Breakaway

by Deirdre Martin

  Erin ignored Sandra’s self-deprecating remark. “Where’s Lucy?”

  “Out with her new boyfriend,” Oona supplied, her eyes still glued to the computer.

  “The last one didn’t last very long, did he?” Erin said to Sandra quietly.

  “And thank God for that.”

  “You like this new one?”

  Sandra looked appalled. “Bite your tongue. He’s a bag o’ bones and his head’s as empty as a pint glass at closing time.”

  “He’s got a silver skull ring,” said Oona, sounding impressed.

  “And you, my love, have big ears,” Sandra reprimanded affectionately, gesturing for Erin to follow her into the boxy kitchen.

  Sandra had never been a great one for cleaning, but in Erin’s estimation, it had gotten worse over the years. It wasn’t that her house was dirty, per se. It was just overwhelmingly untidy and cluttered.

  Erin more than approved of her friend’s smart outfit. Sandra was always moaning on and on about how having the kids wrecked her figure, but it wasn’t true: she looked fantastic, curves in all the right places, her bobbed brown hair gleaming. Erin hadn’t seen her friend turned out like this in a very long time. “You look great.”

  “Thanks,” said Sandra, beaming as she put up the kettle.

  Erin was going to ask who the lucky guy was, but noting that Sandra’s wedding ring was still on, she realized the only person it could be. “You’re not going out with Larry, are you?”

  Sandra’s smile disappeared. “I knew you’d react this way.”

  “What way? Shocked that you’d go out with the man you’re separated from, who calls you every foul name in the book when he’s belted down a few?”

  “We’re trying to patch things up,” Sandra insisted. “Get back the old magic, you know? Rekindle the romance.”

  Erin stared at her. “I love you, San, but you’re an idiot.”

  “He’s the father of my children,” Sandra reminded her, smoothing the front of her dress. “You’ll understand when you have a family of your own some day.”

  “And he takes care of his family so well. You’ve been trying to get out of this poky little place for ages. I don’t see how you’re going to do that when he can’t even hold down a job.”

  “He’s trying. It’s not his fault the country’s in a recession!”

  “I guess that’s true,” Erin reluctantly conceded, even though she thought it likely that Larry’s idea of looking for a job consisted of skimming the want ads while sipping his first beer of the morning.

  “Where is Dapper Dan, if I may be so bold as to ask?”

  “At his brother, Lance’s. He’s been living there the past few weeks, trying to get his act together.” Sandra looked Erin dead in the eye. “And he has.”

  Erin counted on her fingers. “I can’t keep track now: is it the tenth time he’s gotten his act together, or the twentieth?”

  “Shut up, Erin.”

  “At least tell me he’s not going to move back in.”

  Sandra’s response was to rattle two boxes of tea. “Barry’s or Earl Grey?”

  “Barry’s.”

  “So predictable,” Sandra teased. “We’ve not had a good long talk in a few days, you ’n’ me.”

  “I know.”

  “Fill me in, then. How’s Jake?”

  Erin sat down, cradling her head in her hands. “I feel terrible. He’s such a nice bloke. He helped me out so much after Rory kicked me in the teeth. But I just can’t feel anything beyond friendship for him, you know?” Erin looked up at her friend. “What if I’m looking a gift horse in the mouth? What if he’s as good as it gets for me?”

  Sandra sat down at the kitchen table. “He’s not, for the simple reason he wants to live here the rest of his life and you’re gettin’ your degree and you’re outta here, yeah? So it doesn’t really matter.”

  Sandra wet her thumb and rubbed at a smudge of dry jelly on the table. “You know I love Jake to death, but I can’t picture ever having sex with him. Can you?”

  “I’ve never really thought about it,” said Erin, who was trying hard not to think about it now that Sandra had brought it up.

  Sandra glanced furtively toward the living room, then back to Erin. “I know he’s good-looking and that, but I bet he’s the selfish sort who heaves himself on top of you like a great walrus. Then it’s a few pokes and he’s done, rolling off you with a burp and a fart until he falls asleep.”

  “That’s not what you thought he’d be like when we were at school!”

  “That doesn’t count; it was a hundred years ago.”

