by Penny Reid
She trailed after me, and when we reached her front door, I opened it and turned back to look at her. Her hair was wild, her lips pink and raw, and her dress all twisted and wrinkled, though she’d tried to smooth it.
She was perfect.
Just . . . perfect.
Why did I have to be so bloody mature these days?
But I knew why.
I knew building something lasting with Eilish was only going to happen if I wasn’t greedy. Didn’t push. Let her dictate the pace. Our eyes locked for who knew how long, as though searching for answers neither one of us was ready to give.
“I’ll see you tomorrow.” I nodded once, making a promise.
She dropped her eyes to the floor. “Sure, sounds good.”
“Hey,” I said and reached out to touch her cheek one last time. “Are we okay, Eilish?”
Those intense eyes looked deep into me, cut me right to the core. I’d never get over them, not in a million years. I wasn’t sure how to read her, but I hoped to God she wouldn’t back down from her want. She wants me.
I won’t mess this up. I can’t mess this up.
“Yes, we’re okay, Bryan. You’re right. You need to go.”
Relief. Sweet, sweet relief. I hadn’t messed things up.
I leaned down, pressed a swift parting kiss to her lips, and then I left. Begrudgingly. Every part of me wanted to stay and do naughty things to my nice girl.
* * *
“I brought dinner,” I called out with a smile as I let myself into Mam’s house, a bag of Indian takeaway under my arm.
There was movement from the living room and my mother shuffled out to meet me, effectively throwing a bucket of cold water over my already dodgy mood.
“Bryan. That smells delicious. Come in, come in,” she croaked, gesturing down the hall to the kitchen.
After my sweet encounter with Eilish last night, I’d been feeling pretty good about life in general. As I went to sleep, I replayed every moment, remembering her moans, how she felt, how she responded to my touch. Kissing her was divine. Tasting her would have been even better.
But then, when I’d arrived at her apartment today to visit with Patrick, she’d been nowhere in sight. Sean greeted me at the door, but said nothing about Eilish’s whereabouts. She hadn’t returned by the time I left.
And now this.
I followed my mother, taking in her appearance. Her hair looked like it hadn’t seen a brush in days, and she wore a housecoat over what I was sure was a nightie. She also reeked of booze. Stale booze. It seeped from her pores.
Most of the time she was a functioning drinker, but every once in a while she had periods like this where she barely left the house. My chest bloody ached for her, because I’d been there. She’d taught me how, after all. The only difference was I’d had the strength to change. She didn’t.
I hated when she got like this, but at the same time there was a flicker of anger in me. Some days I just wished she’d get her shit together and be a grown-up. Act right. Let me focus on myself for a while instead of constantly worrying about how she was doing.
I’d come to tell her about Patrick, now I wasn’t sure. I’d planned to discuss it with Eilish, but couldn’t as she’d made herself scarce. My mother didn’t look ready to hear I had a kid, that she had a grandchild.
“You unpack the food while I grab some plates.” She turned to search in the cupboard. I knew just by looking at the place that all the dishes were dirty. The sink was piled high.
Mam blew out an irritable breath when she discovered this fact, turning and casting me a sheepish look. “I-uh-I’ve been under the weather,” she lied. “Maybe we could just eat out of the containers?”
I stared at her. Stared and stared. She was a mess. I knew this. I couldn’t change her, I knew that, too. But damn if I didn’t want to shake some sense into her, yell at her, threaten her until she agreed to change.
Instead, I clenched my jaw. “Go take a shower and I’ll do the dishes, then we’ll eat.”
“Pffft,” she huffed, waving me away. “I’ll shower later. Let’s eat now.”
She made a grab for the bag. I tugged it away. “We’re not eating until you’ve washed and put on some fresh clothes. Actual clothes, Mam, not pajamas.”
Her lip quivered and I instantly felt a twinge of guilt. Since going sober, sometimes I was too hard with people. But being too soft, too easygoing, was what got us here in the first place. Maybe if I hadn’t coddled her all these years she wouldn’t be so comfortable living like this.
