THIRTEEN
Nothing in Cavanagh was subtle. Not our rugby matches, not our St. Paddy’s Day celebrations and definitely not fundraising, especially for an eight-year-old cancer patient. Autumn, with some help, has utterly out done herself.
The main courtyard on campus has become something of a winter wonderland. Cobbled sidewalks and pathways have been transformed with faux snow and the glittering brilliance of fairy lights, streamers and Christmas trees of every conceivable size and color on each corner of the two block area. There are swags of white lights streaming from four large temporary poles and draped in several rows to the crown of a large tent covering a carousel in the center of the court yard. Carnival rides and games, Santa Claus taking pictures with kids, raffles and live bands all make up the cacophony of sound and chaos as I walk through the court yard unable to keep my gaze from all the lights and activity.
“My God,” I say to myself, mesmerized by the magnitude of the miracle Autumn has conjured for my little cousin. I knew she’d taken care to facilitate her charm, garnering the support of nearly every shop and business in the downtown district. I knew there had been donations of cash and necessities required to pull this off. I just had no idea of how capable Autumn actually was.
The weather has turned and I huddle against my leather jacket, tucking my scarf beneath the collar as I nod greetings and smiles at people I know in the crowd, some that know me. The air fills with the smell of ozone burning off all the white lights and the deep fried scent of funnel cakes and donuts, while kids run all over the place, cotton candy and lollipops in hand, stuffed elves and reindeers dragging behind them as they make a beeline for the carrousel in the center of the courtyard.
It is remarkable.
I only wish Rhea could see it, that the doctors had been convinced the danger of her getting sick has passed. But I understand why they are overcautious. Stage four cancer, for anyone, is no joke. It’s especially not something to take for granted with an eight-year-old.
Overhead a streamer catches my attention, swaying against the breeze that ruffles my hair. Glitter from its the oversized lettering cascades around me, showering me in gold and silver. For just a second, I revert to who I once was, to who I believe Rhea would have been had her childhood been happier, freer of worry and fear. With the wind brushing around me and glitter dusting my face, I close my eyes, wanting to keep myself in the wonderland around me. For a moment I am a kid again. I have no fears, no worries that weigh me down. There is no illness, no need for fundraising because everyone I love is happy, healthy. Everyone is free. My heart fills, expands and I breathe in the scents around me, overcome by the generosity of my hometown, But in the next moment I realize that I would trade a million wonderful moments for one great one, one impossible one. That one I’d gladly hand over to Rhea.
It’s her face I think of, that beautiful smile, the hope in her eyes, the laugh that I don’t hear often enough. But then, as I open my eyes and am thrown back into reality, what do I see across the court yard but, Quinn’s focused gaze staring directly at me.
But I quickly forget about him and his brooding looks when I spot Aunt Carol standing next to Autumn, wiping her face dry.
“What is it?” I say, running toward her, my stomach twisting like a spring. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, dear.” Carol pats my hand, smooths her fingers over my face as I reach for her. “Autumn and your friends, oh Sayo, they’re just too much.” And then Carol can no longer speak, too taken by her tears and the emotion behind them.
“What is going on?” I ask Autumn when she steps next to my side. “What the hell happened?”
“The fundraiser,” my best friend says, shrugging like all the magic she worked had been simple and hardly a bother at all. “Carol’s just very pleased.”
“You raised enough for the treatment?”
“Oh, we raised plenty, but the thing is, Carol told me this morning when we first got here to set up, that her bank had called yesterday afternoon about an anonymous donation to the benefit account.”
“And?” I hate when Autumn goes all cryptic. It’s annoying.
“And…” she says, walking with her arm locked with mine as she guides me toward the tent that houses the carousel. Under that tent Mollie, Layla and Vaughn are huddled in front of a portable heater and Layla waves to me, tipping her large cup of something that pushes out steam in the cold air.
“Technically speaking,” Autumn continues, “the fundraiser wasn’t necessary—the donation was that big. At first she thought Declan and I had done it, but it wasn’t us.”
“Then who was it?”
Autumn shrugs. There would be no one else that I could think of that would be willing to part with that much cash. Ava and her academic friends could have raised some of the cash, but eighty thousand dollars was pretty much out of most folks’ price range.
As I walk towards my friends, I get the sense that I’m missing something, something niggles at the back of my mind; something that tells me I wasn’t seeing the whole picture.
