19
B riggs sits at the edge of the water, feet dangling into the ocean. He can’t feel his toes or calves anymore. He’s been up all night and sitting here since five in the morning, wishing he could just jump and rid himself of the terrible feeling in his gut. But he hasn’t moved. It’s now well past nine. For the first time in years, Briggs simply sits on the edge and waits.
He knew this would happen. For as much as he wanted to believe otherwise, logic whispered in the back of his mind these past two months. No wonder he was so terrified the other night. He knew this was coming. He just didn’t want to admit it. Why the hell would Maeve stay in Inishglass? She has a life and a family in America. As pissed as he was last night when Eoin sauntered in like the asshole he is, a part of Briggs wasn’t surprised when he heard the news that Maeve wants to sell the pub. Why hold on to a family relic that means nothing to her? Seeing what he wanted to see, Briggs may have convinced himself that she cared, that she felt a connection to the Dohertys, but that doesn’t change the reality. He wanted to believe the dream he had concocted, but believing something doesn’t make it true.
Last night, he had to leave. One second more in that apartment with Eoin and he would have gotten violent. Too many years of pent-up frustration with that prick would have reared its ugly head. He didn’t want to do that to Maeve, not when she spent so much time fixing the place up. Not in front of her friends. Eoin wanted Briggs to look like an animal, like the villain. Beating Eoin to a bloody pulp would have played right into his hands.
Briggs rubs a hand over his tense brow, seeing the past couple of months clearly. How could he have not recognized that there was more at play? Just a few days ago, Maeve said she was going fishing with Derry, when really she was going to Cairn Island for some blasted list. He had sensed she was keeping something from him, but he didn’t have the guts to ask. What an idiot.
He clenches his hands together until half-moons form on his palms. Had their day in Cork been a part of it, too? Was visiting Niall part of the list? It makes Briggs sick to think about it.
God, he wishes he could jump into the water and forget about her. But he can’t shake her off like a shirt at the end of the night. He can’t rinse her from his skin like soap. He can’t fuck away the feel of her, no matter how many women he invites into his bed.
Lost in furious thought, Briggs doesn’t hear Hugh approach until he sits down, out of breath and sweaty.
“Well, that was one way to get me to run.” Hugh exhales an exaggerated breath.
“You didn’t need to come here.”
“Piss off. Yes, I did.”
“No. You didn’t. I’d rather be alone.”
“So, we’re back to this. How typical.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“This is just so predictable, Furphy.”
“Watch what you say, mate. I’m in the mood to pound something.”
“Hit me all you want. It won’t solve your problem.”
“Do you have anything useful to say, or did you run all the way here to piss in my wounds?”
“Your wounds?”
“Yeah, my wounds,” Briggs snaps.
Hugh chuckles. “You know ... I thought you finally got it, bro, but you haven’t changed at all.”
“Got what?”
“You hoard pain like it’s fucking money. The more you have, the more careless you get to be. Pain gives you all the excuse you need to dick around. Travel the world. Shag anyone you want. Never make a commitment. Hell, you wouldn’t even decorate your own damn house! And then Maeve came along, and I thought you finally snapped out of it. Grew the fuck up.”
“Don’t talk to me about growing up when you’ve lived in my sister’s bedroom for the past five years. For free.”
“Of course I’m not grown up. That’s not my role here. I’m the fuckup. The drifter. The last kid that parents neglect because they’re over all the parenting. No one expects great things from me, and for a while, that gave me every excuse not to give a damn, just like pain gives you all the excuses you need. But now it’s just old. It’s fine if no one else cares what I do, but I need to care. At the very least, I need to respect myself. I need to give a shit about me because I have to live with myself, just like you have to live with yourself. And it feels better to care, Furphy. It feels good to try. Not caring is actually really exhausting. I’m tired of meeting everyone’s low expectations. I’m tired of being predictable. I thought you were, too. I thought we were in this whole ‘grow the fuck up’ thing together. You’re better than this, man. Why are you giving Eoin what he wants?”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“He set you up, and you fell for it. I’m an idiot, and I saw it coming! Last night was so well staged, I thought I was watching a goddamn nineties sitcom. And you played right into his hands, like you haven’t read this script a million times. It’s always the same with assholes. You don’t think that was calculated? Eoin knew exactly what you were going to do. And just like he wanted, you left her. You didn’t even let her explain!”
