Chapter Eight

 

Raven

Ireland was subdued through rehearsal. He sat a fair distance away on an old rusted out chair near the back end of the barn. His mood had shifted drastically once the guys had shown up. I introduced him to everyone while he kept his hands firmly shoved in his pockets to avoid handshakes. Although his inner struggle was apparent to me, I didn’t think anyone else noticed. Ireland kept his chin high, his shoulders squared, and made eye contact that bridged on being daring or daunting. Despite his troubles, he knew how to hold his own. When I’d attempted a few times to explain or defend his distance, it earned me a withering look that stopped me in my tracks.

The hour or so we’d spent together beforehand, Ireland had been relaxed and open. He’d talked and smiled more than I’d ever witnessed in the few weeks we’d known each other. It was progress. The shared moment after I sang for him was thick with unspoken questions. I wasn’t a betting man, but I would have placed money on the look I’d seen in his eyes. I wasn’t the only person feeling things on a lustful level. Despite what I knew to be true about Ireland and the impossibility of moving us forward or acting on those impulses, it warmed me inside and out simply knowing I wasn’t alone in my feelings. I could have cursed the guys for showing up when they had.

We played through a half a dozen songs, some of them multiple times when we had sections that required fixing or adjusting. Ireland’s gaze never left me, and eventually, I was able to pull a smile from him again.

When we finished up a second run-through of “Come Together” by The Beatles, I called for a break. The guys all went for the beer fridge while I headed across the room toward Ireland.

“Drink?”

He shook his head, watching the guys chatting and drinking. “Why do they call you Stone?”

I laughed, it was so random, yet the seriousness on his face told me he truly wanted to know. “Basically, it came about because of the name of the band.” Not really an answer, but the full story was on the personal side of things.

“Okay, then why Stone Angel? Did you name the band?”

I dragged over an empty milk carton and flipped it upside down, so I’d have a place to sit as well. Leaning my elbows on my knees, I thought back to the day when G and I decided on the name.

“You really want to know?”

“Unless you don’t want to tell me, then yes, I do.”

His smile and attention made him impossible to deny.

“Okay, well, back in high school, we had to read this book called Stone Angel by Margret Lawrence. Have you heard of it?”

He shook his head and shrugged, blue eyes searching my face, waiting for me to go on.

“It was one of those required readings in grade eleven English class. Anyhow, I hated reading. Full stop. Anything. Everything. So, I shoved it aside and succumbed to the fact that I’d fail that assignment. Anyhow, my grandmother, who was in her late eighties at the time, was stuck in a retirement home. Spunky old woman, but lonely. We were encouraged as grandchildren to visit her often.

“I loved my grandma, but I never knew what to talk with her about. One day, I went after class and had my bookbag with me. She asked how school was going, and I told her about this book we had to read. She was appalled when I showed no interest and made me read it to her out loud, starting that very day. So, I went every day for a couple of weeks and read a few chapters until we were done. I swear to you, it was the most I read during my entire academic career.”

Ireland chuckled but seemed enraptured by my story, so I continued.

“Once I understood the concept of what the book was about, it kinda broke my heart. You see, it’s about a ninety-year-old woman who is basically reflecting back on the events in her life, and it shows the reader how she became who she was. It’s kind of unclear, but you get the impression she dies at the end. At seventeen, reading to my grandmother, I didn’t know that I really understood it clearly. All that mattered to me was how much my grandma was enjoying it. It was bonding.

“At one point in the story, the woman loses her son in an accident, and she refuses to weep in front of people, then later discovers she can’t even cry when she is alone. She feels like she’s turned to stone, like the angels in the cemetery. My grandmother looked me in the eyes after that part and said, ‘Raven, when it’s my time, promise me you won’t cry. I’d rather you be a stone angel then cry for me. I had a great life. There is no room for tears.’”

I peeked at the guys, but they were busy chatting and drinking and in no hurry to start back up, so I kept going. “We read the whole thing, cover to cover. And at the end of the school year, when I was supposed to turn in my book, I couldn’t find it. Thought I’d lost it and ended up paying the fees for lost materials. Done and done. Life went on.

“My grandma passed away a few years later when I was twenty-three. G and I had met during that time and became good friends. We had been playing with the idea of starting a band. Anyhow, the retirement home packed up my grandmother’s belongings, and my mother asked me to go and pick them up. I took G with me. The boxes were ready for us up front, so I grabbed one and G grabbed the other. When we loaded them in the back of my car, I noticed a book sitting on the top of the one G had carried. It was my missing book from high school.”

