Twenty-Two
Placing her tea on the coffee table, Alex sat down, tucking her feet under her bum while steadying the rocking laptop on the sofa. She was used to being alone in the small apartment, but since leaving Lucy’s flat, it had never felt emptier.
Yesterday’s diversion to the Tower of London was a welcome reprieve, but…she couldn’t put it off any longer.
An anxious hand dove into the box of Lucky Charms lying on its side. Not so lucky—only the blue marshmallow moons rattled around at the bottom. She stared at her laptop’s screensaver, the slideshow of her and Mark in Venice flickering past.
Her stomach snarled. Opened packages of Twizzlers and Percy Pig sweets beckoned from the table, but she resolved to avoid another round of comfort eating.
Her eyes crept to the table and the rectangular courier box addressed to Mark. The same box she had collected for him from the concierge in Dublin. The same box he brought with him to Lucy’s doorstep. He must have left it behind in the flat after waiting for her that day. An anniversary gift, maybe? Opening it now would be…weird…
She couldn’t put it off any longer.
She woke up her laptop and with a tap of her finger, minimized a scene in Upton Park that just wasn’t working. Her cursor hovered over the mail icon. She clicked, scrolling to the half-read email, now over a week old.
From: Mark Keegan
To: Alexandra Sinclair
Sent: 2 January, 15:37
Subject: My side of the story
Mouse,
You can rest easy now. I won’t be showing up at Lucy’s again. I’m flying back to Dublin tonight.
I didn’t think I could make things worse, but I did, didn’t I?
Truth be told, I don’t regret pounding on the door or shouting at Lucy. I don’t regret bunking on her step, refusing to leave, or the cop visit. I was desperate. I’d do it all again in a heartbeat, trying to prove to you how much I love you, but your silence has made me realize that you’re just not ready to talk. I guess I proved the casting agents wrong last night, eh? Turns out, I can play a realistic psycho. I never intended to freak you out. For that, I’m truly sorry. I know I keep saying it, but I am. I just keep hoping you will accept one of those sorrys, and we can fix what I’ve broken.
I keep going over everything in my head, trying to figure out how I got into this mess. I swear on my life, Alex, I don’t remember what happened or how I woke up in bed with her. Dublin has always been a tricky place for me. It’s my hometown, but it’s also a place that I’ve left behind on purpose. Maybe like you with Tallahassee—there are too many bad memories mixed in with the good ones, you know?
Here’s the honest truth then, about me and Fallon. I want you to know everything.
Fallon and I have known each other since we were twelve. I met her at the dry cleaners where our mums worked. To me, she was just a stupid, snobby girl, taking tap and drama classes.
Dad had passed away two months earlier, and I was having a tough time. Mum and my teachers agreed that afterschool drama classes might boost my confidence, so I began to see Fallon regularly. They cast us opposite each other in our first play. She was the obvious star—everyone said it, but she was full of herself, cocky, ambitious. She announced early on, “I’m going to marry Leo DiCaprio,” which I took to mean, “I’m well out of your league, Keegan, don’t get your hopes up.” But by the time we were fifteen, we started to fancy each other. I lost my virginity to her soon after at a house party. For the most part, it was a normal teenage relationship with long drives in my beat-up Mini, snogging behind pubs, and having sex whenever we could.
Fallon liked to party and could look a lot older than she actually was. She would get into bars and clubs underage with no problem. She was pretty—but God, did she know it—and older guys constantly hit on her. I found out much later that she had cheated on me at least once. Would I have broken up with her, had I known? Probably not. I had it bad for her and didn’t want to be left behind, so I did everything I could to keep up with her. I’m not proud of it, but I tried ecstasy with her at Excuses, our cheesy local nightclub. I had smoked weed before, but pills were new to me. I was sixteen at the time. It just became a thing we did whenever we went out. It helped us forget all the crappy stuff in our lives, for a few hours anyway.
But it didn’t take me long to figure out that using wasn’t a good idea. I felt drained all the time, and my football coach benched me; I wasn’t playing up to my usual standards. I even had trouble memorizing my lines for theatre group. The short-term buzz just wasn’t worth it, so I stopped. I only took it once or twice after that on special occasions like birthdays.
Anyway, things went from bad to worse. There was a pregnancy scare, and she would lash out over the time I spent at my part-time job or football. She said I wasn’t fun anymore. I got accused of not loving her enough because, by skipping drugs, I was judging her. On my eighteenth birthday, we split. The breakup was mutual and inevitable: she was always keeping an eye out for someone better, I was headed to London to study drama in a few months, and she was staying in Dublin to attend Trinity. She moved on within a week or two, started dating a pro rugby player (some things never change, I guess).
