Chapter 37
thirty-seven
CIAR
Two months after the night Gray ran out of what was meant to be their house, Ciar and Imogen were enjoying a quiet Sunday afternoon watching television and playing on the couch.
It was Tina’s afternoon off. He’d barely spoken to the woman after the stunt she pulled with Gray. She finally unbent a couple of weeks ago and apologized. Not a great apology, but it was something at least.
He was still furious, more so with himself. Had he taken control that night and told her everything he’d done, everything he hoped for, and all the things he was sorry for, it might have ended differently.
Instead, he froze, became tongue-tied, and gave Gray nothing. She had been the one to reach out first, and he crashed and burned.
As Imogen gnawed her soft bunny into a slobbery mess, he leaned his head back on the couch. Why couldn’t he just tell her how he was feeling?
For weeks, he’d gone over every word she’d said that night. It was possible that she had come hoping he’d fight for her, and when he didn’t, she asked for a clean slate between them.
For the most part, his friends avoided him. He didn’t blame them. When Daniel, Jonathan, and even Dagr spoke to him after that night and found out he hadn’t explained anything to her, Ciar was very aware of their disappointment.
His dad had come by last week to visit his granddaughter and stayed after Imogen went down for her nap.
His dad asked, “Why are you doing this, son? Your silence is hurting both you and Gray. Hell, it’s hurting all your friends.
“They rarely come into Murphy’s, and I haven’t seen Gray since our last meeting about Gray Eyes. It’s like everyone’s holding their breath, afraid to hope, but afraid to let the idea of you two go.
“Don’t you still love her?”
Ciar startled at the question. “Love her? I never, that is, she might have—”
“Christ Almighty, boy. Did you never tell the girl that you loved her?”
“I didn’t,” he replied hotly. “I don’t. I care for her.”
Love was pain. His mother taught him that.
“Cut the shit,” his dad demanded, slapping his palm against the kitchen counter where they were seated. “You’ve mooned over that girl for years.”
Ciar gritted his teeth, swallowing the denial. “How did you know that?” he asked instead.
“I’m your father, and I watched you watch Gray. I knew why you didn’t pursue her initially. You were older, but once she was of age, I never understood why you didn’t.”
“She didn’t think of me that way, and I didn’t want to ruin our friendship over trying,” he admitted, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms over his chest defensively.
“Children,” his dad muttered under his breath. “Gray watched you every second you weren’t watching her. She always loved you. I imagine she still does, you idiot. What are you so afraid of? Why can’t you admit your feelings? If not to her, then at least to yourself.”
“I don’t know.” What a childish, lame excuse.
“Is this to do with,” he hesitated, and Ciar instantly felt his body flush with red-hot fury, “before you came to live with me?”
Ciar stood so quickly that the tall, heavy barstool flew back, crashing to the floor and probably waking Imogen. He rubbed his shaking hands over his buzzcut, feeling the prickly ends sting his fingertips.
“Go home.”
“Ciar,” his dad said sadly, “I didn’t mean—”
“Go home,” he repeated, not looking at his father.
Sighing, his dad stood and walked to the entrance. He paused in the open doorway but didn’t turn around. “Don’t let you past destroy your future, son. More than you’ve already let it, because you do love Gray MacGregor. Time to face your demons, boy.”
And then he was gone, and Ciar was wrecked. He would have grabbed the bottle of vodka from his liquor cabinet had his daughter not chosen to wake up screaming for his attention.
One week had gone by, and he was still shaken from his dad’s words. They had bored into his chest and sat there aching.
Looking at Imogen lying on the couch cushion by his side, her delighted smile as her chubby feet held her bunny over her head couldn’t even relieve the pressure. He absently rubbed his chest, but nothing soothed the pain.
It was dinnertime, and Ciar was contemplating a plate of cold lasagna in the refrigerator when his phone buzzed. He would have blushed had anyone been there to see him dive for his pocket. Loneliness wasn’t a good look on him.
His brows lifted in surprise. It was a text from Mags.
Mags: What are you doing?
Ciar: Nothing. At home.
Mags: Buy me dinner at Gray Eyes. I have something I want to discuss with you.
Mags: I’ll be there in twenty.
Ciar: Okay.
“Holy shit,” he swore as he lifted Imogen up to his face. “Daddy’s got plans, little one.” Imogen patted his cheeks with slobbery hands as he ripped across the room and ran up the stairs to bang on Tina’s door and asked her to give Imogen her dinner and bath.
Mags surely wanted to speak to him about Gray. Surely.
In the downstairs primary, he tore his clothes off, leaving a trail to the bathroom and was showered, shaved, and redressed in slacks and a dress shirt in twelve minutes.
He texted Tina as he slipped into his leather shoes, saying he was going out for a couple of hours and to call him if she needed anything.
He ran out the front door just as his Uber was pulling up. He could have easily walked the few blocks, but he was down to seven minutes, and he refused to show up sweaty and winded.
Mags’ Uber pulled up right after he exited his, so he walked to her door and helped her out. Her usual mischievous grin or trademark glare were missing. Her features were purposefully smooth, devoid of emotion, but he noticed she was gripping her purse with excessive force.
She was nervous. This might not be a conversation he wanted to hear, because it was clear she didn’t want to have it either.
As they walked toward the entrance, he asked, “Why did you want to meet here and not somewhere closer to your house?”