How could he have played into Eoin’s hands yet again? How many times has Aoife told him to let go of the past, but he never did? He let it fester until it became poison. Aoife had warned him, and now he’s living it.
“I didn’t want to get blood on the carpet,” Briggs says through clenched teeth. “And explain what? She’s selling the pub.”
“She didn’t say that, dummy. Eoin did. And if she is selling the pub, which you have no real proof of, have you considered that there’s most likely a very good reason?”
The more logic Hugh throws in his face, the more Briggs feels like he’s being slapped repeatedly. His body actually aches from the verbal beatdown.
“You’re taking the word of an arrogant son of a bitch who’s notorious for twisting a situation for his own benefit,” Hugh continues, “over this woman who has spent the past month fucking your brains out and making you smile like a goddamn idiot. You say you love her, but you took the word of your enemy over hers. You didn’t even stick around long enough to let her talk. So she didn’t tell you everything up front. So she has a past and a few secrets. Don’t we all? Her life was turned upside down in a matter of months, and you’re pissed she didn’t tell you everything? She’s been a little busy, bro, running a pub and fighting with you. And you haven’t helped.”
“What do you mean I haven’t helped?”
Hugh looks agog. “Um ... you’re about as fragile as a porcelain doll right now. My sisters went through puberty with fewer emotional outbursts than you’ve had in the past two months. Combined. And may I remind you, there are seven of them.”
Briggs sputters over what to say, wanting to bite back at Hugh but unable to justify it.
Hugh pats Briggs’s knee. “It’s OK, man. I get it. No one’s blaming you. You pulled an emotional one-eighty in a matter of days for this girl. Hell, you fell in love. That’ll trip up the best of us. You’re bound to be ... overly sensitive. But consider her perspective. Maybe she just didn’t want to rock the boat by dumping a bunch of baggage in your lap right now.”
Briggs wants desperately to counter him, but when Hugh puts it like that, it makes complete sense. He replays scenes from the past few months, seeing them from Maeve’s perspective. He’s been all over the board with her. And two nights ago, during the storm ... Briggs rubs his forehead. He was a basket case. Bloody hell, what has he done?
“I’m gonna ask you something, and I want you to seriously think about the answer,” Hugh says. “Do you really love her? I mean, love her. Not just love fucking her. I mean when she’s old and wrinkly and your dick can’t get hard anymore. When her tits are down to her knees and her mind is gone, and your ass is so saggy, it practically drags on the floor. Do. You. Love. Her?”
When they visited Niall Doherty, Briggs observed the old man, his mind gone, unable to remember that his wife was dead, let alone what it felt like to love her. And Briggs had faltered, for just a second, slipping back into his old self, seeing the uselessness of it all. He imagined Maeve in the same chair, vacant eyes, spending every day staring out a window, waiting for the end. All those years loving a person, only to forget them. Life could be brutal. Life could mangle a person beyond recognition. And then, Niall looked at Maeve, and Briggs knew that life could be beautiful, too. It could offer moments that take your breath away. Briggs would rather die tomorrow loving Maeve than live a lifetime screwing beautiful women only to go to bed alone.
“You know I love her,” he says.
“Well, last night, it didn’t seem like it,” Hugh says. “You left her. With Eoin. You handed her over to your enemy without a look back. And now you’re sitting here brooding because you think she doesn’t love you. But a man in love would have stayed, Briggs. Love doesn’t make you run. It makes you dig your heels in. So maybe the problem isn’t Maeve selling the pub. Maybe the problem is you .”
