by J. C. Long
“…to go,” Hannah was saying, voice sad.
“I know,” Brendan replied. “If you’d just say yes, we wouldn’t have to be apart much longer, you know.”
“Brendan, I don’t want to rush into anything,” Hannah said. She sounded like she was repeating herself.
Realizing I’d walked into something I should I have, I turned on my heel and tried to climb the steps quietly. The wood beneath my feet squeaked, though, and Hannah and Brendan looked up at me. I flinched. “Sorry—I wasn’t trying to spy on you or anything.”
“It’s fine,” Hannah said, stepping out of the circle of Brendan’s arms. “We’re just saying good-bye before Brendan goes back to London.”
It was bad enough that I was interrupting an intimate moment between them, but I’d probably overheard more than Hannah or Brendan wanted me to at that point. “I’ll just go back upstairs.”
“No, Ronan, it’s fine,” Hannah assured me. She turned to Brendan and kissed him sweetly. “Have a safe drive. Let me know when you’re back in London.”
“Promise me you’ll think about it?” Brendan pressed.
“Of course I’ll think about it,” Hannah laughed. “Now get going before the roads flood.”
Brendan kissed Hannah one last time and then hurried out into the rain, tugging his jacket collar up around his ears since he didn’t have an umbrella.
Hannah stood in the door, watching until Brendan’s car disappeared from sight.
“I’m really sorry, Hannah,” I said, coming up behind her. “I didn’t mean to—”
“It’s okay. Stop apologizing,” she demanded, shutting the door at last. “Come on. Let’s go get some breakfast.”
“Where’s Aunt Gwendolyn?”
“She’s working alone today. The shop is only open for a few hours, so she always handles Sundays alone. What do you want to eat? I’m going to make some eggs.”
“Eggs sound good,” I said, sitting at the island on a stool while Hannah went to the fridge and pulled out a handful of eggs and a carton of milk. She placed them on the island and then pulled out a block of cheese. “How was your weekend with Brendan?”
“It was good,” Hannah said. She busied herself making eggs—omelets, judging by how she was cracking eggs into a bowl and mixing vigorously with a whisk. “I’m more interested in how your date with Fergal went.”
“It wasn’t a date,” I countered immediately, even as thoughts of the near-kiss came rushing back to me. “We had a good time. He took me to the James Joyce House, and to St. Patrick’s. Oh, and to this great breakfast place—it was incredible.” I stopped talking and just watched Hannah. She was still furiously whisking the eggs. “Hannah? I think the egg is mixed.”
Hannah placed the bowl down with what sounded like a frustrated sigh.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong,” she insisted, turning to the stove, placing a frying pan on it, and turning on the heat.
“Are you sure?” I didn’t know how far I should press her, but I could plainly see something was bothering her and wanted to help if I could.
“I’m sure. I’ve just got a lot to think about.”
“Would this have something to do with Brendan?”
Hannah said nothing. She poured the egg mixture into the pan and then cut two thin slices of cheese to lay on top of it. I sat there patiently, watching her, hoping she would speak when she was ready.
She didn’t speak again until she finished fixing both of our omelets and put the plates down on the countertop. “Brendan asked me to marry him.”
I nearly choked on my first bite of omelet. Hannah offered me a glass of orange juice to wash it down and help me get a hold of myself. “He did? What did you say?”
“I said yes,” she admitted, managing to look happy and anxious at the same time.
“Should I be saying congratulations?”
“Of course! I’m happy. It’s just… he wants me to move in with him in London as soon as possible.”
“And you don’t want to?”
“I don’t know, honestly. I mean, yes, I want to marry him, and I want to move in with him, but it’s just so sudden—first we get engaged, and then he wants me to move in with him right away? Plus, I’m not sure how Mom will take it.”
I thought back to Aunt Gwendolyn’s interactions with Brendan. “She seems to really like him.”
“She’ll approve of the marriage, that’s not the concern,” she said, waving her fork dismissively. “I don’t know if she’ll approve of the whole ‘whisking off to London’ thing.”