“I’ve heard the food here is to die for, and I wanted to try it and let you pay for it. Starving artist here.” She raised her hand like she was in school.
Ciar only grunted. He forgot sometimes that not all of his friends were wealthy. He wondered if Mags ever minded the disparity. Knowing her, probably not at all.
The host recognized Ciar and took him to a small table near the back bar. Mags ordered a rum and Coke, and he asked for his regular Absolute over ice with a squeeze of lime.
When drinks arrived, and they placed food orders, she still hadn’t said anything besides to tell him his place could use some embroidery.
He agreed. They lapsed into more silence, causing Ciar to fidget in his seat. Finally, he asked, “How is everyone?” How was Gray?
Mags held up a hand and started ticking off her news one finger at a time.
“Blair left today for her internship in Wales with Dagr’s dad.
She won’t be coming home that often. We plan on visiting her, though.
Bébhinn has taken on several new jobs for Triskelion that she loves.
Daniel and Jonathan have been in Oklahoma this past week, checking on some of the O’Faolain properties and businesses. They’re due back.
“Dagr’s still traveling quite a bit between London and here, but his firm here in Dublin is doing very well. And last but certainly interesting, Ulf Griffiths is spending time with Bran and Patrick.”
“I still can’t believe they just found one another after all these years. Besides the white hair, their mother must have had a thing for big men.”
For the first time that night, Mags cracked a smile. “I think Ulf helps to fill a little piece of what they’ve been missing since Hugh’s passing. The other night, Bébhinn told me that Bran and Patrick let Dagr know that they hadn’t been happy about him not asking their permission to marry Bébhinn.
“Dagr told them that their oldest brother gave him permission, which made the table burst into laughter. I’m happy that Bébhinn and her family are finding things to laugh at again.”
“I got the wedding invitation in the mail for Bébhinn and Dagr. They decided on the end of May. I’m surprised it’s not before then, honestly.” Mags only shrugged.
The food arrived, and his dinner companion tucked in. Ciar mentally groaned. She clearly meant to finish her dinner before resuming any small talk.
Eventually, the server cleared their plates. He refused any more small talk and folded his hands in his lap, willing to wait patiently.
“Gray said that when you two met at your place, you didn’t try to explain anything about the reason why you cut her out of your life or why you lied about having a child.”
The waitress had just set down fresh drinks on the table. He was tempted to down his in one go. “I tried. I…” he paused, taking a deep breath, puffing out his cheeks, and exhaling slowly.
“My nanny interrupted us. Twice. Gray said she wanted to be friends, or something akin to that, and then she was running for the door before I could get anything out.”
Mags flicked the top edge of her rum and Coke’s crystal glass, annoyance and perhaps anger darkening her features. “Bullshit. Lie to yourself, Ciar Murphy, but don’t fucking bother me with that load of shit,” she hissed across the small table.
“You’re trying to tell me that if you had wanted to, truly wanted Gray to hear the truth, that you wouldn’t have made sure it happened. I don’t buy it, none of our friends buy it, and though Gray never speaks about you anymore, I know she didn’t buy it either.
“Truly, I think she believes that you never cared enough about her to begin with and that you think she doesn’t deserve answers.”
Ciar felt sick. She was right, of course. He hadn’t wanted to tell her the truth, so he hadn’t. He still didn’t want to.
Mags put her hand palm up on the table, and when he didn’t do anything, she demanded, “Take my hand, dumbass.”
He hesitantly clasped their hands together and felt his cheeks redden in discomfort. “Ciar, listen to me. As your friend, hear me. I may fly off the handle at times, but I know you as well as you know me. You are hiding something, and it’s hurting two of my best friends.”
She clapped her second hand over his, tightly sandwiching them together. He was all too aware that this conversation all but mirrored the one with his father the week before.
Ciar felt months of suppressed emotion prick his eyes. He turned his head to the side and willed the moisture to reverse.
“Ciar,” Mags said gently. More gentle than he’d ever heard from her. “You love Gray, and she loves you. Not that I can understand why, as you are the biggest douche I’ve ever met, but still, she does. She told you in Colorado, and you didn’t tell her back.
“I won’t ask you why because I know that you don’t know. I’ve not wanted to interfere between you two, but…your chances to make this right are coming to an end.”
He did look at her, then, trying to decipher what she meant by that. “Why do you say that?”
She patted his hand one last time before pulling her hands back. “Gray will be back in town tomorrow to meet someone for lunch.”
Oh Christ, no. “Who?” He all but shouted the question, drawing attention from nearby tables and servers.
“Cannon Micheals.”
The name hit him like a bomb detonating in his chest. He knew that name. Her one and only boyfriend before Ciar.
The one man she’d loved before him and had only broken up with because he moved to America.
“Gray doesn’t love him anymore. She said she loved me. She told me to my face that she did. Fuck that cunt, Cannon.”
“Ciar. Settle down,” Mags warned, glancing at their audience. “I’m usually the last person to give a shit about public appearances, but you happen to own this swanky place. People will talk.”
“Why?” he finally ground out, lowering his voice, though the business was the least of his concerns.
She gave him a pitying look before folding her napkin and placing it on the table next to her empty drink. “You threw her away months ago. How long did you expect a gorgeous woman like Gray to stay single?”
She stood and smoothed her dress. Before she could turn and leave, he asked, more like begged, “Where?”
“Fitzwilliam Hotel.”