When she showed up out of the blue for the chemistry read and got the part, I didn’t know how to tell you that Fallon was Sinéad or that I had lied about how long we had dated. I guess I had fibbed about the three-month thing because it made our relationship sound like a teenage fling, nothing serious. I wanted you to think you were my first big love, and in many ways—all the ways that count—you are. Fallon and I were a lifetime ago. She’s my past, like Devin is your past. She’s a footnote, a wrong turn, nothing more, but I was scared if you knew who she really was and how long we were together, you would feel threatened and anxious. A nude scene with an ex is kinda hard for a girlfriend to shrug off, and our separations are upsetting you so much; I didn’t want to add to your anxiety if I could help it.
I was wrong. I should’ve told you. It was me who couldn’t deal with digging up the past, not you. The strength you’ve shown when dealing with your own problems is inspiring, Mouse. I wish I had that faith in myself. I wish I had told you, but instead I bottled it and ended up slipping back into my old destructive habits on this fucking Dublin job.
I got plastered, then took an E (at least that’s what I thought I took…who knows what shite they put in pills these days) at the Stag’s Head because I think I wanted to forget I’m ‘Mark Keegan’ for a few hours. This new life, Mouse—everyone recognizing me, wanting their slice of me—I don’t think I’m handling it well. I feel this constant pressure, like I’m faking it and people will realize I’m a fraud…I’m frightened of letting people down.
I wanted to vanish for a few hours. I thought I could handle it, but I couldn’t. I drank way too much booze before and after the pill, and my stupid (and fucking selfish) lapse in judgment brought me here, paying the ultimate price—the loss of your trust. I just hope my behaviour won’t result in losing your love, too. I need you, Mouse. I want to be with you, more than anything. All I want is for you to let me prove that. I want to rebuild your trust. I’m desperate to know what you’re thinking. Just say the word and I’ll fly home to talk.
Love, Mark. x
P.S. Please don’t be cross with Freddie. He’s not taking sides. He only wants us back together. I gave him money to fix Lucy’s doorknocker. I’m sorry about that, too.
She read it again…and again. Mark and Fallon split on Mark’s birthday—eight years ago, yesterday. There was something she had to check.
She pulled up Google and typed a web address she knew too well. The usual headlines popped up on her screen: celebrity baby bumps, beach body-ready starlets in bathing suits, and famous couples toting to-go coffees. When the final piece of the Mail’s landing page loaded, her fingers pushed along her laptop’s trackpad, her eyes searching.
And there it was: Mark Keegan’s Birthday Booze Up. She clicked.
He may be one of the most in-demand actors of the past year, but Lairds and Liars hunk Mark Keegan managed to squeeze in a few celebratory drinks for his twenty-sixth birthday. Castmates, crew, and friends joined the rising star last night for festivities at the Long Hall, a traditional Dublin pub dating back to 1881. The Dublin native is home filming his first leading role in A Promise Unspoken, a historical action/drama.
A large photo of Mark, Wink, and a few co-stars—Alex couldn’t remember their names—leaving the pub sat between the paragraphs. She recognized two members of the production crew, including the woman who had helped her back to the hotel on New Year’s Eve. She read further.
Mark wore a knee-length black coat over a blue button-down shirt… blah blah blah…
The next photo was Mark alone in a cab.
With filming scheduled to resume in the morning, Mark and his squad called it an early night, and a fleet of cabs whisked away the revellers by ten P.M. One person was notably absent: the woman locked in Mark’s New Year’s Eve embrace. Fallon Delaney, 25, his co-star in A Promise Unspoken, was nowhere to be seen. When asked about her whereabouts, a source said the two actors dated as teenagers but couldn’t comment on their current relationship status.
Alex grabbed her phone, her thumbs flying over its screen, texting Mark.
You there?
She held her breath. If he was filming, it could be hours before he responded—if he responded at all. He might be pissed off that she hadn’t answered his email. Mark knew it wasn’t her style to ignore them.
Ten seconds later, her phone buzzed—Lucy.
Help! Harry’s mum is suffocating me! She won’t take no for an answer. She’s texted me three times this morning about their annual Alps skiing vacation. Harry’s busy, but she wants me to go even if he can’t.
Alex responded. Go! What do you have to lose?
The three dots bounced as Lucy composed a response.
My lunch, my cool rep, MY LIFE? Fuck. Of all the guys to date, I picked one with pseudo-Olympians for parents. Why can’t they be couch potatoes? Why do they like me SO MUCH? Help! I’m not used to this parent-thing!
Alex smiled. Another text landed on her screen.
I’m here, Mouse x
Her eyes widened. Breathing in slowly, her thumbs took their time to answer.
Did you have a good birthday? She waited…reading it over—twice. With an exhale, she hit send.
Mark replied within seconds.
No. Worst one yet… for obvious reasons. How are you doing?
She bit the inside of her cheek as she typed her response. Sad, nostalgic, lonely. She paused and tapped the delete key, erasing ‘sad’ and ‘nostalgic’. Lonely could stay.
… for obvious reasons. FaceTime this week? We need to talk.
Yes! But I’ll come to you. Does Friday afternoon work?
Yes. x