Killian
Feck.
Had someone moved those steps or added an extra one? Whatever they’ve done, they’re fucking messing with my head here—and my feet. I mean, those steps could kill a man.
Lucky for me, I’ve got lightening reflexes. I can save myself from falling down those last two steps. I swear they weren’t there last time I was here.
From what I can tell, Rebecca didn’t notice anything was amiss. Or she’s simply too fucking polite to point out what a klutz I am. Maybe it’s a combination of both.
We leave the pub behind us and walk home.
I gave Ida the day off.
When I took her out of the stable this morning, she had looked a little sore.
“How’s Ida?” Rebecca asks on cue, and I glance at her sideways.
Is she a witch? Does she actually have warts and green hair, and I just didn’t notice?
“Um...She looked a little sore this morning. I think she needs a new set of shoes, but the farrier can’t come till later in the week.”
“Poor thing. Hope she’s okay.”
For a while, we walk in silence.
I love the feel of her body next to me. It’s more intoxicating than a whisky.
“Look,” I say and point ahead of us. “Here is where you hit me, nearly killed me.”
In horror, Rebecca brings her hand to her mouth.
“Oh god, don’t remind me,” she mumbles. “I still have nightmares about that accident. I mean, imagine if I’d seriously hurt you.”
I turn to her and grab her hands.
“But you didn’t seriously hurt me. You only hurt me this much.”
I have to let go of her to indicate the width with both hands. After I’ve made my point, I reach for her hand again. We continue walking side by side, holding hands.
It feels fucking good to hold her hand. I almost hate how good it fucking feels.
“So, what’s life like around here?” she asks.
I can feel her eyes on me, and I shoot her another sideways look.
What is life like around here?
Wouldn’t she have some idea by now?
I’m honestly not sure how to fucking answer this.
One would think she just asked me to multiply five million six hundred and fifty-six thousand by three hundred and eighty-eight.
Actually, I might have some hope of being able to answer a multiplication question. I mean, a multiplication question has a specific answer—and if I reach for my phone I can work it out.
For this question, there’s nothing to reach for except my own thoughts.
“You know, it’s great,” I reply knowing goddamn well that it sounds fucking lame.
She laughs, and I can feel her squeeze my hand.
“Okay. Tell me more about these great days you have here.”
After an inward grumble, I try and think of something to say. “It’s nice. It’s peaceful and…you know.”
There, I had strung about three words together.
“If I didn’t know you were a writer,” she says, nuzzling into me, “I wouldn’t have guessed it. Don’t you like it? Are you living here because, you know…”
She’s not making fun of the way I answered. She’s implying something else.
It’s as clear as all those fucking stars in the sky right now what she means.
She wants to know if I’m living here because I’m hiding from life.
I shake my head.
“No. I’m from here. But that’s still a tough fucking question to answer. Whether I like it, why I like it...you’ve put me on the spot. It’s like someone asking you for your phone number and even though you know it, you can’t straight away think of it because it’s kind of buried deep in your memory.”
“Wow. There are some great ideas there.”
“How about you?” I decide to change the subject. “Your life in the USA—what’s that like?”
The clouds I’ve seen in her eyes before return. I’m almost sorry I’ve asked.
“Unlike you, I can’t say it’s been nice.”
She pauses. I don’t think it’s for dramatic effect. She seems to be walking down her own memory lane, picking and choosing what she’s going to share with me.
I’m okay with that.
“So, my marriage was shit. And I think when a large part of your life is shit, most of your life seems that way. I mean, that’s the reason I came here—I needed to get away from the toxicity of him and all that was associated with him...and the city, I guess.”
I don’t say anything. I listen. My thumb is caressing the top of her hand.
“Negativity is a real and destructive thing. It seems to invade everything. Before you know it, you wake up negative, you spend the day negative, and you go to bed negative.”
She sounds lost in thought.
We keep walking side by side, two kindred spirits who’ve found each other after being lost in the woods for so long.
“Negativity breeds negativity. It’s really hard being creative when the world around you is negative and toxic.”
“But things are better now?” I press.
She nods.
“Things are definitely better. This place, everything is amazing.”
I suddenly know what to say.
“The best thing about living here is your freedom. I mean, you don’t have far to go to leave civilization behind and get in touch with nature. Getting in touch with nature cleanses you. At least, it cleanses me.”
Rebecca nods.
“And Ida helps,” I add. “Being responsible for another living being adds another dimension to life. And not just any being, but a truly noble majestic being.”
“Have you had her long?”
I chuckle.
“Let me put it this way. I don’t remember my life without her. Ever since she came into my life, it’s not been the same again. I swear sometimes, I think she’s possessed, the way she can read me; my grandmother reincarnated.”
She laughs, a soft laugh.
“I’ve always wanted a horse,” she mumbles and descends into silence again.
“Well...” I clear my throat. “Ida seems to like you, which is like a big deal. You can always share her, now that we’ve got you know...”
Okay, it’s best I stop there.
“What does an author do all day?”
It’s probably a good thing she doesn’t pick up that last conversational thread where I dropped it.
“Read, write, read, write—and did I mention I read?”
Rebecca shakes her head. “What do you like to read?”
I mull over the question.
“It’s not so much reading what I like to read. I think the trick is to read widely, read out of your comfort zone, and most importantly, read every book like a writer.”
“Wow.”
“But,” I say, leaning into her, “I confess I do like some of the Irish authors. I’m partial to Niall Williams, and who doesn’t like Maeve Binchy?”
Her hair smells of sweetness, desire, and a field of wildflowers in full bloom.
I kiss the top of her head. The silkiness of her hair is like a balm to my soul.
All I can think of is running my fingers through her hair and pulling that face of hers close to mine for a kiss. Before I can act on my impulse, she starts to trip.
It plays out in slow motion.
Arms flail as her upper body bends forward at the hips. Just in time, I manage to grab her arm and shoulder.
But I’m not fast enough.
All I’m able to do is slow the inevitable and soften her landing. Together, as one, we land in the dirt on the side of the road, and she rolls on top of me.
“You okay?” she whispers, her eyes searching mine.
For some reason, I’m choked up with emotions, and no words escape my lips.
I nod.
With my right hand, I brush a strand of hair out of her face while my left one caresses her cheek. My thumb finds her lip.
I can feel her breathing become short and shallow.
Finally, my voice obeys me again. “And you?”
“Never better,” she whispers.
I watch as her mouth comes closer. Her lips are parted, and I can see the tip of her tongue poke through between those pearly white teeth.
She comes crushing down on me, and instantly, our tongues are locked in a dance of passion. As we kiss, I let my hand travel up her back and unclasp her bra. With easy access, I move around to her front and push up under the flimsy material to find her tight nipples.
A moan escapes her lips, a moan smothered by our kiss.
Time suddenly stands still.
There’s nothing else but Rebecca’s body, her lips and this kiss.
I wish this moment would last forever.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see a shooting star, and I make a wish.
I wish for my own happily ever after and for this kiss to go on.