Chapter Six

 

Raven

The ungodly, shrill call of my alarm woke me out of a dead sleep at four-thirty the following morning. It was not enough sleep by a long shot. How did Ireland do this every day? I dragged my sorry ass from bed and got dressed in joggers and an old T-shirt all while my eyes were partly closed. Trying hard not to stumble down the ladder that led up to my loft, I took myself into the kitchen of the main house.

It was dark and silent at that hour. My body screamed for coffee, but I downed a glass of water and found a granola bar instead so I wouldn’t be running on an empty stomach. In the bathroom, I finger combed some semblance of order into my messy curls and washed my face, hoping to clear the cobwebs.

Before I left, my sister wandered into the room looking about as awake as I felt. Her dark brow was scrunched up as she blinked at me.

“I thought you were one of the kids up. What are you doing? It’s not even five in the morning.”

“Going running. Meeting a friend at the riverside trail in…” I dashed a glance at the clock above the stove. “Shit, twenty minutes. I have to go.”

Ebony shook her head and disappeared back down the hall from where she’d come. I hated that I woke her. I’d been staying in the loft for too many months. It was time I looked for somewhere proper to live so I wouldn’t be a nuisance in her life.

As I ran to the van, my head swam with thoughts of the previous night and all Ireland had shared. I’d done my best at the time to play it cool, but it was a lead weight of information I was still trying to digest.

All our encounters made more sense with the new piece of information he’d provided. Those times he’d refused to pass objects hand to hand, insisting on putting them down instead. The distance he kept between us, and his insistence I don’t touch him after I’d cut my hand. Remembering back to when he’d removed the staple, he’d done it meticulously and without contact. It didn’t dawn on me until now just how odd that was. Especially for a nurse.

I wondered what made a person fear something so second nature as touch. Didn’t the human species rely on and require such things? I didn’t feel right asking. In time, maybe he’d feel comfortable enough around me to share. Meeting up with him yesterday was intended as a hopeful step forward to see if we had a connection. Ireland was attractive, and something about him intrigued me—even before I knew about his phobia. However, he’d definitely blown any thoughts of a relationship out of the water. How would it even be a possibility?

As I reached town and turned onto the small, dirt parking lot meant for the riverside trails, I wondered how exactly his relationship with his ex-girlfriend had worked. There must have been all kinds of limitations.

When I parked, I noticed Ireland’s car a few feet away and the body of a man stretching in the dark beside it. My muscles whimpered in protest, knowing what they were about to endure. It wasn’t that I didn’t work out from time to time. I had a handful of intensely laborious jobs, so I stayed fit in other ways. Running was something I had enjoyed at one time in my life—long before I turned forty—but maybe not as often as I had made Ireland believe. And never this early in the morning. And never, ever before I was properly caffeinated. I hoped I could keep up with him and not embarrass myself. Oh, the things I did to impress an attractive younger man.

I killed the engine before climbing out. Ireland bounced on his feet in a stationary jog as he watched me approach.

“Good morning,” he called.

My eyelids disagreed and remained heavy as I scanned him. It was the first time I’d seen him in shorts, and his muscled calves and thighs were just as inked as the rest of him. His T-shirt fit snug, eliminating the need to conjure up memories of how fit and attractive he was.

“Is it? I believe the sun disagrees since it got to sleep in longer than me.”

He smiled and tipped his chin toward the trailhead. “Ready?”

No.

“Let’s do it.”

He jogged ahead and only looked back once we’d made it to the trail. “Do you want to set the pace?”

“I’ll follow. If I collapse mid-run, then at least I won’t trip you up.”

His chuckle warmed my insides. Last night at the restaurant, his smiles weren’t as free. I’d needed to work for them. Seeing him relaxed was a win in itself and made the early morning wake-up worth it.

We jogged the uneven trail for a solid twenty minutes at an easy pace before my lungs started to burn. The longer we ran, the more difficult it was picking up my feet to avoid obstacles underfoot. The sky was starting to lighten when Ireland came to a stop at a more open section that overlooked the river.

“You sound like you’re dying behind me? You know we’re only halfway, right?”

Halfway?

I held my hands on my hips, panting as I tried to catch my breath. “You know, men in their forties die of heart attacks all the time. I think you forget these things. Fuck…” My face pinched with a cramp that stabbed into my side. “I’m never gonna make it.”

The bastard started jogging on the spot as he watched me with a glint of humor. “Yes, you can. And I won’t let you die. Catch your breath, and we’ll keep going. If you make it back alive, I’ll buy you a coffee.”