“When are you going to tell her?” I asked, resuming eating before the omelet got cold and congealed.
“I’m going to wait and tell everyone at the same time. This weekend Gran is having everyone over for dinner, and I’ll make the announcement then.”
“We’re having dinner at Grandma Murphy’s this weekend? When? What day? What time?”
“Sunday night around seven thirty, I think,” Hannah answered. “Why? You schedule a second date with Fergal next weekend?”
“It wasn’t a date,” I repeated for the umpteenth time. “But Fergal and I are going camping next weekend. Don’t,” I added, seeing Hannah’s knowing expression. “I mentioned that I wanted to see the countryside, and he offered to take me. We’re going Friday and Saturday night but should be back Sunday afternoon.”
“Camping, alone, on the moors under the stars? How does that not equal romance?”
“It just doesn’t. Hell, you can come along, too, if you want to!”
Hannah rolled her eyes. “Uh, no. I refuse to be the third wheel. Plus, I don’t want to hear my best friend and my cousin getting it on. That would be a little too awkward, even for me.”
“There will be no getting it on!” The image of Fergal’s lips moving closer to mine swam to the surface of my thoughts once more. “Although….” I shook my head. “Never mind.”
“Never mind what?” Hannah’s eyes narrowed, and I knew I’d made a mistake. She would hound me now until I told her something that was at least believable. “You can’t hold out on me, Ronan, not after the big secret I told you.”
Damn it. “I hate you sometimes,” I growled. I told her about the lingering touches during the date, the closeness of the way we walked, and the near-kiss at the door.
“You’re sure he was going to kiss you?”
“As opposed to what? There aren’t really a lot of things he could have been doing instead, Hannah.”
“I don’t know. Maybe you had something in your hair, or—okay, fine, you’re right. Okay, did you want him to kiss you?”
“Maybe? I don’t know.” I thought about it. Fergal was cute and kind, and we had such similar interests. There was that bird in my stomach again, stirring its wings. “Yes, I think so. But I’m being ridiculous!”
“What? Why? Fergal’s a really nice guy!”
“I know that—and that’s the problem. At this point, for all I know, I’m trying to drown the loss of my mother in whatever this is between us.”
“For all you know, you’ve met the one and are falling for him, regardless of what stage of grief you might be in.” Hannah finished her omelet, placing her fork down on her plate. “I believe that everything happens for a reason, Ronan.”
I stared down at my half-eaten omelet. There was a time in my life where I did too. That was one of Mom’s favorite things to say. I couldn’t see the reason in her illness, or her death, though, and it was too hard to try to look for one, so I set that idea aside. “So what? You think Mom died so I would come here and meet Fergal?” My words came out harsher than I wanted them to, and I took a steadying breath. “It’s hard for me to think in those terms right now.”
“You’re right. I shouldn’t have brought that up. It was insensitive.” Hannah cleared her throat. “Are you done with the omelet? I’ll toss it in the bin, if you are.”
I pushed the plate towards her. “Yeah. Sorry, I kind of lost my appetite.�
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I left the kitchen quickly after that, shutting myself up in the guest room, losing myself in books and doing my best not to think of my mother, or reasons, or the future.
Caibidil 13
I SPENT most of the week with Fergal, under the guise of hanging around Aunt Gwendolyn’s shop. Every time Hannah saw the two of us laughing together, she would get this knowing look in her eye, but she said nothing, thankfully. I could see she wanted to, though, and I wondered how long she’d be able to bite her tongue.
When I went into the shop on Wednesday morning, there was a guy who looked close to my own age, dressed in what we would call hipster style back home, though it seemed kind of normal in Ireland: light flannel button-down, skinny jeans, and a beanie on his head. He was leaning on the counter, talking to Fergal in a way that I could only describe as flirtatious.
I was not prepared for the intensity of the jealousy that radiated from the core of my being. It was enough to make me feel slightly nauseated. I didn’t want Fergal to see me like that, so I decided to just head right upstairs and see if there was anything I could help Aunt Gwendolyn with.
I made it halfway across the shop before Fergal called out to me.