I sighed and gave Ireland a soft smile. His silvery blue eyes hadn’t left my face as I talked. He was fully captivated by the story. Funny, none of the newer band members had ever asked why we called ourselves what we did, yet Ireland wanted to know.

“I didn’t cry when she died. She lived for ninety-three years. Her funeral was a huge celebration of life. Who lives that long?” I chuckled. “When I saw the book, I laughed and showed it to G. Told him I’m made of stone, just like the woman in the story, just like my grandma had asked me to be. It was a joke, but G grabbed the book and stared at it long and hard. Long enough I questioned him. ‘Stone Angel,’ he said, ‘that should be the name of our band.’ And it stuck. As did the nickname, Stone. So, I guess in a way, my grandmother inadvertently nicknamed me.”

The light in Ireland’s eyes shone brightly again, and his smile fluttered something in my chest. “That’s kinda cool actually.”

I shrugged and pushed my hair back, standing and stretching. “It’s not a story many people know.” And maybe one I didn’t wish them to know. Ireland was different, and I was glad I’d shared. “Well, I should pull these guys together again before they’re too drunk to play.”

Ireland stood too and wavered a minute, spreading his feet wide to catch himself. Instinct almost had me reach out to help him gain his balance, but I caught myself before I made that mistake. Whatever was wrong passed, and he nodded to the couch as though nothing had happened.

“Gonna sit there this time around.”

He moved to the couch which was positioned near where we were set up. We ran through a number of songs, and I kept my eyes on Ireland the entire time. I couldn’t help taking stock of all the small hints of joy he exuded as he watched. His tension from before had lessened, and the longer we played, the more my heart swelled. I was pretty fucked when it came to Ireland. I didn’t know how or if anything could come of it, but I wanted a chance to try.

I reminded myself every day, he used to have a girlfriend. Intimacy couldn’t be impossible. He said he could touch when things were going well. I’d live for those moments if he gave me a chance.

As we worked through a few more numbers, something changed. Ireland’s attention seemed to drift, he wiped his face a few times, and his eyes turned glassy and unfocused. When I couldn’t grab his attention and didn’t want to embarrass him by calling out, I called a halt to our rehearsal.

Zack and Reece continued regardless, plugging away at a section of the song where they struggled. G came over with his guitar still around his shoulders, attention focused on his hands as he glided them over the neck, mimicking chords but not plucking strings.

“I think you need to harmonize this part with me. Seriously, listen to the original recording and tell me it wouldn’t be cool if we did this one together.” He started plucking away on the strings and washed out any attempt I made to respond.

“G!” I slapped his arm and caught his attention. “We’ll talk about it later, I need a minute.” I nodded toward Ireland whose focus was on his lap. He was unaware rehearsal had even stopped. Something was definitely wrong. In fact, he’d slumped over so far he was going to fall on his face if he didn’t sit up.

G’s brow furrowed as he noticed the change, and he frowned. “Is he all right?”

“Not sure.”

I left G with the others and approached Ireland. He didn’t acknowledge me until I crouched beside him and called his name. When he lifted his head, confusion filled his face. Cautiously, I sat beside him, leaving a small space. He stiffened slightly and stared at me, but the glazed look didn’t clear.

“Are you all right?”

He shook his head. A film of sweat glistened across his forehead, and now that I was closer, I noticed he was trembling.

“Ireland?” I wanted to reach out, put my hand on his thigh to draw his attention, but I knew that would be bad. “Ireland, what’s going on?”

“My sugars. I need…”

“Insulin?”

He shook his head. “Food… Juice… Fuck.” He blinked long and slow, shaking his head like he was trying to clear the fuzz.

I jumped from the couch. “I’m on it.”

I kept some snacks upstairs in the loft but didn’t have anything resembling juice, so I darted toward the barn door, aiming for the house.

“G,” I called as I ran. “Keep an eye on him.”

What I wanted to say was “don’t touch him,” but chances were, it would come across as possessive or be read the wrong way. I didn’t want questions before I knew properly how Ireland would like me to respond.

In the main house, I ransacked the cupboards until I found the kids’ juice boxes for school, snagged one, and took a granola bar as well. I was out the door again before Ebony had time to find or question me.

Back in the barn, G hovered close to the couch, and Ireland seemed to have enough sense left to be wary.

“Pack up,” I told G, indicating to the others who were lingering as usual. He took the hint and didn’t ask questions.