Her expression hardened and she folded her arms over her chest. “If you came here just to boss me around you can leave. I’ve had a rough week and I don’t need this right now.”
“How?”
Her brow crinkled. “How what?”
I leaned both hands on the counter. “How have you had a rough week?”
She glanced away, her lip quivering slightly. “Your father got engaged.”
My eyes widened. “He did?”
She nodded, her throat bobbing as she swallowed. “To some little twenty-five-year-old hussy.”
I sighed and then dropped onto a stool. This wasn’t the first time my dad had remarried. In fact, if I was counting correctly, this would be his fourth wife. Mam was his first, but he left when I was a toddler. I didn’t understand it at the time, but I knew he wasn’t necessarily a bad guy. He just didn’t like his women any older than thirty. Not exactly a praiseworthy quality.
But thanks to his career as a high court judge, we always had money when I was a kid. It would’ve been better to have had a male presence in my life, someone to show me that throwing parties every night of the week wasn’t the norm. Someone who gave a shit.
I gave my mother a serious look. “And in a few years’ time he’ll probably replace her with a younger model, too. There’s no point upsetting yourself over it.”
She sniffled. “Yes, I know.” A pause as she gestured to herself. “I wasn’t always like this.”
Her statement surprised me, and I felt my eyebrows jump. Normally, this subject was off limits. It was ignored, brushed under the rug.
I knew a little of how her drinking started, but not all the gory details. His first mistress, who was ten years younger than Mam, got pregnant. Dad promptly left Mam to go raise the baby, only it turned out there was no baby.
The woman had made the whole thing up to get what she wanted—and she did. Dad married her, then of course, divorced her several years later. Anyhow, the abandonment and subsequent divorce was what kick-started my mother’s alcoholism. When she got really, really plastered she sometimes liked to talk about the saga of the fake pregnancy. That’s the only reason I knew of it.
And yes, the irony wasn’t lost on me. My dad left one toddler he barely saw to go raise another baby. Maybe he deserved to be conned. Arse.
“No?” I prompted, my heart beating faster with hope. If I could get her to talk more, admit she had a problem, then maybe . . .
“When your dad left me I felt—” She sunk into a chair, her elbows hitting the kitchen table so hard I winced. “I wasn’t enough for him, Bryan. I wasn’t good enough.”
“Mam—”
“But I didn’t feel sorry for myself. No. I didn’t. I was angry.” She sniffed, wiping at her nose even as she adjusted her back, making it straight and stiff. “I decided I’d teach him. I’d show him he was wrong. I was so much more than he could handle. I hate parties; did I ever tell you that? Your father, he loved them. He loved it when I drank, said it made me fun. Made me seem younger, carefree.”
I bit my lip to keep from interrupting as the words tumbled from her lips.
“I saw him last week . . . at a party.” She huffed a bitter laugh, her eyes misting with tears. “And do you know what he said to me? Said he left me all those years ago because I was a drunk. Called me an embarrassment, a waste of a woman.”
I gritted my teeth against the swift slice of pain in my stomach, because I remembered this a
gony. I remembered the day I hit bottom, when Coach Brian found me face down on the bathroom floor before a game. It was the last straw in a long string of bad behavior. He gave me the ultimatum I needed: get sober or get kicked off the squad.
Though I wanted to protect my mother, I also knew—if she was ever going to change—she needed to come face to face with her worst moment. She needed someone to give her the tough love Coach Brian gave me.
“Mam—”
“You don’t have to lie to me, Bryan. I know what I am.”
“Fine.” I stood, holding my hands out from my sides. “And I used to be the same. I used to be a waste, but I changed. So can you.”
She shook her head. “It’s too late for me. I can barely go two hours sober before I start itching for a drink. You’re so much stronger than I am. You always were.”
I reached out to touch her shoulder. “That’s not true. You’re stronger than you know.”