  “Well, for all we know, he might be great between the sheets.”

  “I bet he’s no Rory Brady,” Sandra said slyly.

  “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “I’m just sayin’ Rory probably ruined you for anyone else. The things you told me—”

  Erin could feel her ears turn red. “Shut up, Sandra.”

  “True love,” said Sandra. “Too bad he turned out to be such a shite.”

  “True love…Isn’t that what you have with Larry?” Erin lobbed back.

  “Yes. But sometimes the flame flickers out for a bit, especially after you have kids. I told you: we’re trying to rekindle the romance.”

  “I hope that means you’re going to burn him alive in bed after he falls asleep,” Erin mumbled.

  “What was that?”

  “Nothing.”

  Sandra looked dubious. “If you say so.”

  Erin took the opportunity to change the subject. “D’you know what I heard?”

  Sandra’s eyes lit up. “What?”

  Now we’re talking. Cut through the everyday dramas and there was nothing better than a good old chin-wag.

  “Grace Finnegan has a boyfriend.”

  Sandra looked appalled. “What? Fintan’s body is barely cold!”

  Erin frowned. “It has been a year, Sandra.”

  “She’s too old to have a boyfriend. She’s sixty-five if she’s a day!”

  “Well, he’s no youngster himself.”

  “Do we know him?”

  “Well, we’ve seen him. I wouldn’t say we know him.”

  “Quit teasing me!” Sandra begged as she hustled to the whistling kettle.

  “It’s Wayne Mallory—you know, the fella who supplies her store with produce?”

  Sandra’s hand flew to her mouth. “Him? Oh, God. The bastard must single-handedly be keeping Viagra in business.”

  They both laughed.

  “I do feel glad for her, though,” Erin continued. “Those last years with Fintan’s cancer must have been hard.”

  “True. Grace deserves a healthy man with a big working willie.”

  Again they were swept away on gales of laughter, same as they’d been doing since they were kids.

  Oona popped her head into the kitchen. “What’s so funny?”

  “Nothing,” said Sandra, swiping her eyes. “Go back inside.”

  Oona opened her mouth to protest, then thought better of it, disappearing with a frown.

  “I have some dirt of my own,” Sandra confided, pouring the boiling water into the teacups. She was just about to dish when the sound of someone leaning on a car horn pierced the house.

  “That’ll be Larry,” Sandra said, all flustered.

  Erin was incredulous. “He’s honking for you? He can’t even come in and escort his own wife out to the car?”

  “He doesn’t want to get the kids all worked up.”

  “Like honking a horn outside the window won’t?”

  “I told you: if he walks in here, it’ll do their heads in.”

  “When did he get a car?”

  “It’s not his. He’s borrowing it off Lance.” Sandra smoothed her skirt, licking her lips nervously. “Do I look all right?”

  “Perfect.” Better than that loser deserves.

  “We—I shouldn’t be too late.”

  “I have to be at the B and B by s
ix in the morning, San. If you’re not home by then, I’ll murther you, as my granddad used to say.”

  “I’ll be home, don’t worry.” She smiled devilishly. “At least I think I will.”

  “Have him wear a condom, please,” Erin requested as Sandra hustled toward her to give her a kiss on the cheek.

  “’Course. Thanks for helping me out in a jam. If Lucy gets in after one, tell her she’s gonna get a mouthful from me.”

  “Will do.”

  Sandra flew out of the kitchen. Erin heard her hurriedly say good-bye to the kids, and then the front door slammed and she was away. Please, God, let her come to her senses one of these days, Erin prayed. She finished her tea, then joined Oona and Larry Jr. in the living room. She had a feeling it was going to be a long night.

  * * *

  Rory took his time sauntering down to the pub. His grandmother was worried about the rest of the town jumping him when he walked in, but that was the furthest thing from his mind, probably because it was so ridiculous. Four of them could try to take him down, and they’d be the ones to wind up in a ditch moaning in pain, not him. Not only that, but any choice words they threw his way would be a piece of piss compared to the trash talk he’d gotten on the ice. He knew he was a shit for dumping Erin. But at the time, he felt cornered. Never in her life had she given him an ultimatum, and it caught him unawares. It was the first time she really pushed him, and he reflexively pushed back. And then it was over, all eight years of it.

