Breakaway

by Deirdre Martin

  Rory looked unfazed, but Erin knew it was just a facade: beneath his unflappable exterior, he was annoyed. Well, that’s what you get. You screwed Jake over, and now he’s going to get his own back, and in public, too.

  Erin took a sip of her second Black Velvet. Maybe the game would go on and on, and they’d wind up calling a tie with no definite winner.

  Sandra was back, bumping her shoulder against Erin’s. “This is getting painful to watch,” she said gleefully.

  “I’m not talking to you, remember?”

  “C’mon, Er.”

  “Seriously.” Erin was still peeved. “I can’t believe you put me in this position. I don’t want either of them and you know that.”

  “It’ll sort itself out,” said Sandra, her catchall phrase to soothe Erin. “Just look around you: people are lovin’ it. I told you they would. Rory Brady brought low.”

  There was something satisfying about it, Erin had to admit. But at the same time, she found herself thinking: too bad his gran isn’t here; at least then he’d have one person in his corner. She had to be getting tipsy, because if she were in her right mind, she’d never feel sorry for him.

  The competitors took a much-needed break. Jake grinned at Erin, giving her a thumbs-up before heading to the bar. Rory was still standing behind the ochre, closing his right eye, then his left. He took a step back. He took two steps back.

  “You’re going to lose,” Erin said, unable to stop herself from puncturing his ego just a tiny bit. “You know that, don’t you?”

  “It’s not over till the fat lady sings.”

  He closed his right eye and extended his right arm in front of him.

  “What are you doing?”

  Trying to figure something out,” he said distractedly. “I think…maybe…”

  “You were standing too close? Too far? Rory, you’re a terrible darts player. Face it.”

  “It’s not over till I say it’s over,” he repeated stubbornly.

  * * *

  Ten minutes later the game resumed.

  “I’ve fortified myself at the bar,” Jake boomed, “so this’ll be quick and painless for you.”

  Rory had the first go. Two steps back, right eye closed, throw. Rory reveled in the chorus of ooh’s as his dart hit the double ring, instantly doubling his score.

  He turned to Jake. “Your go.”

  “Watch and learn, son,” Jake sniffed cockily, downing a shot one of his admirers had bought him.

  He picked up a dart and, without any contemplation at all, hurled the dart at the board. Triple ring. Triple his score. Fuck, thought Rory.

  Jake accepted another congratulatory shot. “Your go.”

  Rory weighed the dart in his hand, then held it properly, stabbing the air with it a few times. One step back, right eye closed, throw.

  Bull’s-eye.

  The atmosphere in the pub became charged. What had seemed a foregone conclusion now looked like it might end up being a real contest. Rory fed off the crowd’s intensity. He kept thinking of what his first coach in juniors told them before big games: will beats skill.

  “Don’t get all puffed up,” Jake warned before he downed the shot.

  “Back at you, mate.”

  Once again, Jake took no measure as he tossed the next dart. Outer ring. Only twenty-five points. “Shit.”

  Rory pressed himself against the ochre, squinting hard.

  “What are you doing, you eejit?” Old Jack snorted.

  Rory didn’t look at him. “Winning.”

  “Don’t count those blessings before they hatch, boyo,” Old Jack replied.

  Rory threw and hit the twenty-five ring right next to the bull’s-eye. Not bad, considering this wasn’t his game.

  “He must have put a curse on Jake when he was in the loo,” Teague said to no one in particular.

  “Could you stop being a moron for just once in your life?” Fergus replied.

  Jake finished off his most recent pint and stepped up to the ochre. The smirk of just a minute before was gone; Rory had him running scared. He studied the board for a few seconds before throwing. Bull’s-eye. The crowd went mad.

  “All yours,” he said to Rory, a wicked gleam in his eyes.

  Two steps back, right eye closed, throw, Rory chanted to himself. His strategy worked again. Triple circle. Triple his numbers. He was breathing down Jake’s neck, hard—and it was glorious.

  “I’m tellin’ ya,” Teague said to Fergus, “he’s got some fecked-up hoodoo goin’ on here.”