“Ah, Ronan! Come over ’ere.”
I couldn’t very well pretend that I didn’t hear him since I’d taken my earphones out when I walked in, so I turned around, plastered on a somewhat cheery smile, and went over to the counter. “Good morning.”
“Mornin’,” said Fergal brightly. He gestured to his friend. Now that I could see his face, it was covered in a well-groomed beard. I didn’t like facial hair very much, but even I had to admit that it suited him. “This is my friend Mike. He grew up ’ere before movin’ to Dublin. Mike, this is Gwendolyn’s nephew, Ronan.”
“Pleasure,” Mike said, extending his hand. I didn’t want to, but Fergal was watching, so I shook it. “My mum was good friends with yer mum in school. Talked about her all the time. She was really sad to hear about her passing.”
For a moment I felt like I’d been punched in the gut. I thought I was past all of the condolences. I knew people meant well, but what they didn’t realize was that their “I’m so sorry for your loss” was just a painful reminder that she was gone. I’d rather they said nothing at all.
Good intentions, I reminded myself. “Thanks.”
Fergal must have sensed that I was uncomfortable because he quickly changed the subject. “Ah, Mike ’ere is loanin’ us his sleepin’ bag fer this weekend.” Fergal picked up the item in question to illustrate.
“Well, Courtney’s sleeping bag,” Mike clarified. “Mine has a big-ass hole in it. Courtney’s my girlfriend.” The clarification—knowing Mike was not single, and also was straight—made me feel much better about him, and the noxious jealousy receded. Mostly.
“That’s really awesome. Thanks, Mike.”
“Anytime. Yeh two have fun, all right.”
“Cheers, mate.” Fergal waved good-bye to his friend, and Mike left the shop.
“Now we’ve got everythin’ we need fer the campin’ trip.” Fergal beamed. “Are yeh excited?”
I wasn’t sure excited was the word, given how I was beginning to feel about Fergal; anxious was more accurate. I didn’t know how great of an idea it was for me to spend time alone with Fergal at this point, but I’d already made the commitment and he seemed to have put in a lot of work getting the camping thing arranged in such a short time.
“I’m excited,” I confirmed, returning his bright smile. “I’m going to go upstairs and see if Aunt Gwendolyn has anything for me.”
“Okay,” Fergal said, cheerfully returning to his work, unaware of the confusion brewing inside me. I hurried up the stairs, finally allowing the fake smile to drop.
“Good morning,” Hannah called, popping up from behind a bookshelf. “You look peppy this morning.”
“Need any help?”
“Actually, yes,” Hannah said, seeming relieved at my offer. “I’ve been shelving this box of books for the longest time. My back is killing me, so you can take over.”
“Sure, fine,” I said, crossing to the bookshelf as she stepped around the box. “What am I stacking?”
“This is our LGBTQ section,” Hannah answered, walking towards the back where there were a few more boxes. “Have fun.”
Most of the books I went through were typical gay book fare: lots of sexy men in various stages of undress. Most of them were books I’d read or recommended to friends before. As I put them on the shelf, I came across what looked like an anthology collection I’d never seen before, so I flipped it over, looking at the back to see what sort of stories were in it.
“Hoping to get some pointers to use this weekend?” Hannah asked, walking by and seeing what I was looking at.
“I don’t need any pointers,” I retorted, pushing the book into its slot on the shelf. “And even if I did, I wouldn’t need them for this weekend.”
“Need what fer this weekend?” Fergal asked as he climbed the stairs.
“Hiking boots,” I replied, glaring at Hannah, who turned her head to hide her smile.
“Actually, yeh might. There’s lots of hills where we’re goin’.”
At that Hannah burst into laughter, hurrying downstairs.
“What’s up with her?” Fergal asked, pointing over his shoulder with his thumb.
“A case of stupidity,” I muttered.
“All right, then, forget Oi asked. Oi came up ’ere to tell yeh that Oi don’t think Oi’ll get free fer lunch today. There’s still a lot Oi need to do, and Oi won’t be in the rest of the week.”