I sat beside Ireland again, grateful he didn’t flinch that time, and offered him the juice, ensuring I gave him lots of room to grab it so our fingers wouldn’t touch. He struggled to get the straw from the wrapper and into the hole, but I bit my tongue and didn’t offer to help. If he needed me, I hoped he’d let me know.

He drained it and leaned back on the couch, closing his eyes. The guys waved as they left, and I didn’t miss the questioning glances and raised brows. Once we were alone, I watched Ireland.

“I have a granola bar here too. Do you want it?”

He cracked an eye and nodded, allowing me to pass it over. As he ate, he stared at the floor, a distant look in his eyes.

“I took extra insulin tonight, thinking I’d drink more, then I didn’t. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. Are you okay?”

“I will be. Twenty minutes or so.”

“Can I get you anything else?”

He shook his head and laid back again. I couldn’t help but observe the lax way his face hung, the small amount of perspiration on his upper lip, and the paler color of his skin. I didn’t know fuck all about diabetes but seeing him slide downhill like that so fast was scary.

“Does this happen a lot?”

“No,” he mumbled, his lips barely moving. He seemed to be almost falling asleep. “But I’m bad for taking care of myself when I have a setback. Other things become my focus, and I forget to eat or take insulin or whatever. Julia used to give me shit. I know better. I do.”

I didn’t like Julia. Who gave someone shit for being overwhelmed and struggling. Since he seemed to be resting, I relaxed beside him, noting that the guys had shut everything down for me.

Like he predicted, about fifteen or twenty minutes later, Ireland became more alert. His eyes remained closed, but he started talking again. His words clearer.

“You guys really are amazing. I enjoyed watching.”

“I’m glad you came. Even if it ended like this.”

He chuckled, but I didn’t know what was funny. “So, how do you guys decide what to play?”

“We bring ideas to the table, try them out, see how everyone feels about it and how it sounds. Go from there. Sometimes suggestions get shut down immediately because someone doesn’t like a song or an artist.”

“Huh.” He was quiet for a minute, then, “Do you have a favorite band?”

“Worst question ever.” I laughed, and he gifted me with a smile. I rolled my head on the back of the couch to watch him, even though his eyes remained closed. “I honestly can’t name one. I go through spurts, but I change my mind constantly. What about you?”

“No way. Not telling.”

I almost nudged him in jest and caught myself. Man, it was hard to resist impulses. I didn’t realize how touchy I was until I couldn’t do it. “Come on, spill. I won’t tell.”

“You’ll laugh.”

“I won’t… unless it’s some country artist, then I make no promises.”

He chuckled, his smile so big it pulled at his cheeks. “Fine. Not country. Do you know Matchbox Twenty?”

“Hell yeah. Who doesn’t?”

“Lots of people. I kinda had a thing for Rob Thomas all through high school, but that doesn’t leave this room.”

I tried to contain a laugh and failed. “Rob Thomas? Really?”

“In his younger singing days, that little curl he had going on with his hair before he practically shaved it all off. Oh, yeah. Totally crushed on him bad.”

We both laughed, and Ireland opened his eyes for the first time in twenty minutes. “Thanks for helping me out.”

“Anytime.”

He shuffled to sit properly and glanced around at the empty room. “Everyone leave?”

“Yeah, I sent them packing. Didn’t think you’d want an audience.”

He remained silent, but his face went through a variety of unreadable expressions before he finally turned to me. “Well, I should probably head too, now that I’m all right to drive.”

Before he could stand, I shuffled to face him on the couch, folding a leg under my ass. “Wait.” He halted and met my gaze. “Can… Can we try your string game? I really did have Lou teach me.”

His face flushed, and his hands found his pockets automatically, but he didn’t pull it out. “You don’t have to. I know it’s really dumb.”

“It’s not. If…” My words caught in my throat. What would he think if I owned the way I felt toward him, told him I would do anything to bridge the gap? “If it helps. I want to help,” I said instead.

His teeth found his lip piercing, and he bit down, gnawing the metal ring as he thought. He was such a contradiction most days. With his rolling muscles and broad shoulders, he was a poster boy for a personal trainer ad, or something equally sexy, yet, his dilemma when it came to people and contact made him cower sometimes and seem as though he was in a perpetual state of fear. One minute bold, like when he’d met the band, the next minute meek and haunted.

He nodded his head once and then again with more certainty before pulling the string out and edging himself onto the couch again. He copied my manner of sitting and tucked a leg under his ass so he could face me. There was a generous foot of space between us.