If only to keep the smile on his face, I agreed. Pushing my sweat-soaked hair from my eyes, I nodded for him to continue.

It was torture, and I envied the seagulls floating lazily on the water in the distance. Stumbling, panting, and dragging my ass, we finally made it to the end and came out at the parking lot once again. As I bent over, sucking air between teeth at the pain throbbing through every muscle in my body, Ireland found two bottles of water in the back seat of his car.

“Heads up.”

I looked in time to catch one mid-air. “Thanks.” I sucked back half in a single gulp and dumped the rest on my overheated head before pushing my wet hair off my face. “You’re insane. You do this every day?”

“Almost every day. I took it easy on you.” He laughed out loud when a look of horror took over my face.

“I need to go back to bed until next week. I move shit every day. Heavy shit, and I don’t think I’ve ever felt this battered.”

“If you hurt now, you’ll hate me tomorrow.”

If I didn’t know it would freak him out, I’d have swatted him, or playfully shoved him around. “I think you owe me coffee.”

“Follow me. I have about a half an hour before I have to get home and get ready for my shift.”

“On a Saturday?”

“Sadly. I work one weekend in three.”

I followed him to a small neighborhood nearby and parked in an almost empty lot beside a coffee house. Together, we wandered inside and lined up behind a man in a business suit. It didn’t slip my notice that Ireland maintained a wide distance from everyone.

After placing our orders, he left the money on the counter instead of placing it in the woman’s outstretched palm. When she tried to hand him change, he waved it off, allowing her to keep it as a tip. It was meticulous maneuvering that could be mistaken as rude to an outsider who didn’t know his troubles—just as I’d been led to believe he was disgusted by me.

The barista left our coffees on the counter when Ireland deliberately turned his back as she approached. He waved to mine, allowing me space to grab it, and we headed to a secluded table in the corner to enjoy them.

“So, you work all weekend?”

“Yup. What about you?”

“I’m off every weekend at the furniture store. No weekend deliveries. And we don’t have a move booked, so I just have a rehearsal with the guys tonight, and otherwise, I’m free.”

I wanted to invite him to watch but got the sense it would be too much. The guys could be overwhelming and loud, and they’d probably make assumptions on our status as friends, especially seeing as they’d noticed me with Ireland at the bar last week and questioned it.

Because I wasn’t sure how to go about seeing Ireland again, I went against my raging, angry, and utterly exhausted body and asked, “So, tomorrow? Same time, same place?”

Ireland’s eyes filled with humor. “Same time, same place.”

He probably suspected I’d be a no-show, and maybe my body would seize up by then and it would be true, but I’d make an effort—even if it killed me.

We ran together every day the following week with the exception of Thursday when Ireland texted to inform me his sugars were out of control, and it wasn’t a good idea. I’d gotten to know him little by little, and it was nice. He wasn’t exactly shy, more reserved and cautious. I could hardly blame him.

The following Saturday, neither of us was scheduled to work, so Ireland agreed to a later run—by later, he meant six a.m. and not five.

The trail was familiar now, and my body was adapting. We completed the circuit in a lot less time than our first run together seeing as we didn’t need to take as many breaks on my account. When we finished our usual route, Ireland asked if I wanted to head to his apartment for coffee instead and he’d whip together something for us to eat as well. It was the boldest move he’d made in advancing our friendship, so I wasn’t about to tell him no.

So, that was how I ended up at his house early Saturday morning, sweaty, gross, and ravenously hungry from our run.

I stripped out of the hoodie I’d adorned for our chilly jog by the water and left it to hang over the back of his new couch as I joined him in the kitchen. As he set the coffee pot to brew, I stretched my arms over my head, yawning and groaning, my joints popping in protest. My battered state did nothing more than make Ireland chuckle. It was a sound I craved more of lately and worked harder to bring out of him. I often wondered if his need to be vigilant with everyday life made him forget life’s simple pleasures—like laughing with friends—or having friends.

“Is your body getting used to the abuse?” Ireland asked as he pulled a carton of eggs from the refrigerator.

“It is. However, the early mornings are still a bitch, especially if the guys don’t leave right after we practice. Which they don’t. They are notorious for sticking around for a beer… or six.”

“Do you rehearse tonight?”

Ireland was becoming somewhat familiar with my chaotic schedule. Whatever I shared, he stored away and didn’t forget. He was easy to talk to, and we got along well. It was easy to forget about his touch issue during simple morning runs and when we shared coffee after at the café. In his home, when it was just the two of us, it somehow seemed more obvious like there was an invisible wall that surrounded him. He consciously kept his distance, and when I offered to help cook, the wary look in his eyes was enough for me to back away and linger near the door on the other side of the room.