I tried to hide my disappointment. I knew I was a study in contradictions—anxious about spending alone time with him this weekend but craving every moment to be together we could get. I’d really been enjoying our lunches this week and would be sad to miss the opportunity to sit with him while he inhaled food like a vacuum cleaner.
“That’s too bad. Although, I could run out and get us something and bring it back,” I suggested. “That way we can eat it here and you can still get your work done.”
“That’s an excellent idea!” Fergal clapped me on the bicep, his hand lingering just a bit—not as long as it had when we were in Dublin, but longer than strictly necessary. “Yeh can tell Dick Oi’ll ’ave the usual—he’ll know what it is.”
Lunchtime came and I went out and brought back lunch from Uncle Dick’s pub. The usual for Fergal turned out to be a corned beef sandwich on thick rye bread with potato chips—crisps, as everyone this side of the Atlantic seemed to call them. Corned beef wasn’t something I enjoyed, so I’d ordered the meatloaf for myself, a dish that had quickly become my favorite at the pub.
We ate together in the break room at the back of the first level of the shop while Fergal went over a black ledger book listing the sales for the month.
“The month isn’t even half over yet,” I remarked, watching Fergal go through numbers. “Isn’t it a bit early to be doing that?”
“This is fer last month,” Fergal replied dryly. “Gwendolyn fell a bit behind, with—er, well… shit.” He clammed up and I understood.
“With going to America for my mom’s funeral,” I finished.
He nodded, his eyes apologetic.
There was an awkward pause, then. The reminder of Mom’s death stung, perhaps more than it would have if Mike hadn’t given me his condolences earlier, and Fergal was clearly searching for something to say, some way to cover or move on from his blunder.
“So you’re doing the work for last month, then,” I said, eager to bring the pause to an end.
“Nothin’ too serious, just checkin’ to make sure that the maths add up.”
“Sounds absolutely thrilling,” I said, dipping my french fries—which they called chips, for some reason—into the tiny pile of ketchup I’d made on the edge of my takeout box.
“Gwendolyn ’as an accountant that does this stuff, but she likes to ’ave an idea of where she’s at, so Oi do
it fer her. Oi actually minored in accounting, so Oi’m qualified, Oi think.”
I nodded. I didn’t really understand accounting, so I just sat there watching him, staying quiet so I didn’t disturb his concentration.
“About campin’,” Fergal said, interrupting the silence. He didn’t look up from the ledger as he did. “Oi was thinkin’ Friday Oi’d pick yeh up around half three.”
“Oh, all right, sounds good. But, uh, what if it rains?”
“That’s half the fun of campin’, innit?”
“Is it?” I wasn’t certain I agreed, but I decided not to argue with him.
“Oi’ll check the weather, but Oi think this weekend will be nice.”
At that moment Aunt Gwendolyn popped her head into the break room. “Ronan, will you come give your cousin a hand with a few boxes?”
“Sure, Aunt Gwendolyn.” I rose and turned to Fergal with a smile. “Have fun with your numbers.”
“Oh, Oi will. It’s like a party in here.”
I chuckled and followed Aunt Gwendolyn.
When I reached the door, Fergal called out to me. “Hey, Ronan, cheers for the lunch.”
“So you bought him lunch?” Aunt Gwendolyn asked teasingly.
I groaned. “Don’t you start in on that too.”
Caibidil 14
FRIDAY WAS a bright, sunny day. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky—perfect weather for camping. I was equal parts apprehension and excitement; I felt like one big walking paradox.
I spent the morning packing warm clothes and things with layers Aunt Gwendolyn offered me—from some of Owen’s old clothes she’d bugged Uncle Dick into bringing over, since I was woefully underprepared—along with a few necessities like toilet paper and lots of bottled water. I’d taken the clothes gratefully. What I’d brought had been enough during the daytime, but I was about to be out overnight, when the temperatures would be at their lowest, so I’d take all the layers I could get. The night before, Aunt Gwendolyn had gone into the attic and found a big camping knapsack that would hold anything I would need for a two-night camping trip.
