He tossed his phone onto the bed and held his head in his hands.
The rumbling of his stomach finally got him to his feet. Martin opened his bedroom door and saw lights down the long hallway and smelled food. As he approached the kitchen, conversation quieted and then stopped.
He did his best sheepish smile and greeted Jessica with a kiss on the cheek.
“How are you, Marty?” she asked, and he was grateful for the kindness in her voice.
“I’ve been better, but thanks for asking.” He couldn’t claim to know Jessica well. She and Shay were a low-key couple, keeping to themselves for the most part. But she had always seemed genuine and sweet. And, despite the fact that she was the reason Shay had left Ireland to live here in the States, Martin liked her.
“Hungry?” Shay asked and gestured to the kitchen island. It was littered with Chinese takeout boxes.
“Starved.”
The three of them ate in silence, no one daring to bring up the elephant in the room. The Egg Foo Young, Mongolian Beef, Szechuan Chicken, Shrimp Fried Rice, and Chow Fun were just what Martin needed to wake up and re-fuel. Fortune cookies were all that was left once the food was gone.
“This ought to be good,” Martin said with a laugh. He had always found the message in these sweet yet bland cookies to be prescient. It would be especially interesting to see what it foretold today. He tossed Shay and Jessica a plastic-wrapped cookie each. “Let’s hear yours first.”
Shay inclined his head in deference to Jessica starting things off. Martin watched her as she unwrapped the cookie and took her time cracking it open. She popped half of it into her mouth and crunched on it as she looked at the little white slip of paper. Thin, but with strong, defined muscles and a long, elegant neck, she had the prototypical dancer’s body—except, that is, for her generous, curvy backside and mocha-colored skin. Her dark eyes lit up and she smiled in response to the fortune.
“It says, ‘A smile is your passport into the hearts of others,’” she said.
“It’s t
he smile and the dimples,” Shay told her.
Jessica’s smile widened, and she leaned over to kiss Shay quickly. “What’s yours say, babe?”
Shay had his fortune ready. “These things are crap, yeah?”
“Oh, that means it’s good. Let’s have it,” Martin said.
“Nah, it’s the opposite of good. It’s trite. ‘You have an appreciation for art and music.’”
They all groaned.
“Okay, let me see about mine,” Martin said. He crushed the cookie and retrieved the slip of paper. It took a few seconds for the words to settle in, but when they did, Martin let out a weary laugh and shook his head. “It says, ‘Don’t mistake temptation for opportunity.’”
Silence overtook the room for a solid thirty seconds.
Finally, Shay said, “What’d I say? Total crap.”
Martin appreciated the attempt to dismiss the awkward moment. And when Jessica cleared away the debris of their dinner and deftly excused herself for the night, he was even more at ease. Shay replenished the Racer 5 IPA beers they had been drinking and they sat together for several minutes in silence.
“I don’t know where I go from here,” Martin confessed.
“No need to go anywhere. You’re welcome to stay.”
“You know what I mean, man.”
“Well, what do you want?”
It was such a simple question. Basic. What did he want? A few months ago, the answer was easy: play with his band and spend time with his family. He was content with the routine of his life. Until he realized how routine it was. How limited it was. How flavorless his marriage had become. He had taken a backseat in the direction of his life. But that was no longer okay. He wanted control and excitement and intense experiences.
At the same time as he understood these new impulses, he knew they came off as a midlife crisis, just as Celia suggested. Like he was just another man who grew bored with his life and was looking for a thrill—at the expense of his wife and family, no less.
“That is a question I can’t really answer,” Martin finally said. “I just know I want some freedom to explore things.”
“Ashley part of that?”
“Not anymore.”
Shay looked surprised. “One and done, then?”
“It’s complicated, man. But basically, yeah. I wasn’t after falling in love with her. I was . . . interested, for sure. She—as clichéd as it is—she opened my eyes to things I hadn’t allowed myself to want or need in a long, long time.”
“And so now you are a free man, aren’t you?” Shay asked. “You came here from Celia kicking you out and made that a permanent situation with this whole thing in the papers.”
Martin winced. “I never thought that would happen. It’ll kill Celia. And you’re right, she’ll never have me back after this.”
“Do you want to be back?”
That was still the question he couldn’t honestly answer for himself, so he didn’t attempt to now for Shay. He just held up his hands in exasperation.
“That’s something, isn’t it? That tells you a lot.”
“How so?” Martin asked with a scoff. But he knew Shay must have a valid point. That was the thing about Shay—he didn’t always have a lot to say, but when he did, it was almost always something insightful.
“You’d be beating down her door if that’s where you wanted to be, Marty. You said yourself, this isn’t about Ashley. Maybe you already know you’re done with your marriage.”
Hearing Shay say that out loud took his breath away. So much so that he rested his forearms on the dining room table and hung his head. He hung his head out of shame and guilt and failure. Because at this moment, he knew he had failed at his marriage. And yet, even with knowing that, he didn’t feel the urge to make it right or fight for it. It was over.