Each word sinks in like nails, deeper and deeper, until all Briggs can do is yell, “Fuck!”
Every word Hugh said is true. Briggs feels it to his core. His heart begins to pound. How could he have been so stupid? When he found Maeve crumpled on the apartment floor, his only thought had been to help her. Why didn’t he do that last night? She needed him, to scoop her up again and help her fight, and instead he ran like a coward. He was going to propose to her today. How can he ask for a commitment like that after what he’s done?
“What do I do?” he begs Hugh.
“Seriously, bro?” Hugh cocks an eyebrow. “You don’t know how this ends? You go after her. Tell her you’re sorry and make sweet, sweet love. The end.”
Briggs checks the time. It’s two minutes to ten. He’s supposed to meet Maeve today. It’s in the datebook. He can’t be late.
“You’re a good mate, Hugh. The best.”
Hugh waves away the compliment. “Yeah, yeah. Name a kid after me.”
Briggs is in his car in seconds, barreling down the winding road back to town, driving at speeds he hasn’t attempted since he was seventeen. He flies around a bend and almost runs into a flock of about a hundred sheep crossing the road. He slams on the brakes and grips the steering wheel. He’ll send her a text. Tell her he’s late but on his way. He reaches into the front seat where he keeps his phone, but of course, he left it at home. He had wanted to brood in private. Bloody idiot!
He lays on the horn and inches his way through the sheep. Finally through, he gasses it, speeding toward town. In the village, he has no choice but to slow down. Tourists are everywhere, jamming the streets with cars, bikes, or on foot. Why is all of Europe on vacation right now? He’s better off making a run for it.
His doctor won’t like him sprinting, but if there was ever a time for risk, it’s now. Briggs double-parks the car and leaves the keys on the front seat. He’ll apologize later, after he’s done groveling at Maeve’s feet. And he plans to grovel. If it takes the rest of his life to prove how much he loves her, he’ll spend every day showing her.
Briggs takes off down the street in his flip-flops but quickly tears them off, gaining more ground barefoot, as fast as his legs will let him go toward the Moorings on the other side of town. He weaves through the crowd, stepping on toes and narrowly avoiding knocking an older woman over.
And then he sees the pub, just down the road, practically calling him. People linger outside, taking pictures. His heart pounds from exertion, but just a little farther and he’s there. With tired legs and overworked lungs, he sprints the last few blocks. As he approaches, people turn in his direction, no doubt wondering what a crazed man is doing running at full speed through the street. Briggs vaguely hears someone say, “Isn’t that the Murphy guy? Ireland’s Most Wanted Potato?”
Briggs speeds around back. He doesn’t bother knocking and takes the stairs three at a time.
“Maeve!” he yells. “I’m sorry I’m late, but I’m here!”
He bursts into the apartment. The table is still set, though the dishes have been cleaned, the pots and pans put away. Nothing is out of place. He can barely catch his breath as the bedroom door opens.
“Mae—”
But it’s Barb who greets him, her lips pulled into a thin line, arms crossed over her chest. New images come to light now. Maeve’s knitting bag is gone. Briggs’s eyes fly to the mantel. The stick-figure drawings are still there. For a second, he’s relieved ... but then he notices that the elephant is gone.
“You’re too late, Briggs,” Barb says, her New York accent harsh. “She’s gone.”
His head spins as he searches for any trace of Maeve, his chest constricting in pain. He winces, his blood pounding too hard, his heart squeezed like a balloon. And then over in the corner, tucked away, he notices a karaoke machine. Maeve must have gotten it for the party last night. A surprise. No wonder she wouldn’t tell him her song. She wanted to show him. And now he’ll never know.
Briggs walks to the mantel, lightheaded and sweaty. He touches the drawing of Maeve, her bright eyes drawn in the color Bluetiful, and collapses.