15. Kieran
Chapter 15
Kieran
“D addy!” Aoife’s excited voice when I walk through the school’s doors to pick her up makes taking the time to do so today worth it. She went back to school three days ago, and when I told Allie I wanted to pick her up today, she told me it was a good idea. I should make the effort more often.
“Hey, little love. How was your day?” I hug Aoife tightly, kneeling on the green Ardenbrook seal on the marble floor entryway where the preschoolers get picked up.
We have about ten minutes before the other grades get dismissed and head to the carpool, so I stand, scanning the entryway. I’m semi-frantic that I won’t see her, and I’m not sure why. I crane my neck, hoping to glimpse her slender figure. My gaze lands on an unfamiliar older woman clutching a clipboard. She looks to be in her mid-sixties, her silver hair neatly styled, a red scarf knotted on her neck.
I meet Aoife’s hopeful stare. “Who’s that woman over there?”
“Oh. She’s our pretend teacher for the day?”
My brows dive before I finally realize what she’s saying. “She was your substitute teacher today?”
“Uh-huh. Miss Smith is out sick.”
I frown, swallowing a knot in my throat that’s quickly replaced by another in my stomach. It twists, growing tighter.
Sick? Summer’s sick? She no doubt caught whatever Aoife and Allie had. The flu or Covid. Perhaps some other virus. Either way, a weird crushing feeling replaces the anticipation of seeing her.
Escorting Aoife to the car and getting her buckled into her seat, I make the drive back home where Allie waits with hot chocolate and a board game on the island.
When I linger in the kitchen, stealing a few marshmallows from the bag next to Aoife’s cup, it earns me a perplexing look from Allie.
“Summer’s sick,” I blurt out, and both Aoife and Allie look at me.
Allie’s mouth drops open, then closes before she says, “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“I miss her.” Aoife blows on her mug of liquid chocolate and takes a sip. “We should make her soup. She made us soup.”
A slow smile builds on Allie’s face as she looks at me. “That she did.”
My fingers tingle at the side of my suit pants. Should I check on her? She’s sick because of my home after all. But I didn’t ask her to come inside and play nursemaid. I lean forward on the counter before stepping back to pace. I have her number, saved it on my phone the day she left me the voicemail—do I call? Text?
Twisting my cuff links, I walk to peek out the window. I turn back toward Allie, and she nods at me.
What? I want to ask. But deep down I have a feeling I know. I was so rude to her after she took the time to help. I owe her this.
“I’ll be back later,” I say, finally putting an end to my pacing. I kiss Aoife and grab my coat, running to my car before backing out of my driveway once more.
After a quick stop at O’Brien’s for some Irish stew and to grab Summer’s address from Cormac, I make the trek outside of Boston. I’m in awe that someone with a job in the heart of the city lives so far out. She doesn’t have a car that I know of. I believe she takes public transportation; or Ubers, considering she waited at the end of my driveway for a ride almost a week ago. That had to be expensive, and I toy with the idea of reimbursing her.
The potholes in this area outside Boston are exceptionally uncared for, and my car bumps down the narrow street as I search for the address Cormac gave me on a Post-it note, of all things. I glance down some sketchy alleyways and a few run-down buildings.
She lives around here?
Finally, I spot the address in gold numbers on the windows of a music shop and squint at the closed building. Huh?
Pulling over on the street to park, I notice a side door next to the music shop entrance with the same numerical address. A second-floor balcony sits above the glass windows of the shop.
Does she live above this music shop?
I climb out of the car, slipping on ice as I move to the passenger side and end up catching myself on my Audi’s side mirror. Shite. I’m a mess. Without a coat on, I reach into the passenger seat and grab the stew and a few other items I had Lizzy toss in the bag.
I turn to the door, wondering if I should knock. I try it first and it opens. A narrow set of steps greets me. It’s dimly lit, but I climb the stairs to another door at the top anyway.
Should I have called first? What am I doing here? Indecision wars inside me.
Drop the food as an apology for my behavior and as a gesture of kindness, then leave. That’s what I tell myself. Unfortunately, I don’t buy it. Me? Kind?
After I reach the top of the steps, I pause. What the?—
Five deadbolt locks sit above the doorhandle. They vary in size, the largest near the top and the smallest at the bottom. Either Summer Smith doesn’t want people getting into her apartment or her landlord is paranoid about keeping their tenants safe.
Mind second-guessing each action, I finally raise my fist to knock with three loud thuds to the door. On the third one, a nasally gasp comes from behind the door, followed by a throaty, “Just a second.”
There’s a crash, and the sound of something metal hitting the floor. Then the clicking starts. Each lock sliding one at a time.
My heart races. Whether it’s from my patience wearing thin from the need to see her, or the tiny red flags being raised in the back of my mind, I’m not sure.
At the click of what sounds like the last lock, the door slides open, only for a chain to catch it and prevent it from widening farther. My gaze falters—Summer.
Her short hair is pulled back into a messy ponytail, and her heavy-lidded eyes—redder than freshly picked cherries—widen in surprise as she takes in who’s knocking at her door.
“Oh! Jeez.” She wheezes before it turns into a cough. Her hands are wrapped around a metal baseball bat, tucked into the sleeves of an oversized Harvard sweatshirt that makes me want to investigate whose it is.