She let out a breath. “Yes, well, maybe I just don’t want it enough.”
My chest ached hearing the despair in her voice. “Mam, let me help you—”
“Listen, maybe I will go take that shower,” she said, cutting me off as she stood and turned from me.
I frowned, watching her back as she left the room. She always did that. Put an end to things as soon as the conversation got too real. She could talk about the mundane until the cows came home, but never the things that actually mattered. Her. She matters.
A minute later, I heard the water turn on upstairs so I made a start on cleaning up the kitchen. I’d done this before, too many times to count.
How many more times would I do it?
When she returned, her wet hair was parted in the middle and neatly combed. She’d also dressed in a clean top and a pair of lounge pants.
“Hungry?” I asked.
“Starving.”
I dished out the food and we ate in silence for a few minutes. Seeing her condition when I arrived, I’d known telling her about Patrick would have been a disaster. After all, Eilish had been right to wait to tell me until I had my act together.
But thinking on it now, maybe it would be good to tell her. Maybe the idea of having a grandchild would give her a little push to take better care of herself. Give her a goal to work toward, the same way not getting fired had been my goal.
I cleared my throat. “I, um, I actually have some news.”
She glanced up from her food. “Oh?”
“I’m not quite sure how to tell you this, but I had a bit of a shock recently.”
Mam tensed, her features showing concern. “You’re not sick, are you?”
“No, no, nothing like that. I just, well . . .” I hesitated, then decided the best thing was to just drop the bomb and deal with the aftermath as it came. “I have a son.”
Her fork fell to her plate with a clatter as she gaped at me. “A son?”
I smiled, thinking of the crazy little boy that I was still getting to know. “Yes, he’s almost five.”
“But-but-but how?”
“His mother, Eilish, was very young and scared at the time, and I was, well, I think we both know I was in no fit state to become a father, so she kept the pregnancy a secret. Recently, our paths crossed again. I think the whole thing had been weighing on her conscience. Seeing I’d changed, was no longer . . .” I couldn’t finish the sentence with was no longer an arsehole drunk, so instead I said, “I’d cleaned up my act, so she decided to reveal the truth.”
“Oh my goodness, Bryan. That’s just crazy.” She gazed at me with wide eyes, her mouth parted with the shock of it. “How do you feel about it? I mean, how do you feel about him?”
“Do you know what the mad thing is? I feel great. He’s the spitting image of me, and I loved him as soon as I clapped eyes on him. It just feels right that this happened now, you know?”
Mam leveled me with a skeptical frown, as though weighing her words. I had a feeling she wanted to voice her doubts, the same as Sarah had, so I pulled out my phone. Flicking through my pictures, I stopped on a selfie I’d taken with Patrick the other day and shoved it across the table to her.
“This is him. His name’s Patrick.”
Mam picked up the phone, her eyes going wide. There was no mistaking the resemblance, and in a flash I saw her doubts obliterated. Her hand went to her mouth, and her eyes shone.
“He’s gorgeous, Bryan,” she whispered. “And he looks just like you.”
I smiled fondly. “I know.”
She stared at the picture for a long moment, then handed the phone back to me. “When can I meet him?”
I studied her, saw the self-consciousness in her face, the uncertainty. She didn’t think I was going to let her meet Patrick. And the truth was, I wasn’t, not in her current condition anyway.
“You have to get healthy first,” I told her in a gentle but firm voice.
Her lips twisted into a bitter smirk. “So you’re going to use my grandchild against me? You’re going to hold him over my head until I do what you want?”
I resisted rolling my eyes and instead set my jaw. Tough love, Bryan. You need to give her some tough love. “Quit feeling sorry for yourself.”
“You’re just like your father,” she spat, lifting her chin proudly. “Thinking you can control me into doing what you want.”
I lost my temper at that, growling in response. “You know this is what’s best for you. If you won’t quit drinking for you or for me, then do it for your grandson.” I slammed my palm on the table, making her flinch and lower her gaze. “You want to live long enough to see him graduate college, don’t you?”
