Rebecca
Well, this is surely the last thing I expected to see.
Not Killian taking down a glass of whiskey. That’s too fucking expected in any day ending with y, especially down at the local pub where they seem to have no issues enabling every one of his bad habits.
Okay, one of his worst habits. It’s a fucking big one, but...
Seeing Killian pour amber poison straight from a poorly-cleaned glass right down his throat is not what’s taking me by surprise in this moment.
It’s the face he seems to be making after each swallow. And sometimes, in between—although there doesn’t seem to be many gaps.
“Okay. Okay,” Killian weirdly repeats the word as he finishes his latest glass.
The way he says it doesn’t sound to me like he’s saying okay, I’m done, that’s enough for tonight. His inflection seems to be saying, okay, I’m finished with that one—boy, this is hard work, but I’ve got a lot more drinking to do tonight.
Killian raises his arm in a quick, subtle gesture—for him, I’m sure it’s enough for the barman to come rushing over with more whiskey.
It takes a lot more for me to get anyone’s attention around here—but I’m not fucking Killian, am I?
Killian takes a sip from his pint of Arthur, which I thought was meant as a chaser. A chaser for each sip I mean, not for each glass.
And he fucking grimaces after that sip.
Of fucking Guinness.
It reminds me of my friend Steph’s twenty-first birthday, years ago.
Even then, she’s not someone I saw make any sort of intense face for any reason. The only expression Steph was known for was a warm smile, or a wonderful look of empathy as you unloaded whatever petty drama was going on in your life.
Yes, even at that age, that was something I could always rely on her for.
But the evening of her twenty-first, at some bar in Silverlake, our mutual friend, Cathy, her eyes full of impish glee, had her own wise idea of buying Steph her first shot of whiskey.
I don’t remember what sort of whiskey it was—not Jameson or anything like that, for sure—most likely, it was a shitty well bourbon that the bar got super cheap in bulk.
Smiling politely, Steph held up the glass, looking at it as if it were some handmade piece of art Cathy crafted just for her.
“Just take the fucking shot, that’s what it was meant for,” Cathy instructed our friend. “Just down the fuckin’ hatch, girl, that’s the way to do it.”
Steph poured the shot down as advised, and what spread across her face, almost instantly, was one of the most pained grimaces I’ve ever seen. A few seconds later, Steph had recovered and joined us in our hysterical laughter.
That’s still a treasured memory of mine, but seeing nearly the same grimace from Killian, repeatedly, for seemingly no reason at all at this point, is putting new, unwelcome dimensions on that grimace.
Much of the time I’ve spent with Killian, both years ago and now, has been intimate in many ways. But that doesn’t mean I know him.
Obviously, there’s a gap between how well I know Killian physically, and how well I know him otherwise. Tonight, I’m learning just how wide that gap is.
If I want to close that gap, I have a lot of catching up to do.
That’s a big if, and it gets bigger with every goddamned grimace he makes.
“Is the Guinness harsh tonight?” I ask.
I don’t know what response to expect. A laugh would be nice, at least for breaking some of this mysterious tension. Another fucking grimace would be something, I guess.
All I get is a shrug.
Followed by another gulp of Guinness.
Followed, a few seconds later, by yet another sour face. It looks like he’s trying to hide it a little, now that I’ve called him out on it.
His latest scowl is followed by a bit of a clue. I’ve already figured it wasn’t the taste of the alcohol that was inspiring Killian’s pained expressions, and his eyes traveling to the left somewhere confirms that his mind is on something in another part of the pub.
The joint is crowded tonight—it could be a lot of things.
Maybe there’s some other woman he’s seeing, maybe another woman he has a baby agreement with. Maybe she’s another American, too, and they met in Dublin when he was there to sign his latest publishing contract, and now she unexpectedly showed up at his local pub...
Fuck it—I take a look over there myself.
Okay, I wasn’t expecting to see all these grimaces from Killian tonight—why would I? However, I should’ve expected the reason for it by now.
There’s Brian Flanagan, standing by the bar, half-leaning against it elegantly, absorbed in conversation with two women who’ve clearly made their way to the bar just to talk to him.
Fuck, I never knew posture could be elegant, but then, I never knew Brian Flanagan was such a charming presence in person. Thinking about it, it might be the reason behind his success.
I’ve read a couple of Flanagan’s books, and I’ve figured there may have been some other reason behind his success than his writing.
Some of it is okay, but he’s not in the same league as Killian Walsh, even though they’re considered peers.
Admittedly, wrapped up in the moment with Flanagan just a few minutes ago, I was so impressed that for a moment his writing became better in my mind.
The spell, for me, is already broken. I mean, he’s still obviously an attractive, stylish, pleasant, delightfully gregarious...
Killian slams his pint glass down on the table as if he could hear my thoughts. Not hard enough to break it, fortunately.
“Careful there, Mr. Walsh.” A bartender I’ve never seen before is there to deliver Killian’s whiskey. “I don’t know if your next royalty check’s going to cover a new table.”
“I told you to call me fucking Killian.”
The statement itself is kind of funny, but Killian’s tone of voice is frightening the living shit out of me. The fact that this is the first thing I’ve heard him say in ages makes it even worse.
“Well, Fucking Killian, please restrain from slamming any more of our pint glasses, at least until you have a new best seller.”
“Keep bringing the whiskeys, Rowan, and stop bringing the fucking lip.”
“How much more whiskey do you really think you’ll be needing tonight, Fucking Killian?”
There’s a flash of shame in Killian’s eyes as he registers the question from this Rowan guy—who, I’m deciding, I like very much.
Well, I’d like him more if he didn’t bring Killian the whiskey at all, but on the other hand, I’m not sure why I even give a shit anymore.
“Fuck this.” Killian takes the whiskey down in a single swallow, turns his head to where Flanagan is standing, and very slowly turns back to the table. “We’re getting the fuck out of here, Rowan, since you clearly don’t need our business.”
“Well, Mr. Fucking Killian, I don’t know how we’ll survive without providing you any more free drinks tonight, but I can’t make you stay if you don’t want to.”
Rowan leaves, maybe wisely, with that last quip, and Killian almost falls out of his chair before bumbling over to the exit.
I follow, trying halfheartedly to catch up.
Truthfully, I’m fine with leaving the pub at this point. But I’m not ecstatic about spending more time with Killian.
“Nice to see you didn’t abandon me,” he mutters when I finally catch up with him outside.
I say nothing.
What I wouldn’t give for a taxi right now, or a friend to call and pick me up. But here in the open air, on this path, it’s too easy to storm off somewhere.
On top of that, it’s getting to the point I should probably make sure Killian gets home okay.
But, goddamn it. This is all starting to feel too fucking familiar: the fear of what his mood is going to be like from one moment to the next, or what’s going to set him off, or even what’s really upsetting him.
That’s the worst part about this now familiar situation. Even if he’s in a fantastic mood tomorrow, you don’t know when that storm cloud is going to float back in again.
Maybe Ireland is just the same as anywhere else.