  “The only hoodoo that’s gonna be happening here is me willin’ the cricket bat to fly across the room so I can smash your head with it,” Fergus snapped. “Shut. Your. Gob.”

  Rory started picturing what a magnanimous winner he’d be.

  He took a breath. Two steps back. Right eye closed. Throw. He hit a sixteen. Not his best effort, but he was still ahead of his friend.

  “Your go.”

  No sooner had Jake hurled the dart than Bettina began screaming from behind the bar. “Look what you did, you effin’ great idiot! Were you not paying any attention at all? You’ve missed the board completely and hit Vin Diesel square in the right eye! He autographed that picture to me special!”

  There was an awkward silence. Rory couldn’t believe Jake was so far off the mark. Clearly his “fortification” had been useless.

  Old Jack’s expression was chilly as he announced, “You’ve won, Rory.”

  “Yeah, but I didn’t win fair and square, did I? Jake’s a bit off his game right now. It’s not fair to call me the winner when he’s starting to feel poorly.”

  Jake plucked the dart from Vin Diesel’s eye. “You won fair and square.”

  “C’mon, Jake—”

  “No. You take this one, Rory. I’ll take the next one.”

  “Good. I’ll be able to practice in between.”

  “I’m not talkin’ darts, you jerk. I’m talkin’ a whole other contest of my choosing.”

  “Fine with me,” said Rory. “As long as it’s not herding sheep.”

  Rory chanced a glance at Bettina. She still looked beside herself, her expression so distraught it was as if Jake had hit the real Vin Diesel in the peeper. As soon as she disappeared down into the basement, whether to get supplies or weep in private, Old Jack looked at Jake in desperation.

  “You best get her another pic of Vin.”

  “You can’t even see the hole!” Rory pointed out.

  “I know that, you know that, but every time she looks at it now, all she’ll be able to think of is the dart in his pupil.”

  Jake frowned. “Are you shitting me?”

  “I wish I were,” Old Jack said grimly. “But it’s my bollocks on the chopping block if she doesn’t get a new picture.”

  “I’ll get her one,” Rory told Jake. “One of my teammates is pretty tight with him. It won’t be a problem.”

  “I don’t need your help,” Jake snapped.

  Rory was slightly taken aback by his old friend’s vehemence, but he let it slide. “Suit yourself.”

  Jake checked his watch. “I have to be at work in three and a half hours. I’m gonna go.” He patted Rory on the back. “Good game, mate,” he said, reaching out to shake his hand, even though Rory could tell that what he really wanted to do was punch him.

  “Thanks.”

  “Just want to say good-bye to the girls.”

  * * *

  “Hail the conquering hero,” Sandra proclaimed. “You’re really gonna let Rory take this one?”

  “I don’t need his pity. Let him have it. I’ll ground him into dust next time.” He smiled at Erin. “What’d you think?”

  Erin couldn’t hide her disinterest. “It was all right.”

  “Next one’ll be better, I promise. I’ll ring you,” he finished, loud enough for Rory to hear. Watching Jake walk away—with a slight stagger now after so much booze downed so quickly—Erin blew out a sigh of relief. The worst was over, at least for tonight. But of co
urse, she was wrong. Rory was on his way over to take Jake’s place.

  Sandra raised her drink to him, but her expression was cool. “Congrats. One man’s drunkenness is another man’s glory, ay?”

  “You’re right. It wasn’t a real win.”

  Sandra drained her glass. “Still and all, you got what you wanted, didn’t you?”

  “I think we should go,” Erin said with concern. “I don’t want to have to carry you into the house.”

  “You stay,” Sandra replied. “I’ll get a cab.”

  Rory offered her a lift.

  “Oh, that’s right, I forgot. You’re Erin’s chauffeur.”

  “Sandra.” Erin was mortified.

  “I wouldn’t get in a car with you anyway,” Sandra sniffed. She hugged Erin. “I’ll walk. The air will do me good.”

  “You’re not walking home alone. I’ll have David go with you. Teague’ll get lost and Fergus is still nursing his pint.”

  “As if David Shiels would leave them two to escort me!”

  “He’s a good sort, San. He’s not like the other two.”