But before I could figure it out, and before I reached the welcoming crowd of friends and rugby players, I see Quinn standing on the other side of the courtyard, watching me as though he wants my attention. I return his gaze, wondering which Quinn I’d get this time. Would he be combative as usual? Would the days away from Rhea, forced to visit with her from the tiny screen on his phone, somehow have made him more appreciative? Kinder?
Nah. I doubted that was possible.
Still, I walk toward him, staring at his face, thinking that maybe he’ll be nice. We are in this together, regardless of whether we like each other or not. Rhea has connected us and as I walk toward him, it’s her, the connection, that I keep in mind.
Then an idea comes to me—maybe the big picture hasn’t made sense yet because I haven’t factored Quinn into it. Maybe his fondness for Rhea is more than skin deep. Suddenly, I have questions I need him to answer, and my steps toward him become more purposeful. But before I can reach him, Sam, my ex, steps into my path.
“Sayo. Hi. Um… hi. Wait, I said that.” Autumn had given Sam the nickname Thor because he was so large, and because his complexion and hair reminded her of a Viking. That hasn’t changed much in two years since we stopped dating. Neither has those sharp blue eyes or the dimple in his left cheek when he smiles. For a second, I forget that we’d broken up because of my loyalty to Autumn and his to her ex, Tucker. We couldn’t accept the other’s friendship with either. Sam thought Autumn was spoiled and selfish. I knew Tucker was an asshole who liked to manipulate people to get what he wanted.
I was right and gave Sam the toss.
But that had been two years ago. So why is he stopping me now? Why is he so nervous, repeating himself and rubbing his neck like he can’t quite figure out what to do with himself as he waits for me to speak?
“Hi.” The word comes out bland, a little curt, but I don’t much care. “Something I can help you with?”
“Ah, no. Not really.” Another side step and Sam starts looking over my head, to the crowd, then back to me. “I just wanted… shit.” He exhales, stretching his neck once before he keeps still and looks right in my eyes. “I realize I was a shit to you with the whole Tucker thing. He showed his true colors just like you said.” Sam waits, I guess to see if I’d act smug and pat myself on the back for being right. When I don’t, he continues. “I just wanted to say that I’m sorry for how everything went down.” He steps closer and I’m too shocked to move away when he reaches out to take my hand. “I’m also damn sorry to hear about Rhea. I know how close you two have always been. I just wanted to let you know that if there is anything at all I can do for you, just say the word.”
Sam hadn’t been the love of my life, I hadn’t gone into a spiral of depression once we ended things. But I’m pretty sure everyone wants our exes to feel remorse, shame and guilt for letting us slip away. Still, I am more than surprised by Sam’s sudden apology—so much so that I’m not prepared when he bends and kisses my cheek.
“Take care, Sayo,” he says, squeezing my hand once before he walks away.
Twice I look over my shoulder as I resume walking toward Quinn. And twice I see Sam still staring after me. It’s a weird sensation, being looked at like you are something remarkable. But once I reached Quinn his ever present frown drove all thoughts of Sam and his out-of-nowhere apology from my mind.
“O’Malley,” I say. In response, I get a grunt, dismissive and a little irritating, but I wasn’t going to let his sullenness keep me from getting to the bottom of my suspicions. “So, Carol told Autumn the fundraiser was a success.”
“That right?” he says, pulling a cigarette from inside of his jacket. When I eye the smoke, then raise an eyebrow in an unasked question, Quinn stares back, his face blank.
“It is.” I step beside him, crossing my arms so I mimic his stance and the way he watches the crowd. “Funny thing is, there was a substantial donation made before the fundraiser even started.”
“Hmmm.” Quinn twirls the unlit cigarette between his fingers and I decide that the drop in temperature I feel standing next to him has nothing to do with the weather.
“So, I started to think of who might have the funds to make that kind of donation.”
“There are fair amount of well off folk in this…” I glare at him, warning him not to insult Cavanagh and he shrugs. “This town. Could have been a great number of people.” Quinn pushes the smoke between his lips, eyes low lidded but staring as several people walk by us.
Quinn pulls out his lighter, flicking it twice but not lighting anything, and nods with his chin noncommittally toward someone in the crowd. I turn to look over my shoulder and see Sam standing in Quinn’s line of sight. “Take this pouncy wanker with the blonde hair. That’s the same one you wanted to hide from that night I first kissed you. Could have been him. He seems keen on impressing you.”