He weaved the string through his fingers, not making a form but just lacing it around. “In therapy, the idea behind the exercise is for us to maintain a conversation while we play. It helps me focus elsewhere rather than on our close proximity.”

“I’m really new at this. I’m not sure I can talk and think without making a mistake, but I’ll try.” I wanted to laugh, but he looked so serious I choked it back.

“This game can be played with no contact, but accidents happen, and I’ll try not to panic if it does, but you need to do the same.”

He lifted his gaze and waited for me to confirm. “Okay,” I breathed. “I just want you to know, I will never touch you on purpose unless you ask me to.”

His throat rose and fell before he dropped his focus to the yarn. He made the starting form and blew out a breath before holding it between us.

My heart was in my throat, and I couldn’t stop my hands from shaking. I didn’t want to mess this up, but I was the most amateur of amateurs. As I reached for the two crosses and pinched them between fingers like Lou had taught me, Ireland spoke.

“How old is your niece?”

“Seven,” I said, carefully bringing my fingers underneath and through the middle to pull up the next form.

“And your nephew?” Ireland took the string from me again with much higher skill.

“Cody’s nine.”

I stared at the pinkie form he’d created—the one I hated—unable to build conversation or offer more information about Cody. Replaying what I’d watched on the YouTube video a dozen times and hearing Lou’s coaching, I hooked my pinkies crisscrossed and slowly switched sides before going under. My focus was on getting the steps done correctly, so when my hands brushed Ireland’s, I froze. My gaze darted to his face.

His expression was unreadable, but I knew he felt it.

“Keep going,” he whispered.

Don’t panic he’d told me, so I kept going and successfully made the next shape. Talking was impossible. My skill wasn’t there yet, and all my focus was needed to keep the game going. Ireland must have noticed because he stopped asking questions. We took turns, back and forth, making shape after shape until our rhythm smoothed out and things became less tense.

Again, while bringing the crosses under the strings to complete a form, my hands brushed his. Again, my gaze darted to his face. If he was panicked, he hid it well.

We continued.

When I had the first form on my hands again, Ireland stopped. Before I could drop the strings, assuming we were done, he halted me, holding his hand up.

“Can I… I want to show you something,” he said. There was uncertainty in his eyes, but when I nodded, he spoke again. “Just don’t move unless I ask you to.”

“Okay.”

Ireland proceeded to shift the strings on my fingers, looping them over and under and telling me to do this or that. Each time he plucked at a string, his fingers brushed my own. I held my breath and watched his concentrated face the whole time. In the end, he asked me to stretch my hands apart and spread my bottom fingers. I did and gasped when I saw the witch’s broom he’d shown me the other day.

“Holy crap!” We laughed, and I stared at it on my hands. “That’s so cool.”

After another minute of admiring it, I let my hands fall and gathered the string in my lap. Then, Ireland surprised me even more. He reached out and clasped my wrist in the gentlest of holds, his palm grazing the back of my hand. With his other hand, he touched his fingertips to mine. It was such a feather-light touch, but it was contact, real contact, so delicate I could almost feel the ridges of his fingerprints against my own.

I couldn’t take my eyes off him and froze solid, not wanting to move a muscle in case I scared him off. For another minute, he continued with the barely-there touch as his forehead scrunched. The expression on his face pained me. His struggle was real, but he was pushing through. Before he let me go, he lifted his eyes and met mine. Our gazes lingered a long time before he retracted his hands. I mourned the loss of his touch instantly and craved more like a starving man craved food.

He seemed to be searching my soul, and the sorrow behind those pale blue eyes tore a gaping hole in my heart. God, how I wanted more from this man.

“Does it have to be impossible?” I whispered.

He stared at his hands in his lap and twisted them together. “I’ll just end up hurting you. You don’t have any idea what you’re asking.”

“I have a pretty good idea.”

“I don’t think you do. You need to ask yourself how important intimacy is to you, because even if I could get there, even if you had the patience to wait me out—which most people don’t—it won’t be what you want or expect. And then, I’ll slip again, and we’ll be at square one. I’ll frustrate you, and eventually, you’ll leave.”

“Is that what everybody else has done to you?”

He shrugged, not answering. He didn’t have to, I knew that was exactly the case.

“I want to try,” I said. “I know where you stand, but I also know it’s not the impossible feat you told me it was.”

“Raven.”

“If it can be more, I’d very much like to explore this with you.”

He let out a sigh and plucked the string from my lap with caution before pocketing it again. “It can’t. I’m sorry.”

When he rose to leave, I didn’t stop him, but he took a little part of my heart as he went.