Chapter Sixteen
Sixteen
Where has drinking heavily been all my life? Turns out I have no notes for the practice—keep up the good work, alcohol.
“Damn,” Molly cheers as we slam our shot glasses on the party’s makeshift bar. “You’re an animal.”
“It’s just so fun,” I say, though it comes out like isjusofun.
“Small-town mots are always deadly on the lash,” Conor says thoughtfully. “Not much else to do if yer a culchie.”
“Hey.” I cross my arms at him. “I’m not a— Cherry Grove has…it has all the things…to do all the things.”
Oh, God, my head—
Conor laughs good-naturedly and sips his drink. Or drinks…everything is a little multiplied right now.
“How about some water?” Indy suggests. She nods to the bartender, who brings a glass over for me, but I don’t want it.
All I want is to be drunker. The four shots I took with Molly and the two with Lionel have done wonders for all those pesky bad feelings.
The guilt that runs through my mind like a subway car every time I think of leaving my mom behind.
Or how much I don’t miss home even though I know I should.
Or how I’ve been avoiding calling her. Or Halloran’s pained expression.
The stomach-dropping fear that accompanies all the gooey emotions I have for him. The unrelenting, inexcusable longing…
“Another, please,” I ask the bartender sweetly, waggling my shot glass.
“I don’t think so, party girl,” Indy says. “Bus is leaving soon, we gotta go.”
“But I love it here,” I whine. “What kind of bus leaves at midnight?”
“It’s past two,” Conor lilts. “Such is life on the road. But you’re bang on at that, aren’t you, blondie?” Conor finishes off his drink and makes his way out of the party, a pretty blur looped around his arm.
I cannot get back in that bus. I can’t face Halloran again. And with the alcohol, I don’t have to.
“Shit,” Indy breathes. “Jen’s calling. Keep an eye on her, will you, Molly?”
Indy wanders off into the party, phone pressed to her ear, and when I turn around, Molly’s talking to Pete, black-tipped fingers pressed against his solid chest.
I stare down at my own hands. I had a chance to press them against Halloran’s chest, and I blew it. What is wrong with me? This vodka cranberry with its decorative little lime tells me if I keep drinking, I never have to answer that question.
“All alone?” a man croons beside me. When I look up from my drink, I notice how wrinkly and fake-tanned his face is. He’s got to be at least fifty.
I scan the bar area for Molly and Pete, but they’ve disappeared. Probably off kissing. Lucky jerks.
“Can I get you something?” the tanned man asks.
“No,” a thick Irish brogue cuts in. My entire body vibrates at the sound. “She’s fine, thanks.”
Halloran’s come up behind me and placed his hand on the bar around my back. He doesn’t touch me, though, not even the sleeve of his jacket, and I sip my drink to stifle the irritation.
The man with the fake tan sneers. “What are you, her dad?”
“I don’t have a dad,” I supply, to be helpful.
Fake Tan directs his attention back to me. His eyes linger on the deep V of my dress. “I could be your daddy, sweetheart.”
“Christ.” Halloran sighs. It’s almost a chuckle. He’s so calm.
I stick my tongue out in disgust. “Yuck.”
But the older man only grins, scooting closer to me. “You won’t be saying that when—”
“Enough now,” Halloran growls. He’s not laughing anymore. “Clem—”
“Wait a second. I know you…” the man says. “You’re that singer.”
“Quite a few of them here. Have a good one.” Halloran moves to usher me away from the bar and I grasp my drink tightly as if it’s the last life vest on a sinking ship. But the tanned man grabs Halloran’s forearm, stopping us from leaving. In my head, an entire crowd goes ooooh.
Halloran glares at the old man. “You can’t be serious.”
“The lady wants to stay.”
I squint. Fake Tan has some white stuff under his nose.
Halloran’s eyes widen on me, and I can tell he’s suppressing a laugh. I wonder if I might have made my observation out loud. I’m too drunk to be embarrassed and I add another mental tally to the reasons I love drinking chart.
“I’m sure she does,” Halloran says to the man, who still has his grubby fingers on his arm. “But she’s got a bus to catch.”
Fake Tan goes as red as his faux bronze complexion will allow. “You listen to me, you long-haired, Bono-wannabe fuck—”
He doesn’t even get to finish the insult.
An unbothered Halloran removes the man’s grip with ease and scoops me into his arms like I’m a damsel.
He carries me right out of the party and the world cartwheels.
I want to kick and make a scene like the girls in the movies do— put me down, you animal!
— but his arms are as sturdy as tree trunks.
And his chest…it’s more comfortable than my bunk on the bus.
I nuzzle into him like a newborn kitten.
“I’m dizzy,” I admit.
“That can happen when you drink your body weight in vodka.”
“I was so rude to you.”
“Nah,” he says as he lopes down the path. He isn’t even winded. “You were honest.”
“But I wasn’t.”
Halloran says nothing and I wish I had another drink.
“You should have punched that man,” I add a few moments later. Frankly, I wish I’d punched the man for him.
“I dunno how much that would have accomplished.”
“It would’ve been very satisfying.”
“Violence rarely is.”
I make an aggravated noise into his chest, but accidentally get a whiff of that bar-soap, post-rain scent.
I’m desperate for more, and less inhibited than usual—meaning I press my face right into his collarbone and inhale like a Hoover, looping my arms around his strong neck.
The dreamy sigh that floats out of me sounds like when you bite into a microwaved donut. Mmmphf.
