I paced a hole in the floor trying to figure out my next move, I got a ring from my barman Dermot at The Boar’s Head, letting me know my grandfather was having a lively conversation with a young woman.
My woman.
I run to my car and drive like a rabid dog after snapping back to reality. I throw it in park without turning off the engine and look up to see her getting into a cab. The vehicle is an ugly, seventies Renault that coughs its way down the road. Rory is in such a rush to leave, she didn’t want to wait for a decent ride.
This is how much she hates you.
I run, motioning to my wife to lower her window, and guard, and feck—will she just listen?
Rory pretends I don’t exist, staring straight ahead at the back of the driver’s seat, her sunglasses perched on the tip of her button nose. I rap on the window with my fist, coughing out fifteen years’ worth of sex as my sole physical activity.
“Slow. Down.”
My request falls on deaf ears.
“The hell with you, woman.” I slap the roof of the car, and the driver speeds up in response, so I run even faster. (Who in their right mind does this for fun?)
I can’t let her go. Well, I guess technically I can. Perhaps I even should, but I won’t. Not without a fight. And she needs to learn the entire truth, even if it rips us both to shreds.
“I didn’t tell you about Glen because I was sworn to secrecy. Because look at you—you’re devastated. Because I knew, selfishly, that if you found out about Glen, you wouldn’t have room in your heart to fall in love with me eight years ago. Which you did, Rory. We fell in love in less than twenty-four hours. And it took us less than a week, almost a decade later…”
I slap my hands on my knees and pant, sucking in as much oxygen as I can, before resuming my chase. She is still staring at the back of the driver’s seat as if it’s the most mesmerizing thing since fiberglass manufacturing. (No, seriously. Look it up on Google. It’s fantastic.)
“…to remember how we can’t live apart. Not really. Exist, maybe, but not live. And it’s not like I completely shielded you from the truth. Trust me, I battled this shite internally. I did. That’s why I took you to Kathleen. It was my coin-flipping moment. I told myself if you really were meant to know, she’d tell you the truth. She didn’t, Rory.”
She still gives me nothing.
“Yes, I fecked up. Yes, I kept the truth from you. About you. About me. But none of it was because I wanted to hurt you. I wanted to protect you. To shield you from the past. It’s called past because it passed! We have a present, Rory. A future.”
Her nose twitches in annoyance. It’s the slightest movement, but it gives me hope—not that she will forgive me, but that she might be pissed enough to stop the cab, get out, and smack me in the head.
“Fine. A part of it wasn’t entirely altruistic. Of course, I wanted to feck you again when I saw you. Who wouldn’t? Look at you.”
Her nose tics under her sunglasses again, her lips folding under her teeth.
She is angry.
I’m about to make her angrier.
“Want to know if you love someone? Watch them suffer and see how much it tears you apart. Because when you were down, when you hurt, Rory, every fiber of me burned right along with you. You leaving without listening to what I have to say simply solidifies my suspicion all along: Your skin is not the only thing cold about you. Your heart is frozen, too. I loved you from the start. You, however, were always more interested in my dick and my Irishness. You really took daddy issues to a whole new level, darlin’.”
I can see her hand gripping the door handle. She barks something to the driver, and the car slows down gradually, not yet coming to a full stop. I know I’m close, so I put the final nail into the coffin. The one I was waiting to share with her on another, happier occasion.
“Oh, and another thing: That napkin you just tore apart didn’t mean jack-shit. You said you didn’t believe in kismet when we first met. I forgot to mention—neither do I. I sought you out eight years ago, after you left. I