“It wasn’t Sam.” There would be no way. Sam doesn’t come from a well off family and he is a shift manager at McKinney’s. No way he has that kind of cash. But that isn’t why Quinn had pointed him out—he wasn’t being subtle at all about hunting for information, and it was pretty obvious that my brief conversation with Sam had unnerved him a little.
“Sure he’s not wanting back in?”
“None of your business.” I say, mainly to annoy Quinn. His glare becomes intense, and almost angry at my cavalier attitude, but I’m not going to let him off the hook that easily. “So what you’re saying is that it wasn’t you?”
There is the smallest bent of bitterness in his laugh before Quinn lights his cigarette, watching as I step away from him. “Do I really look like the sort to be that fecking selfless?”
No, he didn’t. We both knew it, but as Quinn walked away, chucking his cigarette after just two drags, I thought maybe he was. At least, I thought he damn well could be.
IF I EVER want to be put off relationships forever, then spending a day Christmas shopping with Autumn and Declan will do the job. They are ridiculous—holding hands, always touching, peppering kisses on each other, recalling pet names and inside jokes that are likely ridiculously perverse. Although I love them and appreciate the ride into Knoxville because I hate driving in icy weather, half an hour in, I’d determined that I never wanted a repeat experience with those two.
Ridiculous.
But at least I now had most of the presents I needed for the holidays. The following night, even the roads in Cavanagh have gone slick and wet so I’m extra careful to take the corners slow as I head toward Aunt Carol and Uncle Clay’s. Despite the weather, there’s no way I’m going to keep from driving to their house; Rhea has been home for two days and, from the tone of her voice when I spoke to her this morning, she is feeling elated to be out of the hospital and back in her own home.
“Shit,” I mutter when a squirrel darts in front of my car, sending the tires slipping across the pavement before I right the wheel and slow down even further. Christmas is only days away and my car is loaded with gifts I can’t wait to wrap, tons of comics and games Rhea has missed during her quarantine. It’s her and those packages on my mind when I pull down my aunt and uncle’s street, my tires still slipping a bit on the thin layer of ice.
It’s a good thing I’m driving so slow, because all of sudden I realize with a shock that the idiot Irishman is standing right there in the middle of fucking street! I slam on my brakes, and jerk the steering wheel, jumping the curb and coming to stop at the sidewalk. What the hell?
Through my windshield I spot his rounded eyes and the way he holds his hands on top of his head like he’s trying to keep his brain from bursting out of his skull. “Are you mad?” he yells, darting to the passenger side of my car before he flings open the door. “Have you absolutely bloody lost your bleeding mind?”
“What the hell do you mean? You were the one in the middle of the damn road at eight at night! What the hell were you thinking, you stupid idiot?”
When he shivers, brushing off the movement by stretching his shoulders, I relent, spotting the red mark that looks suspiciously like a hand print on his cheek. “Get in the car before you freeze to death.”
He issues his usual grunt of displeasure and then drops into the seat next to me. “Happy, are you then?”
“No, I’m not.” I turn up the heat, moving the vent toward him, ease the car back onto the pavement, but then just sit there with the motor running. “Why were you out there in the middle of the street, anyway?”
Quinn looks out the window, his elbow on the door and his fingers over his mouth. “Fraser said I wouldn’t be welcomed to see the sprog during the hols.”
“I can’t disagree with him.”
“Especially after that business with your uncle.”
“What?”
“I thought… bollocks.” When Quinn leans against the headrest, rubbing the bridge of his nose, I jab him in the rib, making him jerk away from me. “What it…”
“What business with my uncle?”
He exhales, scrubbing his face. “Feck, I thought Autumn would have mentioned it. It’s why I’m not welcome here, I imagine. Clay… that pouncy…” he pauses when I glare at him. “He was at McKinney’s getting pissed when he told Carol he had work and couldn’t stay with Rhea.”
“You caught him?” I turn in my seat, folding my arms over my chest.
“Eh, no. Not exactly. I may have made a passing comment to Carol about seeing him pie eyed at the pub. She went a bit mad, to be honest.”
“Quinn…”
“Shite, how was I to know?” He reaches for me, cursing when I jerk out of his grip. “Sayo, be wary. That bloke’s about to check right out. I know a runner when I see one.”
“Why? You spot your own kind?”