  “Maybe Liam could take me home,” Sandra said, eyes lighting up. “I’ve never been on the back of a motorcycle before!”

  “He’s nowhere near done for the night,” Erin pointed out.

  Sandra deflated. “True. David Shiels it is, then.” She hugged Erin again before zeroing in on Rory.

  “You hurt her, you die,” Sandra threatened.

  “Too late,” Rory said wearily.

  Sandra waved good-bye to Erin, then made her way to the bar to talk to David, leaving Erin alone with Rory. It just keeps getting worse, Erin thought.

  “Can I get you another Black Velvet?” Rory offered.

  “No, thank you.” Erin paused. “You know Sandra didn’t talk to me about this contest, right? She just charged right in.”

  “You could have said no. But you didn’t.”

  “And your point?”

  Rory leaned in to her slightly. “I think you enjoyed it just a wee bit. It was like Lancelot and King Arthur vying for Guinevere.”

  “Don’t be daft.”

  “I heard you were seeing Jake,” Rory said casually.

  “That’s none of your business.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong.”

  “Stop being so oblique,” Erin said curtly. “It’s plucking on my nerves.”

  Rory looked humbled. “Look, here’s the thing: You don’t have to go to the fair with me. It’s stupid for you to go if you don’t want to.”

  Erin couldn’t believe it: he was trying to get out of it, and it hurt her a bit. “No, a wager is a wager.”

  “I won by default. Jake was drunk. It really shouldn’t count. So if you want to skip it, you’ve every right to.”

  “It’s no problem,” Erin insisted, acting like she was doing him a favor. “Anything I want, I’ll make you buy it for me. Jams, breads, prizes. Anything I want.”

  Rory looked pleased. “Good.”

  “A few ground rules. Number one: don’t try to hold my hand. Number two: if you think we’re strolling around chatting, you’re wrong. I’d like as little conversation with you as possible. Number three: I’ve no intention of wasting my whole afternoon with the likes of you. We’re there for two hours, maximum. Are we clear?”

  “What if I forget and I talk to you? It could happen, you know.”

  “Make sure it doesn’t.”

  “Right,” said Rory, looking like he was having a tough time keeping a straight face. “Guess I’ll be off, then. Pick you up next Saturday around one?”

  “Actually, I’ll meet you at the fair. Say…two at the preserves booth,” Erin answered, trying to sound lackadaisical.

  “Right, then.”

  He strolled out of the pub.

  11

  Erin had always loved fairs. When she was small, there used to be an annual summer fair in Crosshaven featuring all the usual delights: pony rides, fortune tellers, a bouncy castle. Her mother always thought the games of chance were a waste of money, but her dad used to slip her and Brian a few coins to play on the sly.

  Arriving home the night of the darts game, Erin had sat in her room for a long time, trying to sort out her feelings. She was embarrassed by the secret thrill that ran through her as she watched Rory and Jake go at it. At first, Sandra’s offering her up like a prize calf had maddened her. Sandra knew Jake hadn’t a snowball’s chance in hell with her, and the darts contest seemed cruel, giving him false hope where none existed.

  She found Rory’s magnanimity in willing to forfeit the match shocking. That he’d even suggested darts at all was a stunner: he’d never been good at them, ever, at least not compared to Jake. And if there was one thing that drove Rory Brady mad, it was not being good at something. Maybe he had really changed.

  Erin caught a ride to the fair with Mr. Russell. The old man seemed especially excited about seeing one of the fortune tellers, while Erin was looking forward to the fried Mars bars, her favorite junk food.

  She wasn’t surprised when she arrived at the preserves booth to find Rory already there, looking semi-Yank in tight jeans, a striped green and yellow sweater, and white running shoes she’d never seen in Ireland. Christ, he really did look like David Beckham. And he knew it, too.

  Rory grinned as he caught sight of her. Erin resisted the urge to smile back even as memories of fairs past darted through her mind. That was then, this is now, she scolded herself. Two hours, nothing more.

  “Hiya. How was your ride over?” he asked.

  “Fine. You?”

  “Fine.”