“We practice Tuesday night. Wanna come check it out?” I didn’t expect a yes, but I’d become comfortable enough with Ireland to at least make the invitation.

“I don’t know.” He cracked a few eggs in a pan, loaded the toaster with bread, and found a pair of mugs for coffee.

“We practice in the barn. It’s a huge open space, not cramped if that helps.”

He chewed the hoop in his lip as he poured the steaming brew and slid mine down to the end of the counter. Only the day before had I noticed his tongue was pierced as well. I wouldn’t lie, it stirred something inside me, warmed my blood, and surfaced far too many fantasies. I may have spent the entire night conjuring them up and imagining impossible scenarios that featured that specific piece of jewelry as I’d given myself a goodnight tug, but I wouldn’t admit it to anyone.

Ireland turned back to the frying pan, still considering as I dressed my coffee with the supplies he’d left on the counter. “No pressure,” I tacked on. “I just wanted you to know you’re welcome if you’d like.”

“Thanks.” The smile he gave was strained, and his gaze flitted around the kitchen as though looking for something else to talk about. “I’ll think about it.”

While he worked to prepare our food, I openly examined him. He was more relaxed around me than he’d been when we first met—despite the invisible wall. The number of times I’d caught him hugging his arms around his body or tucking his hands under his pits was less and less. I considered it progress and rejoiced inside. There was just something about this man that interested me—something apart from his obvious good looks. He carried a uniqueness or individuality that made him stand out—and not in a bad way. Ireland had many layers I was keen to unveil.

Scanning his exposed art and the multiple piercings decorating his body, it occurred to me, you couldn’t get pierced or inked without physical contact. It was impossible. How the hell did that work?

Ireland plated the eggs, buttered toast, and a few pieces of a tomato he’d sliced before encouraging me to sit at his new dining room table. I sat, eager to dig in, but he disappeared down the hall without joining me. When he returned a few minutes later, I must have looked confused.

He rubbed his upper arm and shrugged. “Insulin,” he said by way of explanation. “Every meal. Every day. Remember?”

Right, diabetic. Man, that sucked.

We ate in silence, but I couldn’t help watching him from the corner of my eye, studying him, wanting to know more about him, peel back another layer, and learn more about this man who’d occupied my thoughts a lot recently. Of all the conversations we’d shared, we’d avoided a lot of personal shit. I wondered if I could break the ice and dig deeper.

“So, can I ask you something?”

Ireland chewed slowly and raised his gaze to meet my own, peering from behind thick lashes. Instead of looking worried, he was guarded. “Sure.” With nothing more than a glance, he warned me there were things he wasn’t ready to discuss. Fair enough.

“Your tattoos and piercings. How did you manage them? You said your touch phobia isn’t new, so I guess it made me curious.”

A curl in his lip helped me relax. It wasn’t a topic that was out of bounds. He put down his fork and leaned back in his chair, drawing his coffee closer and spinning it on the hard surface. “Do you want my answer or my therapist’s?”

“They differ?”

“Drastically.”

I chuckled and considered. “Um… both, I guess, out of curiosity.”

“Okay.”

He collected our empty plates and brought them into the kitchen. I started to follow, but he returned after leaving them unwashed in the sink and motioned to the living room. I took a seat on the far end of the couch, and Ireland hesitated before squeezing his body as far over to the opposite side as possible. I wanted him to trust me and be comfortable, so I gave him lots of space and refrained from fidgeting or making sudden movements.

“Well,” he continued. “My therapist is convinced it’s self-torturous. I’ve been seeing her for years. I’ve made good progress in that time, but I’ve also had major setbacks. They happen a lot more frequently than you’d think, and I don’t bounce back in a day. It can take months to become steady again.”

“So, are you saying you can touch sometimes?”

He twisted his fingers in his lap and tongued his hoop. “When I’m at my best, yeah, I can. If I’m the one initiating, it’s easier. Allowing others to touch me is tricky, but if it doesn’t come as a surprise, it’s not impossible. I’m more comfortable around women than men, too. No offense.”

“None taken. Is there a reason?”

He nodded but didn’t explain. “When I’m recovering from a setback, my therapist thinks I fight the process. Progress is often slow and frightening. I’m forever forcing myself to go against the grain of what I was taught. Deny my natural instincts, you know? As interactions start happening again, I tend to take those times to get inked or pierced. She says it’s because I’m determined subconsciously to remind my body that touch equals pain. She says that, although I’m allowing someone to have their hands on me, it’s done in a manner which negates the rules we are trying to introduce and affirms the ones I’m trying to erase.”