  He was on the High Street now. He remembered walking hand in hand down the street with Erin, proud as could be because the brightest, most beautiful girl in town was his, and always would be. He was suffused with tenderness as he pictured Erin’s face: the light splash of freckles across the bridge of her nose that she’d had since she was a child, the long raven black hair, the green eyes flecked with the tiniest bits of gold. He hadn’t thought about what he’d do if she were in the pub, but then again, he didn’t have to. He was Rory Brady. They’d been through thick and thin for eight long years. The force of history was behind them, shared memories that only the two of them knew. He’d win her back. He just had to be patient.

  He’d only been with two women since he and Erin split, neither relationship serious. Not that he didn’t have lots of opportunities. It was unbelievable, the way the women flocked to him just because he was a professional athlete. It was the same with footballers in Ireland. When he was younger, he’d seen guys in pubs who lied through their teeth, saying they were about to be traded to Real Madrid or Man United; the girls were on them faster than crows on roadkill. It had always mystified him—until he made it into the NHL. Now he understood: it was about power and status, with a big, heaping side dish of wealth thrown in. But for all his machismo, meaningless sex had never appealed to him.

  Four years, and nothing in his hometown seemed to have changed. The rhythm of life was slow; there was never anything so important that you couldn’t stop and make a cup of tea. He chuckled; that would never happen in New York. New Yorkers might find it quaint for a minute, but then they’d see it as counterproductive. You can’t do that! You’re wasting time! Valuable time where you could be working and making lots of money! To which Rory thought, How much feckin’ money do people need? He was grateful for his salary, but to him, income wasn’t the yardstick by which he measured his success. He measured it by the fact he’d made it into the NHL. He’d started playing late in life—when his family had moved to the States—and yet he’d done it. And now that he was back in Ballycraig, there was only one other way to measure success: getting Erin back.

  Outside the pub, people were crowding the sidewalk, chatting and enjoying the cool night air, trying to catch a respite from the bodies packed inside like sardines. The pub door was open: obviously Old Jack had yet to spring for AC. Rory remembered how evil hot it could get inside, even in the dead of winter. It had to be sweltering in there right now.

  He casually assessed the knot of people in front of him. Not locals, he could see that right away. Windcheaters, walking shoes, and not one of them with a cig dangling from between their lips. Tourists. Polite, he nodded to them and headed inside.

  No one noticed him at first. Maybe it was because he wasn’t “swanning in,” as his gran said. But then Old Jack clapped eyes on him. One minute the old man was running in ten different directions, filling orders. The next he’d stopped dead, glaring at Rory as if the devil himself had just strolled in for a pint.

  “Jesus H Christ,” Jack bellowed. “If it isn’t the biggest prick in the Western Hemisphere.”

  Tourists turned to look at Rory. Not one appeared to be offended by Jack’s vocabulary; they probably thought it was colorful. Women were indiscreetly checking him out. When Rory ignored them, they went back to chatting with their friends. It was a pity that wasn’t the case with the locals: if hostility could be harnessed as electricity, no one in Ballycraig would have to pay a lighting bill for months.

  He reached the bar. “Hello, Jack.”

  Jack was unsmiling. “You can shove your ‘hello’ up your arse cheeks, Sunny Jim.”

  Nervous laughter rippled around him, but Rory was unruffled.

  “What do you want?” Jack continued, his lips drawn back in a snarl.

  “Pint of Guinness, please.”

  “Not sure I can do that, son. We don’t serve the likes of you here.”

  Jack looked around the pub, hoping everyone saw him as the tough guy he thought he was.

  “I said I’d like a pint of Guinness,” Rory repeated firmly.

  “Yeah? Well I want Angelina Jolie to ride me, but that doesn’t mean it’s gonna happen.”

  Sniggers. Then someone he didn’t recognize addressed him from behind the bar in an American accent.

  “Guinness?”

  “Yeah.”