Quinn darts a glare at me and when he looks away and I see the red mark on his face up close, I actually feel bad for him. “I had a gift for Rhea.” He speaks so low that I can barely make out what he is saying. Then Quinn opens his coat and pulls out a small box. The paper is Tiffany blue, but I know he hasn’t bought her jewelry—he knew her better than that. She is eight and definitely not a jewelry kind of kid. “Give it to her for me, will you?”
The box is no bigger than a stack of cards and I slip it into my coat pocket. “No problem,” I tell him, glancing up at the mark on his cheek, and before I realize I’m doing anything at all, I hold his face in one hand, scrutinizing it. “Autumn told me that Layla clocked you good.”
Apparently, Quinn had tried to kiss Layla. At least that’s what Autumn mentioned on the pitch that afternoon when she and I waited for Declan to finish running drills with his squad. It was more of Quinn acting like an idiot, trying to shock people with his ridiculous flirting, with the smug attitude, than anything he might have actually felt for my friend. More deflection, no doubt, to hide who he really is. Autumn had asked how I felt about Quinn trying to kiss Layla and when I thought about it, I told her - and myself—that it didn’t matter to me at all. I’d kissed Quinn. He’d kissed me, but that didn’t mean a thing. Not really.
“She’s a mean right hook,” he admits, pulling out of my touch.
“When are you going to learn?” If I was honest, really honest with myself, I’d examine that small ache in the pit of my stomach that had developed the moment Autumn told me what Quinn had attempted.
“And what exactly is it I should be learning?” His voice was no longer soft or low. Quinn looked in fact like he’d decided to do away with the niceties of polite conversation and let just a smidgeon of the real him slip to the surface. Those tight muscles around his mouth, the quick curl of his top lip, I wasn’t sure I knew what to make of any of it. But if a small break down would show me who he really was, I’d take the insulted attitude.
“Should I learn not to act as I am? Should I learn to conform to whatever shite you lot tell each other is normal just to fit right in? Bleeding hell, do you think I should learn to get along with Fraser and his woman and the whole rest of you just to keep the peace?”
“Yes. You should.”
“Well I won’t do it.”
I cross my arms, glaring right back at him when he stops speaking, and a small hint of surprise slips into his tone. It’s almost funny. “Why the bleeding hell should I? I’m meant to keep my nose clean, stay well clear of trouble. I do that for another year and my money is my own again and I can go home.”
“Home to what, Quinn?” I don’t give him time to respond beyond the small bob of his mouth he makes, like he can’t quite believe I’ve called him on his bullshit. “Women and liquor and the constant party?”
“Damn right.”
“And that made you happy? Drinking yourself into oblivion?”
“Yes.” There a small laugh that follows his answer, one that sounds like disbelief and arrogance.
“Sleeping with whatever gold digger was the most enthusiastic?”
“Yeah…”
He’s lying.
“Waking up not knowing who was in the bed with you? Being so sick from drinking and drugs and whatever else you’d prefer to die? Feeling like that day in and day out? Thinking that no one in your life really gave a shit about you? Oh, right, that’s soooo much better than what you could have here.”
So much passes over his face. Expressions that could mean a good number of things: doubt, surprise, some latent need for me to understand. But like always, Quinn doesn’t let that mask slip. Not in front of me especially. He will always deflect. He will always defend even when no one is threatening him. “What do you know of it?”
“More than you think.”
For several seconds, he pauses, looking for a break, maybe hoping I’m trying to pull something over on him. Then the defensiveness and the deflection starts up again. “You don’t know shite about me, woman. You don’t know who I am or what’s been my lot in life.”
“Trust fund kid on a constant party?” I wave my hand, laughing at the idea. “Yeah, O’Malley, you’re right. You’ve had it freakin rough, haven’t you?”
“It hasn’t damn well been easy.” He sits up straighter, palm against the dash.
“Yeah?” I say, surprised that he could forget so easily how blessed he is. How he could disregard that our problems are meaningless to others. “Go talk to Rhea about a hard lived life, you selfish prick.”
He stares at me, eyes round, fury simmering beneath he glassy surface of his iris. “I never fecking said I had it the worst. I never said she didn’t…” He takes a breath and I can see his frustration, his anger welling. “I’ve been alone. I learned how to be alone. And a few months in this god-forsaken shitehole with my arsehole half-brother and his meddlesome woman and her friends isn’t going to make things… this won’t just… fecking, bothersome, bollocking bastards…”
Just then, despite what I know of him, what I’ve been warned, I truly feel sorry for Quinn. He doesn’t deserve me brow beating him, not here, not now. It’s not his fault that he doesn’t understand about the real hardships in life, not like most of the rest of us do. And he’s absolutely right: I don’t know what he’s undergone. I don’t know what it is to feel the double loss of losing your parents, of being stripped away from your home.