I wasn’t sure I completely understood, but the connection of pain and touch did make sense, especially if those two things were linked together in Ireland’s mind. The rules and whatnot left me baffled, but I didn’t ask him to clarify.

“And what is your reasoning?”

Ireland smiled. It was sad, and his gaze was stuck somewhere in middle space, a place I wasn’t privy to, in a time that seemed to hold him prisoner. I didn’t know what he saw, but my heart ached, knowing it wasn’t good.

“I like tattoos. I don’t believe I do it to torture myself. I do it to reward myself and prove I’m in control.” He focused on me then and shrugged, the distant torment that had held him prisoner faded away. “Don’t get me wrong, nothing about choosing to get inked or pierced comes easily. Those sessions are extremely hard to get through.”

Torturous if I were to guess. I wasn’t sure who was right in this situation. Ireland’s reasoning was sound, but his doctor saw things maybe he chose not to acknowledge.

“Well, whatever the reason, I like them. All of them. Tats, holes. Very attractive.”

For a beat, his blue eyes locked on mine. The intensity of his examination made me hold my breath. I didn’t know what he was looking for or what he saw, but I desperately wanted him to know he was safe around me. So, I refused to move a muscle until his gaze shifted away. Yes, I was attracted to him, and yes, I didn’t care if he knew it. But I also respected his wishes and would never cross a line I wasn’t invited to cross.

“Do you know the string game Cat’s Cradle?” he asked when the weight of silence was beginning to feel too thick and too heavy.

He dug in his pocket and unearthed a long coil of navy yarn.

“I think I’ve heard of it.”

He untangled the yarn and moved it between his hands until it was hooked over both, then, he proceeded to make a few intricate finger motions, twining and tangling it until he’d made a multiple-triangle design that kind of resembled a bridge.

“This. Did you ever play this game as a kid?”

“Oh yeah. I recognize that. Not me personally, but I remember my sister playing with her friends. They’d go back and forth taking it from each other and making new structures or something.”

“Exactly. But, you don’t know how to play?”

I shook my head. It was subtle, but I didn’t miss the slight exhalation of air or the fall of his shoulders or when his lips turned into a frown.

“Can you show me?” I wasn’t sure why, but I knew it was important to him somehow, and my lack of knowledge had been disappointing.

The abrupt shake of his head was followed by a muttered “never mind” as he commenced working the string again. His movements were exact and measured, practiced and smooth as silk. Watching him manipulate the string was nearly hypnotic. After a minute, he presented it with a faint smile creasing one side of his mouth.

“Witch’s broom,” he announced.

And the design he’d made was exactly that. Long hoops were linked around his bottom hand’s fingers and a single “handle” looped around a finger on his top hand. The resemblance was unmistakable.

He let the string fall, untangled it, then weaved it between his hands again. More methodical movements, more intense concentration before he presented a new design.

“Jacob’s ladder.”

He proceeded to make a hammock, cat’s whiskers, and a star.

“Impressive. Where did you learn all this?”

He shrugged but refused to meet my eyes. “My doctor. Cat’s Cradle is a form of therapy. For me, anyway. We’ve had to get creative over the years. But you aren’t the first person who doesn’t know how to play.”

“So teach me. I’m a quick study.”

“Nah, it’s okay.” To punctuate his point, he pocketed his string, ending the conversation and demonstration both. “I’ll let you know about Tuesday.”

Okaaay.

Not only had he ended any and all talk of his string therapy game, but he was pointedly asking me to leave. I wasn’t going to argue or make pleas to stick around. If I’d learned anything about Ireland over the past week, it was that I should tread carefully. He was skittish and nervous.

“Yeah, perfect. Just text me.”

I made my way to the door and tugged a hand through my hair. “I should probably get home and shower. Dried sweat is kinda disgusting.” I chuckled. “Thanks for breakfast.”

“Yeah. Thanks for joining me on the trails this week. The company has been nice.”

When he met my eyes and smiled, I believed him. It wasn’t the first time I’d witnessed a hint of remorse or apology behind his gaze, and I wondered just how deep his struggles ran.

“I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Five a.m.,” he said with a pointed finger. “I gave you a sleep-in day. You don’t get two.”

“Man, you’re a ball buster. Crack that whip. Five it is.”