“Ye plannin’ on bludgeoning the germs with that?”
She sniffles, batting the unruly pieces of her hair out of her face. “ What are you doing here?”
I glance at her red nose, then up to the heavy bags above her cheeks that contrast with her normally dewy tan complexion. They look like deep craters gouged into her skin, and I wonder if she’s only sick, or if she’s not sleeping.
“Mr. O’Donnell,” Summer hacks.
I notice she hasn’t deposited the bat yet and I raise my eyebrows at her, allowing her to follow my gaze to the myriad of deadbolts, though she says nothing. Instead, she moves the metal object to stand near the door beside her. The movement beckons my attention to her bare legs, in what looks like fuzzy pajama shorts.
I internally berate myself.
I’ve seen plenty of female’s legs. But hers …
“I brought ye some Irish stew.” I hold up the bag. “I-I’m sorry for me behavior while ye were trying to help Allie and Aoife. I really appreciate it.”
Summer raises her eyebrows, but then she looks at the bag I’m holding out in front of her. “I’ll take the stew, but don’t expect some I-forgive-you speech. I barely have a voice left.”
“Fair enough. I’ll accept yer forgiveness in the form of ye not sneezing on me.”
She scoffs, then wrinkles her nose.
The corner of my mouth threatens a smile. Why does she rile me up? Make me want to play, to banter. She’s young and witty, and it almost makes me forget who I am. That I’m on the verge of being too old for anyone to love. She makes me want, and that’s dangerous.
Summer closes the door and I listen as she removes the chain. Part of me wants to tell her it doesn’t do anything. That a man half my size could kick in this door, but it’s clear she’s afraid of something. Maybe living alone in this area of town frightens her?
When the door opens again, she sticks her hand out for the bag. My plan to leave tumbles down the stairs as quickly as my resolve, and I hold on to the bag, striding into her apartment. Or maybe it’s a room?
“Hey!” She stumbles after me, letting the door slam shut. “What are you doing?”
She asks me a second time and I couldn’t answer if I tried because I have no idea.
She has no kitchen, not really. A countertop the size of a cutting board is next to a stove, which is next to a fridge that sits against a wall. Across from that is a little sitting area, and behind that is an unmade bed with balls of tissues scattered all over it.
Summer darts in front of me, diving toward her bed and gathering the used tissues in her arms.
“Don’t be cleanin’ up on me account.” I smirk as she growls at me.
“Oh, but I wouldn’t want your pristine, expensive suit to sit so close to my germ-infected tissues.”
She scurries to the trash, but my view stays glued to the bed, the twitch of a smile blooming on my mouth. “Ye want me in yer bed?”
Her eyes blow wide. “What? No!”
She dumps the tissues into the trash can. Her sweatshirt is so oversized it falls down over her shorts, making it look as if she’s got nothing on underneath. I shake my head.
“Seriously, Kieran. Why are you in my apartment?”
I blink. Does she realize she’s been calling me Kieran more often? I opt not to bring attention to it, hoping she might use my name more. “I’d hardly classify this as an apartment.”
“We can’t all live in beautiful houses. Someone has to occupy these, oh so lowly buildings.” She moves to her kitchenette and grabs two clean bowls from the one and only cabinet and lifts one. “Want some?” Then she motions to the bag I’m still holding.
“Oh, no. It’s for ye.” I make to move forward to bring her the soup, but something brushes up against my leg and I nearly jump at the sensation.
Summer laughs. “That’s Deuce, sorry.”
Wrapped around my suit pants is a gray, mangy-looking animal and I practically have to shake it off as I hop toward Summer.
“He won’t bite.”
“Aye, but how do I know that?”
She considers, then shrugs. “Guess you don’t.”
I hand her the stew, and she opens the to-go container, scooping the warm meal into her bowl. She tucks one foot over the other, bending her leg at the knee so it swings back and forth casually as she dips her spoon in for a bite.
She groans. “Jeez. That’s good!”
“Glad ye approve.” I watch her mouth move as she eats and then swallows.
“How’s Aoife?”
“Much better. Not thrilled with her substitute teacher. She calls her a pretend teacher.”
Summer giggles, raspy. “That’s too cute.”
“Aye,” I say, meeting her star-eyed expression before dropping to my shoes. I tuck my hands into my pockets. This feels weird. Am I being the old guy creeping on his daughter’s preschool teacher? I sigh, recognizing that I should leave. But not before I know she’s okay.
“Ye’re feeling all right then?”
She tilts her head. “Yeah. My fever broke in the middle of the night last night. Just going to give myself a day or two more before returning to work.”
“Right. Well, I best be on me way then.” I hesitate a moment before striding to the door. I eye the metal bat. “Ye runnin’ from somethin’?”
It’s a joke, but the way her eyes bulge …
She rapidly shakes her head, and unease creeps into my chest. She is, isn’t she?
“Of course not,” she touts, shoving another spoonful of stew into her mouth.
As she chews, I open the door, glancing back at her just in time to see her swallow, then worry with her lower lip. I stare at her.
“Thank you, Kieran. For the stew.”
I backpedal out the door. “Aye. Feel better, Summer.”
When the door closes behind me, I stand there. Listening for the click of each deadbolt as they slide back into place. When I’m sure the last lock clacks closed, I jog down the stairs.