I do know, though, that he is truly faltering, that the slip of his control is great and I want to help him, to catch him before he slips too far away. So I do the only thing that feels natural. I kiss him.
Quinn is momentarily shocked, but then he moves his hands on either side of my face, taking me deeper into the kiss, stealing all control from me and my aggressive charge.
It’s only seconds before the windows around us fog up as we battle each other with our lips, teeth pulling, nibbling, tongues slipping back and forth against each other and then I shudder, overcome, overwhelmed that I had kissed him again and had liked it so much.
He moves away slowly, still holding my face, still close enough that his breath lingers on my bottom lip. Then, another shudder and Quinn sits back looking me over like he isn’t sure what to make of me.
“What?” I say when he shakes his head.
“You’re quite a quandary.” He looks out the window again, rubbing his thumb along his mouth.
“I don’t know why I did that.” There’s no need to hide the frustration in my tone or shy away from Quinn’s touch when he moves his fingers through my hair. “I should never kiss you. Not once.”
“No,” he says, his mouth quirking. “You shouldn’t a’tall.” Another glance at me and he looks to his right, watching the neighbor’s youngest son walking their Dachshunds. “It’s because you think I don’t see anything.”
“What do you mean?”
Quinn shakes his head, scratching at the scruff on his chin. “Everyone thinks I don’t see what’s right in front of my nose. But I do. I see the truth of things. I see it all. It’s in every fighting couple on the sidewalk, every ridiculous discussion. People fight, they row and scream because they are desperate.” The way Quinn speaks, the listless defeat in his tone reminds me of someone doubting the existence of God. Someone so desperate not to believe for fear they’d have to atone for their sins.
Quinn doesn’t want connections. I get it. It’s no wonder with the childhood he had, with the apparent contentious relationship between his parents, his father’s philandering, all the money given to him but no moral compass, his father’s defection, his mother’s death. It’s likely why he’s become so close to a little girl who may not have long to live. Relationships are complications he finds distasteful, still, none of us get through life without having them. No matter how hard we try to avoid them.
His voice sounds lost. “They do all that—fight and row and scream—because they are clinging to the last bit of passion left inside them, because they feel it draining away.”
“That’s life, Quinn.”
“No, love, that’s begging. That’s pleading that the end won’t come. But it always does, doesn’t it? Declan, Autumn, all your barmy mates and the blokes they try to wrangle down, it’s all fecking fiction. None if lasts. Not any of it.”
“So why bother trying? You believe it’s bullshit and you still keep at it, you still try to bed as many women as you can. It’s why Layla smacked you.”
“Who’s trying? I’m just trying to have a good time, and there’s not much trying to it, girls fall all over me. But you make it sound like I’m not fussed who I shag. That’s your hypocritical assumption. I am. When you get right to it, I’m damn well picky over who I let in my bed. You’re right on one thing, though. I don’t try, not anymore. I haven’t tried in ages and ages. I’ve seen where trying takes you and it’s not worth the bother. But I’m a bloke, aren’t I? I have needs. And I’m not particularly shameful about saying what I want. Like you.”
“Me?”
“Aye, you. I won’t lie about it. Twice now you’ve kissed me.” He pauses, daring to deny it with one glance and when I only met his stare, when I lifted my eyebrow in my own small challenge, Quinn smiles. “Twice it never went further than that.” He moves his gaze over my lips, a slow, steady glance that tells me all I need to know about where his thoughts have drifted to. “I’m saying that I’m not shameful about liking your mouth on me. You are. You’re fussed what the others will think of you should you let yourself give in to me. You needn’t be. It’s not as if there’s a soul here I’d brag to about bedding you. I only care that I do.”
“You’re a pig, O’Malley.”
“That may be true, love, but you’re the one who keeps coming back to this pig.” Quinn reaches out to grab the back of my neck to pull me close to his mouth, and dammit, I let him. “You’re the one pretending you don’t like me a’tall.” He takes a kiss then, fierce, firm, one that makes a quick moan slip from my throat.
And then he leaves me. Again. Sitting alone in that car, my lips throbbing, my mind twisted with the realization that he’d just shown me exactly who he was. And I didn’t know if I hated him for it, or wanted him more desperately than before.