The rumbling laugh that followed me out the door was what made every early morning worth it.

 

* * *

 

“Uncle Raven, you suck at this.”

“Cut me some slack, missy, I have working man hands. Calluses are working against me right now. My fingers don’t do all this delicate stuff.”

Lou rolled her eyes as dramatically as I’d seen her mother do on multiple occasions as she snatched the string back from where it had fallen in a tangled mess on my lap.

We’d been sitting on the floor in the living room at the old farmhouse for nearly a half an hour as I got a lesson on how to play Cat’s Cradle from my seven-year-old niece.

“Here. Try this,” Cody said, handing me his iPad with a YouTube video pulled up showing a tutorial on the supposedly simple children’s string game.

Cody was nine and was caught between being a techno-freak and being a Lego-loving child. It was sad how quickly kids of this generation grew up. Toys were being replaced by electronics far too quickly.

“Thanks, buddy.”

While Louise wound the string around her little hands again, I frowned at the video, paying close attention to where I was supposed to pinch the strings and which part I was supposed to loop it under. The worst one came when pinkies got involved. That shit was hard, all crisscrossed and ins and outs.

“Okay, do it, Uncle Raven.”

Lou held up the triangle string construction for me again as I handed Cody back his iPad. I’d enlisted the help of my niece the minute I got home from Ireland’s and showered. There was something in his disappointment that made me insistent on learning how to play. As much as he hadn’t willingly admitted it, this game was important to him.

Cody hung at my side as I carefully pinched the correct crossings of strings. “These ones, right?” I confirmed, eyeing my niece with a raised brow.

“Yup. Now go under and don’t let go when you pull out through the middle.”

Yeah, yeah, easier said than done.

With all my focus, I copied her instructions and managed to pull up the next form on my hands.

“Ha!” I nudged Cody in the ribs. “See that. Mastered it.”

Lou went to dive in and grab the next set, but I “woahed” to stop her.

“Go slow, peanut. I’ll never figure this out if you race through your turns.”

With all the drama I expected of a seven-year-old, she moved robotically slow while giving me a dorky “duh” expression the entire time, stuck-out tongue included.

“You’re too sassy for your own good.” Peering down at the shape she’d made, I groaned. It was the form with the straight lines running between her hands. No triangles. “This is the stupid pinky one, isn’t it?”

Cody shuffled to his knees as Lou nodded. “I’ll show you,” he said.

With a tongue poking out the side of his mouth, he crossed his hands and looped the long lines on his pinkies, crossed his hands over one another again, and then used his pointer finger and thumb to scoop underneath. I watched closely, determined to make it past this form for once. Cody didn’t complete the step, and instead, let go and let me try.

“What are you guys doing?” Ebony asked as she leaned on the doorframe from the kitchen, eyeing us speculatively.

“Raven’s boyfriend plays Cat’s Cradle, and he didn’t know how, so I’m teaching him.”

“Not my boyfriend,” I clarified over my shoulder before Ebony could prematurely jump on that piece of information. She’d been encouraging me to date for months, and the last thing I needed was for her to get excited over nothing. “Just a friend.”

“Your friend plays Cat’s Cradle? And how old is this friend? Should I be worried about you?”

“Ha, ha. He uses it as a form of therapy—or that was the impression I got.”

“What’s therapy?” Lou asked.

“Um… it’s something that helps a person heal when they have stuff going on in their head. Like when a doctor gives you medicine for a cold, and it helps make you better. When Ireland plays this game, it helps his head get better.”

“What’s wrong with his head? Is it sick inside?”

I chuckled and eyed my sister, but instead of seeing mutual humor at my poor explanation there was concern written all over her face instead.

“A friend,” I reiterated before answering Lou’s question. “Not sick like a cold or flu, but he just has some trouble with things you and I don’t worry about.” I nodded at the strings, hoping to divert her attention. “Okay, I’m going in, wish me luck.”

With Cody’s guidance, I successfully managed to make the pinky level work, and if I didn’t have a new pattern wrapped around my hands, I’d have cheered.

Lou practiced with me all morning and into the afternoon until I was making fewer and fewer mistakes. By the time I retired to my loft and bed that evening, all I could see when I closed my eyes were stupid triangles and fingers.

A text came through just as I was drifting off, and I pulled my phone from the bedside table to check it.

Ireland: I think I’d love to come see a rehearsal if the offer is still open.

Hell, yeah it was. If I could convince him, and he wasn’t working, I hoped he could come over an hour or so sooner, so we could hang out and maybe I could show him all I’d learned that day.