PART TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
The days slipped by in a haze as Martin hid away in Shay’s house. He was depressed and confused and sad. Though he’d spoken to his boys several times, Celia refused any real conversation. He wanted to apologize to her. Not just for the scandal that was keeping paparazzi trailing after her at the shops and to church, but for the fact that he felt certain that they were over. She wouldn’t allow that, however, cutting him off whenever he spoke to her about anything other than their kids. The fact that she wouldn’t yet consent to him establishing some sort of visitation was what brought him to his lowest point. He had been away from his kids at long stretches before because of touring. But there was always an end date to those absences. Living like this, not knowing exactly when he’d get to see the boys again was heartbreaking. What was worse was the helplessness of not knowing how to fix the situation.
He spent his days sleeping and his nights watching TV. Shay and Jessica tiptoed around, giving him space. But after the sixth day, Shay roused Martin early in the morning with a threat: either he went sailing with Shay or he went back home to Dublin. The choice was an easy one.
The sun fought the clouds for dominance, creating patchy light that turned the sea gray-green. Martin watched as Shay and Ben, one of the crew, worked the winches together to raise the sails. They went through well-rehearsed procedures to get the 32-foot racing yacht moving, and Martin found the steady operation and the resulting smooth cutting of the hull through the water comforting. It lulled him into an almost hypnotic calm, even as he replayed in his head the last conversation he had had with Donal. His son had sorted out that the band was not, in fact, on tour and wanted to know what was going on. Martin had scrambled for an answer, which in itself was telling, so he settled on some version of the truth.
“I’m staying with your Uncle Shay for a bit.”
“Because of what they say in the papers? That Ma won’t have you now?”
“Em, no, Donal. I mean, it’s complicated like,” he stammered. “I can’t really go into it.”
Then Donal said something that surprised Martin for its maturity and simple truth. “Yeah, I know, Da. I know you don’t want to talk about it. But you’re my Da and you always will be. No matter what. So come home.”
“I will, son. Soon,” he’d promised. It brought the reality of what he was doing to his family crashing down around him. Maybe he should just try to make amends with Celia. If it would keep his family intact, he could go back to living the way he was before, even if it meant suppressing the freedom he yearned for. Wouldn’t it be worth it, if his kids could be happy?
Martin was forced to snap out of his maudlin thoughts and grab onto the chrome railing when the boat began to keel sharply. With Shay playing a pivotal role, the crew had steered the world-class sailboat toward the rougher waters near the Golden Gate Bridge. They were showing off what the vessel could do, letting the sails dip toward the water as it raced along at fourteen knots. It was thrilling.
Now Martin understood Shay’s new obsession. It forced you to be in the moment, to just be. Everything else fell away, and Martin allowed himself to enjoy this magnificent experience.
By the time they were done for the day and walking back toward Shay’s house, Martin had a plan for what he would do next. Being out on the water had been exactly what he needed to clear his mind and set his priorities. He would go home to Dublin and work out a custody agreement with Celia. As a father, he had rights and he wouldn’t back down from that, no matter how much he had been in the wrong with what had happened with Ashley.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Martin’s return to Dublin came with a paparazzi welcome. Press followed him through the airport and he kept his sunglasses on as he pushed his way through. Their shouted question went unheard as he focused on getting away from them.
It was only when he arrived home to an empty house that he recalled their question asking why he was there when his family had just the day before departed for France.
With a sinking feeling, Martin realized he had completely forgotten their annual trip. Celia had taken the boys without him. She hadn’t even reminded him. How was
that for hypocrisy? She had berated him for taking Donal to London and now she had taken all their kids to France.
He wanted to punch something. But instead, he called Celia’s cell and was surprised when she answered.
“I’m just here at the house,” he said. “Why didn’t you say you were taking the kids on holiday?”
“I didn’t think I needed to remind you of our plans.”
“So, I should come? I’ll join you, will I?”
“No, I didn’t say that. Martin, I don’t want to see you.”
This declaration didn’t faze him. He hadn’t expected her to say anything different, and he wasn’t inclined to persuade her to change her mind. His return home wasn’t about reconciling with her. It was about the kids and establishing a visitation arrangement.
“Fine,” he said. “I understand you’re angry, I do. But I want to see my kids. I have that right.”
“We’ll be back in a month’s time, just like every year.”
“I can’t wait that long, Celia. I miss them. Let me come there, at least for a few days.”
There was a long silence on the line while she considered his request. “I think it’s better if you use this time away to do some soul-searching about what you want and who you want to be. Should be right up your alley, now that you’ve become the tattooed philosopher, yeah?”
In this comment Martin saw his future whether he stayed with Celia or they divorced: a lifetime of condescending, snide comments. He had no patience for it. Not anymore.
“I will. And maybe you can use the time to think of a custody arrangement that’ll work.”
“Custody—”
“I’ll find a place nearby. That should make it easier. ‘Cause I want at least fifty-fifty.”
That silenced her. He imagined she thought he was going to spend a lot of time and energy trying to win her back. She probably savored the idea of making him suffer while drawing out his efforts. Now she would have no such satisfaction.
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