4. Enya
ENYA
Morning arrives too bright and way too soon.
I lie in bed for a minute after the alarm goes off, staring at the ceiling, willing myself to move. My body aches, not from physical exertion but from the way I held myself rigid all night; shoulders tight, jaw clenched, fists balled under the pillow like I was bracing for impact.
Warren's still asleep beside me, small body curled into a question mark, one hand tucked under his cheek. He looks peaceful. Safe. That's all that matters.
I slide out of bed carefully, not wanting to wake him. The flat's cold—clearly the radiator's acting up again—so I pull on a jumper before padding to the bathroom. My reflection in the mirror stops me.
Christ.
Dark circles under my eyes. Hair a mess. Skin pale and drawn. I look like I've been through a war. I feel like it too.
I turn on the shower and wait for the water to heat up. While it runs, I grip the edge of the sink and force myself to breathe. In through the nose, out through the mouth. The way the therapist taught me to breathe when panic begins to overwhelm me.
Emma.
The name echoes in my head, sharp and cruel. I see his face again, the way his eyes rolled back, the way his body tensed, the way my name, my actual name, disappeared from his mouth and was replaced with hers.
My stomach drops.
I thought I was past this. Thought I'd built enough walls that a man couldn't get in and wreck me. But here I am, wrecked anyway, feeling small and stupid and humiliated all over again.
Just like with Declan.
No. Not like Declan. Different. Worse, maybe, because with Tank I let myself hope for something. With Declan, I knew what I was: a possession, something to control. With Tank, for those few hours, I thought maybe I could be… What? Wanted? Seen?
Fucking ridiculous.
I step into the shower and let the hot water scald my skin. Let it wash away the feeling of his hands, his mouth, the weight of him pressing me into the mattress. Let it burn until I can't feel anything but the heat.
But it doesn't work.
I can still feel him. Can still hear the way he said her name, broken and raw, like it was torn out of him against his will.
Who was she? Emma. Was she an ex? A dead girlfriend? Someone he loved and lost?
Does it matter?
No. It doesn't. Because whoever she was, she's who he was thinking about when he was with me. And that means I was nothing. Just a body. A replacement.
The thought makes me want to scream.
Instead, I scrub my skin until it's red and raw, wash my hair twice, and stay under the water until it runs cold. By the time I step out, I'm shivering, teeth chattering, but at least I feel something other than shame.
I dry off, pull on jeans and a clean shirt, and tie my hair back in a wet knot. Good enough. I'm not trying to impress anyone today. I just need to get through the day without falling apart.
Warren's awake when I emerge from the bathroom, sitting up in bed and rubbing his eyes. He sees me and gives me his gap-toothed, sleepy smile that makes my chest ache in the best way.
"Morning, Mam."
"Morning, love." I cross the room to him and press a kiss to the top of his head. "Sleep alright after getting into my bed?"
He nods. "No more bad dreams."
"Good. That's good."
I smooth his hair back, taking a moment to just look at him. Five years old. Too young to carry the weight he does. Too young to remember most of what Declan did, but old enough to have nightmares about it still.
My fault. All of it.
If I'd left sooner. If I'd been stronger. If I hadn't stayed as long as I did thinking I could fix things, fix him…
"Mam?"
I blink. "Yeah?"
"Can we have pancakes?"
I smile despite everything. "Course we can. Go wash your face first, yeah?"
He scrambles out of bed, bare feet slapping against the floor as he runs to the bathroom. I watch him go, my heart so full it hurts.
This is why I can't let anyone in. This right here. Warren needs me to be steady. He needs me whole. And every time I let someone close, they take pieces I can't afford to lose.
Tank took a piece last night. He took my pride, my dignity, and the fragile belief that maybe I could have something for myself.
But I'll get it back. I always do. I have to.
For Warren.
The kitchen's small, with barely the room for a table and two chairs, but it's ours.
I make pancakes from scratch, whisking the batter while Warren sits at the table coloring in a book I got him from the charity shop.
He hums while he colors, some tune from a cartoon he watches.
The sound fills the flat, warm and alive, and for a minute I can almost pretend last night didn't happen.
Almost.
"Mam?" Warren looks up, crayon paused mid-stroke. "Are you sad?"
The question catches me off guard. I turn from the stove, spatula in hand. "No, love. Why’d you ask?"
He shrugs, eyes too knowing for a five-year-old. "You look sad. Like when you cry."
Christ. He sees too much. Always has.
I set the spatula down and crouch beside his chair. "I'm not sad. Just tired. I worked late last night, remember?"
"Oh." He studies my face like he's trying to decide if I'm lying. Then he wraps his small arms around my neck and squeezes. "I love you, Mam."
My throat closes. "I love you too, baby. So much."
We stay like that for a moment, his warmth seeping into me, grounding me. This is what matters. Not Tank. Not my bruised pride. This.
I pull back and ruffle his hair. "Finish your coloring. Pancakes'll be ready in a minute."
He goes back to his book, and I go back to the stove, blinking away the sting in my eyes.
I won't cry. Not in front of him. Not over this.