A tear rolled down her cheek and her lip quivered. “Yes.”
“Then let me help you.” I softened my voice, rubbing my hand over my face. “I’ve got the advantage of having gone through it all myself. I know what’s ahead of you, and I know how to help you succeed, but you have to want it.”
“I’m old.” She shook her head. “It’s not going to be the same for me as it was for you.”
I reached out across the table and took both of her hands in mine. They felt tiny, frail. “You’re not old, Mam. You’re barely fifty-five. Fifty is the new thirty.”
She cracked a half-hearted smile at this, saying nothing.
I squeezed her hands. “We’ll deal with any hurdles as they come.”
She met my eyes, not speaking for a moment, then finally nodded. It was a hesitant nod, one that lacked confidence. I needed to build her up somehow, show her that change was possible. That she could do anything she set her mind to.
And if Patrick was the reason to start cleaning up her act, then so be it.
* * *
When I arrived home that night, Sarah was sitting on the wall outside my apartment building. I’d just pulled my keys out when I spotted her. Dressed in khaki pants and a brown jacket, she almost blended into the scenery. I let out a breath that was half guilty, half irritated and made my way toward her.
I felt guilty because ever since I told her about Patrick, I’d been avoiding her calls. And I felt irritable because I knew without question the boy was mine and her hounding me to get a paternity test was a hassle I didn’t need.
“Well, at least you don’t look like you’ve been drinking,” she said as she pushed up off the wall, eyeing me up and down.
“Quit looking at me like I’m short. Of course I haven’t been drinking.”
“You’ve been unreachable. Forgive me if I assumed the worst.”
I dragged a hand down my face, feeling tired. After dealing with Mam, I really didn’t need this. “Yeah, sorry about that. I’ve just been busy.”
She cocked an eyebrow. “Busy playing daddy to a kid that might not even be yours?”
I folded my arms and met her gaze. “And if I have?”
She blew out a breath. “Bryan, I told you not to rush into this. I told you to get a paternity test. Take your time. Believe me, it might seem unnecessary but it’s one little thing that could sav
e you a lot of heartache down the line.”
“Sarah—”
“No, don’t give me platitudes. I know you better than you think. I’m your friend and I care about you. That means I’m gonna push you to do what’s right for both you and the kid, even if you’ve got your head stuck so far up your own arse you can’t see it.”
I saw the steel in her eyes and knew she wasn’t going to let this go, not tonight anyway. It was one of the reasons she made such a great sponsor. She wasn’t afraid to tell me how it was and she never gave up. They were admirable qualities, just not when they were being directed at me personally.
“Fine,” I relented. “I’ll get the test.”
“You said that before.”
“I’ll get it, Sarah,” I told her, jaw tight. “I’ll get it.”
She narrowed her gaze, trying to figure out if I was fobbing her off. I was, sort of, but I was hoping my acting skills worked this once.
“Okay, I believe you,” she said finally, then gave me a small smile. “Let me know if you need someone there to hold your hand.”
“Piss off.”
She grinned. “Hey, I know what big babies you rugby boys can be.”
“Yeah, yeah. I’ll call you tomorrow,” I said and made my way to the lobby entrance.
“You better,” she called after me.
As soon as I got inside my phone started ringing. I pulled it out quickly, hoping it might be Eilish. I hadn’t called her, though I’d wanted to. She’d been the one to disappear this afternoon, and calling seemed like pushing. I wanted her to come to me, as it needed to be what she wanted.
Anxiously glancing at the screen, I saw a number I didn’t recognize. This aggravating day really didn’t want to end. That certainly seemed to be the case when I answered and was met with a haughty female voice.
“Hello?”
“Bryan, this is Cara Cassidy.”
. . . Cara Cassidy?
Wasn’t that Eilish’s mother?
Oh, jeez. Having been friends with Sean for years, I’d heard many stories about what a ballbuster this woman could be.