  The guy nodded curtly and went to pull his beer. It took a second, but then the lightbulb went off above Rory’s head: it was Erin’s cousin, Liam O’Brien. Hanging out at the Wild Hart with the rest of the Blades, he knew all about the O’Brien family on both sides of the Atlantic. This was the son who’d married the McCafferty. Stone-faced, Liam put the pint glass down in front of Rory.

  “Ta. You’re Liam, aren’t you?”

  “Yeah. And you’re Rory, aren’t you? The jerk who blew a hole through my cousin’s life?”

  Rory casually scratched his chin. “That would be me, yeah.”

  “Don’t forget he’s also the one who treated his best buddy like shite,” Teague Daly chimed in.

  Rory couldn’t believe it: Teague Daly, David Shiels, and Fergus Purcell, known as the Holy Trinity, were sitting in exactly the same seats they’d occupied the last time Rory had seen them. As a matter of fact, they were in the same seats where they’d been parking their carcasses since leaving school. It was as if they hadn’t moved in ten years.

  “Oh, yeah, that, too,” said Old Jack disgustedly. “Put the boot in on Jake Fry, one of the best men in town.” His contempt for Rory was now so fervent it was almost comical. “You’re not fit to lick his boots. I can get them Fry brothers on you like that.” He snapped his fingers. “Then where will you be?”

  “I’ll be standing right here, enjoying my pint.”

  “Not if they all came at you at the same time.”

  “Care to make a bet?”

  Old Jack looked like he wanted to reach across the bar and throttle him. The only thing that held him back was the appearance of his wife, Bettina, her perfume announcing her entrance. Rory had forgotten about that: the cloying scent of the Lily of the Valley perfume she doused herself in. She’d packed on quite a bit of weight, too.

  Jack gestured at Rory. “Look who’s here.”

  “Well, you’ve got balls, I’ll say that for you.” Bettina sniffed, her face sour with disapproval as she looked him up and down. “What’re you doing back here?”

  Rory rested his elbows on the bar. “Jackson Bell rang me and said he wanted the football camp to be tip-top
this year. Since I’m the one who founded the camp, he reckoned I’d be a big asset to him in terms of motivating the boys. I’m also helping my gran with some things she can’t take care of on her own.”

  Bettina smirked. “And we’re supposed to buy that line of bullshit, are we? It’s quite obvious why you’re here.”

  Rory took a sip of his pint. “I just told you why I’m here.”

  “Yeah? How about you pay a visit to Jake while you’re here playing handyman? Apologize to him for fucking him over, if you’ll excuse my language.” Bettina cupped her mouth. “Best friends since they were five years old,” she yelled to the pub at large. “But then Mr. Bighead here started playing professional hockey in New York, and all of a sudden, the likes of us aren’t good enough for him. Isn’t that right, Rory?”

  Rory felt a pang of remorse. It was true; he had treated Jake like shit, ending the friendship without any explanation. But at the time, he couldn’t stand the thought of appearing weak to his friend. He hadn’t the guts to say, “Look, I just can’t handle dealing with anyone from Ballycraig right now, okay?” He simply cut him dead right after he broke off with Erin.

  It wasn’t only the fear of looking like some kind of jerk-off that made him ditch Jake; it was the knowledge that Jake would have gotten in his face about what he did. The last thing Rory wanted to deal with was the truth. It was much easier to sever ties and convince himself that being an eligible bachelor and pro hockey player in the greatest city in the world was the life he was supposed to lead, not getting tied down before he’d even hit twenty-five.

  “I will be apologizing to Jake,” Rory replied politely. “Not that it’s any of your business.”

  “I hope he spits on ya and tells ya to go to hell,” said Teague.

  Rory took a step toward his lumpy former schoolmate, and all of a sudden Teague’s bravery fled. “What did you say?”

  “Nothing,” Teague muttered into his beer.

  “Just keep your gums glued, you fat, waxy moron,” said David under his breath.

  He nodded curtly at Rory, who nodded back. He’d always liked David, and could never work out why he palled around with Teague and Fergus.

  “I hate to tell you, Mr. Hockey Superstar, but Jake Fry would sooner kick you in the teeth than be mates with you again,” Bettina informed him. “He might accept your apology, but he’s changed a lot since you decided to come down off your high horse.”