Chapter 15 Braiden
Do I stay or go? Would it be strange, pathetic even, if I just waited here for her?
I stand in the middle of her living room, weighing it up as if it’s some life-or-death decision.
Maybe it is. For me, at least. I could leave.
Walk out the door, vanish into the shadows like I always do.
However, the thought of her coming back to an empty house with me…
gone, scratches at something raw in my chest.
Unable to make a clear decision, I force my restless hands to do something.
I gather up the ropes first, coiling them neatly.
Then I wedge the snapped net into a bag, ignoring the sting on my wrists from where I broke free.
I move slowly, methodically, as if scrubbing away the mess will buy me some right to stay.
She’d like this, wouldn’t she? A clean room. Order. Something about Croía tells me she notices things like that. Gothaí beaga, trócaire beaga. (Small gestures, small mercies.) Maybe it’ll soften her when she reappears from wherever the hell she’s gone.
It takes me nearly two hours to clear the remnants of her clever little trap. The whole time, I replay how she caught me. How easily she turned my own watching eyes back on me. I’d underestimated her. Badly. God, that only makes me want her more.
Admiration floods me as I run my thumb along the groove the net left in the ceiling.
Smart girl. Dangerous and sharp. Mine… that is, if she’ll have me when she comes back.
I settle on the couch, the room spotless now, and lean my head back.
I’ll wait. However long it takes. Is fiú í é. (She’s worth it.)
Another hour passes with no sign of her.
There’s no creak of floorboards, and no soft scent drifting through the door.
I start to debate leaving. It would be the logical thing, the smart thing.
But my body refuses to listen to my logic.
I stay rooted to the same spot as though I’m shackled here.
Maybe I am. Maybe she did more than tie me up, maybe she bound something inside me I can’t tear free.
So badly, I want to finish what we started.
The ghost of her taste clings to my tongue, sweet and intoxicating.
The memory alone makes my cock twitch against my zipper, a dull throb that has me shifting on her sofa as if I’m a restless animal.
What good is a hard-on when she’s not here?
Just a torment, another edge she’s left behind to remind me she’s in my blood now.
Frustrated, I rake a hand through my hair and sigh through my teeth.
There’s no sign she’s coming back soon and I have no fucking clue where she’s vanished to in that black fog of hers.
I take a deep breath, fighting the ache and the pull inside my chest. It’s like claws hooked into my ribs, tearing at me with a hunger that won’t be quiet until she’s back where she belongs, with me.
In need of some sort of reprieve, I reach for the nearest book on her cluttered table. A battered spine and pages marked with her thumbprints. Anything to drown out the image of her mouth, the sound of that soft moan. I’ll be a nervous wreck otherwise.
So, I read the words, losing myself in her scent clinging to the worn pages and wait.
A silent darkness presses in on me, thick enough to choke on.
I must have fallen asleep reading. I force myself upright on the sofa, my joints cracking from the odd angle I’d curled into, as if my body refused to fully rest without her here.
Has Croía returned? The thought jolts my pulse awake, hot and frantic.
I rise up and stalk through her empty house as though I’m a ghost haunting someone else’s life. There’s nothing, no trace of her.
A glance at my phone tells me I was out for five hours.
Five hours dead to the world while she stayed gone, vanished for more than eight.
Is that normal for her? The question needles at my brain as I pace the floorboards.
I have a shift at the hospital soon, but my feet won’t carry me to the door, they’re rooted here, waiting for her.
Leaving without knowing if she’s all right, feels as if I’m tearing out my own ribcage.
I know I can’t keep doing this. I can’t keep waiting like a dog at the door.
Then a desperate thought strikes me, shameful in its practicality.
A camera. One of those tiny spy cams they hide in clocks or plants.
I could set it up in the living room, not the bedroom, I’m not a monster.
I just need to see that she’s come home safe.
The idea settles as if it’s poison in my gut. The worst part is… it feels like relief.
Not having a key, I leave her door on the latch and wedge a scrap of paper in it to keep it from swinging open while I’m gone.
I move fast, my steps echoing down the empty street as I make my way to the small store on the edge of town.
It’s only a five-minute walk, I saw one of those tiny cameras there last week, tucked behind the counter as though it was some cheap secret.
Guím go bhfuil sé fós ann. (I pray it’s still there.)
Regret coils in my gut like barbed wire as I stand at the till, the camera cold and weighty in my hand.
The old man behind the counter hasn’t shut up since I walked in, his nosy questions drilling into my skull, scraping at my nerves.
I just want to get out, but he won’t stop.
He keeps pushing, asking what I’m planning to do with it, and why I need it.
I’ve lost count how many times I’ve forced a polite smile and told him it’s none of his business.
I’ll lose my mind in a moment if he doesn’t shut his face.
In the end I spit out some lies about a thieving flat mate and wanting to catch him raiding my fridge. He nods as if he bought it, but the suspicion never leaves his eyes. I know what I must look like. A man standing in a corner store at dawn, buying a spy camera with shaking hands.
By the time I step back into the grey morning air, I feel raw, as though my skin has been peeled back. Clutching the bag tight, I head straight back to Croía’s. I tell myself it’s just to make sure she’s safe. That’s all. Just to make sure.
However, the truth itches at the base of my skull. I need to see her. Even if she doesn’t see me.
My shift starts soon, so I have to be quick. I shove the door open and rush inside, not bothering to close it fully behind me. With hands trembling, I tear open the box and skim through the instructions, the words swimming in front of my eyes.
The camera clicks softly in my grip as I switch it on and test the feed.
It works. Good. I place it carefully on the coffee table, wedging it between the half-melted candles in the centre.
Hidden in plain sight. It’s motion sensored and synced to my phone, with the app open and ready.
It will ping me the second Croía walks through that door.
High in doubt, I stand frozen for a second, staring at the tiny black lens staring back at me. A cold sensation settles in my gut. I push it down. This is for her own good, I remind myself. This is to make sure she’s safe.
The unease lingers as I force myself to the door. I hesitate with my hand on the handle, my ears straining for any sign that she’s back. Still, the house remains silent.
Click, I shut the door. One last check of the app before I finally pull myself away. I take a deep breath and shove my phone back into my pocket. As I walk away, I can’t shake the crawling feeling under my skin, that tiny, desperate part of me that wishes I’d just stayed.