  “Great. Well, now that that’s established, what do you want to do?”

  “It’s what you want to do, Erin.”

  “But I’m the prize,” she reminded him acidly. “It’s about what you want.”

  She glanced around the market. It was getting so crowded that soon it would be hard to move. She wouldn’t mind picking up a few jars of jam and some homemade choccies for her mam, but it was silly to get them now and have to carry them around. She’d buy them when they were done at the fair. Sandra’s voice whispered in her ear: Make him pay. Make him pay for everything. Maybe she was foolish, but to Erin, the thought of snapping her fingers and ordering Rory about wasn’t right.

  Allowing him to drive her around was one thing. As he said, it was the least he could do to make her life a bit easier. But telling him he had to foot the bill for everything at the fair was bitchy. And immature.

  “I don’t really want to walk around the market,” she told him.

  “I did a once-round waiting for you. Your cousin Liam and his missus each gave me a champion glare when I walked past, and I heard a couple of spare Fry brothers muttering about ‘putting the boot in.’ I’d forgotten what a charming place this can be for those on the outs.”

  “Let’s just get to the fair and get it over with,” Erin said with a heavy sigh.

  “Oh, yeah, pure torture it’ll be,” Rory teased, “knowing how much you hate fairs and all.”

  Erin gave him a dirty look. “Let’s go.”

  She started walking, jostled by the crowd, but it became clear that it would be easier to forge a path by letting Rory lead. Funny: when someone as big and broad as Rory wanted to get by, space magically opened for him. She’d used to like that. Much to her chagrin, she still did.

  * * *

  One hour down, one to go. They’d gone on the Tilt-A-Whirl, the Gravitron, and the roller coaster. Erin tried to talk to Rory as little as possible, but it was hard, what with them being jammed together into small spaces. “It’s your own fun you’re ruining,” Rory pointed out casually, as they waited on the snaking line to buy a couple of fried Mars bars. “I told you, you didn’t have to honor the bet. But since you did, why not enjoy yourself?”

  Erin was silent. She hated that he was right.

  Rory tapped her on the shoulder, pointing up at the large Ferris wheel. “Remember that time we got stuck at the t
op?”

  “Vaguely,” Erin lied.

  “You wouldn’t look down,” Rory continued undeterred, “and you were completely green around the gills, being trapped that high up. You were holding my hand so tightly I thought you’d crush my bones.” He looked amused. “I know you remember it all, Erin, so don’t pretend you don’t.”

  Erin ducked her head sheepishly. “Right, I do. But at least I’m not the one who stuffed their face with so much cotton candy they got a massive bellyache.”

  “That was because you kept buying it for me and I hadn’t the heart to turn you down.”

  Erin chortled. “Oh, pin your teenage gluttony on me, will you? I don’t think so.”

  “It was your fault when we got in those tiny bumper cars and I couldn’t get out because I was too big for them.”

  Erin smiled wickedly. “I’ve got a picture of that somewhere, you know. Them having to dismantle the ride.”

  “Hanging on to it so you can blackmail me someday, eh?”

  “Believe me, if I wanted to blackmail you, I’ve got loads of other things at my disposal.”

  “So, you haven’t thrown things out,” Rory said softly, going to touch her arm.

  Erin jerked away. What the hell are you doing, strolling down memory lane? You’re not even supposed to be talking to him.

  “No, I don’t throw things away, Rory, unlike you. And memories are sweet, but that’s all they are: memories. I’d appreciate it if we could get back to wrapping this day up.”

  Rory cocked his head appraisingly. “I like this new you, standing your ground and all.”

  “I thought you said I’d become a hard one.”

  “More tough than hard, I’d say now.”

  “Go to hell, Rory. You make it sound like I let you push me all over the map.”

  “You did. And I didn’t even think twice about it. Sorry for that.”

  “Apology accepted.”

  Rory took one bite of his Mars bar and tossed it into the rubbish bin with a disgusted face. “I’ve eaten loads of crap in my day, but that topped the list. How can you eat that?”

  “Ah, what do you know?”

  “Nothing about how your taste in sweets has changed, apparently. What now? Home?”