The sturdy muscles under his jacket go rigid, and I’ve invaded enough of his personal space to hear his heart kick up speed.
But he just allows me to run my hands over his chest and broad shoulders.
He’s as tense as a coiled fist but only holds me closer to him, charitably offering me a bit more to feel.
My fingers creep up his neck and I stroke the stubble under his chin and at his Adam’s apple.
Memories of our kiss flood me and I bury myself farther into his shoulder, hoping to be absorbed by the sheer weight of him.
“Shite,” Halloran curses.
I rear my head back from his chest and try not to dry heave at the whirling trees and streetlamps. “What is it?”
“The bus is gone.”
For no good reason, this is the funniest thing I’ve ever heard. The bus—our tour bus—left without its star. I laugh so hard I sneeze and snot comes out my nose. I am a pretty princess tonight.
“I’m glad you’re enjoyin’ yourself,” he grumbles, but I can hear the warmth in his voice.
“You can put me down,” I say between fits of laughter.
The bus is gone because Halloran was pulling me—a woman who doesn’t even drink—away from the bar .
More laughter. More snot. Halloran doesn’t put me down.
Instead he hurries us back inside, where the music makes my head spin faster.
At this rate this party is going to go until next year.
Halloran talks to a Rhett-shaped blob but I can’t really hear either of them.
Everything is textured with black spots and thumping bass.
I’m vaguely aware that I’m still scooped up in his arms like a rag doll and embarrassment begins to sink in.
I squirm to be put down, but Halloran only grips me closer to him.
“Stop that,” he says against my ear.
“White knight looks good on you, Tommy,” Rhett jokes.
“He’s not a knight, he’s just from Ireland ,” I slur.
“Oh, man.” Rhett laughs. “She’s a keeper.”
“She needs sleep,” Halloran grunts as he tucks me even closer into his chest.
Before I can muster a response, Halloran is carrying me up the stairs.
It’s quieter up here, and even quieter still when he ducks us into a dark bedroom.
The door closes behind us and I am gently deposited on a bed.
The sheets are cool on my flushed face and while I’m relishing that sensation, Halloran is turning on the bedside lamp.
I blink my eyes back open—I hadn’t even realized they were closed.
The room is a bit fuzzy but I can make out a flat-screen TV, fur throw, white sheets, a few giant candles on the mantel…
This room looks like one from MTV Cribs .
Someone has definitely said this is where the magic happens about this bed.
I can still hear the music pumping up from downstairs, but it’s fainter. I only notice then that Halloran is on the phone, though his gaze sweeps over me, assessing. “Well, we’re not on the bus, now are we?”
Silence. Someone is laughing on the other line. A man.
My ankles are aching. I am determined to get these stilettos off. I yank as hard as I can—almost, so close…
And topple right off the bed onto the concrete floor, elbow first. Pain blossoms and I whine like a puppy.
“Shite,” Halloran says into the phone, racing over to me.
“Yeah.” A pause as he pulls me up and deposits me back on the bed.
“Sweet Clem is battered,” he says, searching me for injury, phone cradled between his ear and shoulder.
Tears have gathered in my eyes and they multiply when he finds my elbow.
“We’ll meet you in Portland for sound check.
Just tell Jen it’s me.” More listening as he props me carefully against the pillows, stealing one to put under my arm.
Another laugh sounds on the other end. “Feck off,” Halloran says good-naturedly.
One last pause, and then a hurried but genuine, “All right. Thanks.”
Halloran sits down on the bed and tucks my feet into his lap. Gently, he undoes the buckles of my pesky heels, allowing them to slip to the ground. My feet swell in all the places the shoes were constricting blood flow, so everywhere.
“Are we in trouble?” I sound seven years old. My elbow pulses in pain. I wonder if my chin is wobbling.
Halloran’s eyes find mine in the low light, his thumb stroking over my ankle in sympathy. “We aren’t, love.”
I have my first bone to pick with alcohol because my vision is too blurred to see Halloran’s expression as he says the word.
I know he didn’t mean to call me that. But for a moment, I allow myself to think it wasn’t a slipup.
That he’s mine, and I am his. Some part of me—one I wish I could call lost, but know, deep down, never even existed in the first place—comes alive at the thought.
When I sit up a bit to get a better look at my elbow, Halloran draws in a ragged breath and leans close. I feel his hand brush my upper arm and my skin heats—until I realize he’s slipping the strap of my dress back up over my shoulder. His eyes stay on my face as he does so.
“I’m not wearing a bra because of Molly.”
“In any other instance I’d give Molly a token of my gratefulness. My house. Perhaps my firstborn.”
I snort and then tip back into the over-fluffed pillows.
Everything feels like I’m underwater. His glorious jaw and hair are backlit by the bedside lamp.
At some point he’s opened a window and alongside the swirls of fresh night air, the music from the party funnels in a bit louder.
We sit for a while in that music-tinged silence, my feet in his lap.
“We’re on a road to nowhere, come on inside.”
“I love this song,” I slur. My head is a carousel on fast-forward.
“Talking Heads,” he agrees quietly.
“Takin’ that ride to nowhere, we’ll take that ride.”
“It’s me,” I say. Going nowhere fast. My anthem.
Halloran turns to me and cocks his head. A beat later, in some pained realization of what I meant, he utters, “Jesus, Clem.”
His pity knots my stomach. Pity and…far too much booze.
I scramble off the bed and dart into the bathroom just in time to purge every mistake I’ve made tonight into the toilet.