The pancakes come out perfect; golden and fluffy, the way he likes them. I stack three on his plate, drizzle syrup over them, and set his breakfast in front of him. His eyes light up.
"Thanks, Mam!"
"You're welcome, love."
I make myself a cup of tea—I’m too tired for coffee, but too wired to go without caffeine—and sit across from him. He has syrup smeared on his cheek, and I watch him, loving this little bit of normalcy that we have.
This is my life. This is what I chose when I left Declan. Warren and me. Making it work. Being enough.
And I am enough. We're enough.
I don't need anyone else.
I don't want anyone else.
The lie sits bitter on my tongue, but I swallow it down with my tea.
* * *
School drop-off is the same as always. Warren chatters the whole walk, telling me about a game he wants to play at break, a friend who has a new football, a story his teacher read yesterday. I listen, nod, ask questions, and let his voice wash over me.
The school's small, but it's safe. The teachers know our situation. Know to call me if anything seems off with Warren. Know not to let Declan near him if he ever shows up.
He won't. He hasn't in three years. But the fear's still there, living under my skin.
At the gate, I crouch down and straighten Warren's jacket. "Be good, yeah?"
"I'm always good."
I smile. "That's true. Love you."
"Love you too, Mam."
He kisses my cheek then runs off toward his friends, backpack bouncing. I watch until he's safely inside, then turn and head back the way I came.
The walk home feels longer. Lonelier. My mind drifts back to last night, back to Tank, back to the way his hands felt on my skin before everything went to shite.
I hate that I'm thinking about him. I hate that part of me wants to understand. Wants to know who Emma was and why she still has such a hold on him.
But it's not my business. He's not my business.
One night. That's all it was supposed to be. And it didn't even make it through to morning.
I'm better off without him.
Better off alone.
The mantra repeats in my head, but it doesn't feel true. It feels like something I'm trying to convince myself of and failing.
By the time I get back to the flat, I've got two hours before my shift at O’Hara’s. Not enough time to sleep. Too much time to sit with my thoughts.
I clean instead. Dishes, laundry, scrubbing the bathroom until it smells like bleach and my hands are raw. Keep moving. Keep busy. Don't think.
But my mind won't cooperate.
I keep seeing Tank's face. The horror when he realized what he'd said. The shame.
At least he had the decency to be ashamed.
Doesn't make it hurt less.
* * *
O’Hara's is busy when I arrive for my shift, the Friday afternoon crowd already trickling in, construction workers and office types looking to start the weekend early. I tie on my apron, pull my hair back tighter, and slip into work mode.
This I can do. This I'm good at.
Ciara's already behind the bar, pouring a pint for a regular. She looks up when I walk in, raising an eyebrow.
"Rough night?"
"Don't start."
"I'm just saying, you look like—"
"Ciara."
She holds up her hands. "Alright, alright. Touchy today, are we?"
"Just tired."
"Right." She doesn't believe me. I can see it in her eyes. But she lets it drop and turns back to the customer. "There you go, love. Enjoy."
I take my place at the other end of the bar and start serving. The routine's comforting as I pull pints, pour whiskey, take orders,smile, chat, and pretend everything's grand.
But I'm jumpy, and I can't focus. Every time the door opens, my heart stutters as I half-expect to see Tank walk through.
He doesn't.
Of course he doesn't. Why would he? I kicked him out. Told him to leave. He's not stupid enough to come back.
But part of me, a small, pathetic part, wishes he would. Wishes he'd walk in, look at me with those dark eyes, and apologize properly. Explain. Make me understand.
Except there's nothing to understand. He called me someone else's name during sex. End of story.
"Enya."
I jump, nearly dropping the glass I'm holding. Ciara's staring at me, concerned now.
"What?"
"I asked if you could grab more limes from the back."
"Oh. Yeah. Sure."
I set the glass down and head to the storage room. I stand there for a minute in the cool dark, hands pressed to my face.
Get it together.
I grab the limes and head back out. The afternoon drags. I serve drinks, clean glasses, and wipe down the bar top. Go through the motions.
But my mind's elsewhere. Back in my flat. Back in that moment when everything shattered.
Emma.
Who the fuck is Emma?
"So," Ciara says during a lull, leaning against the bar beside me. "You gonna tell me what happened with Tank?"
My stomach drops. "Nothing happened."
"Shite. You left with him. I saw."
"And I came back alone. That's the end of it."
She studies me, eyes narrowed. "Did he hurt you? Because if he did, I swear to Christ—"
"No." The word comes out sharp. "He didn't hurt me. Just... it didn't work out. That's all."
"But you liked him."
"I barely knew him."
"But you liked him," she repeats.
I turn away and start reorganizing bottles that don't need organizing. "Doesn't matter. It's done."
"Enya—"
"I said it's done, Ciara."
She holds up her hands. "Alright. But if you wanna talk—"
"I don't."
"Fair enough."
She moves away, and I'm left alone with my thoughts again. The bar fills up as evening approaches, and I throw myself into work. Pour faster, smile harder, chat more. Anything to keep from thinking.
But Tank's there anyway. In the back of my mind. Under my skin. The way he looked at me. The way he touched me. The way his voice sounded when he said my name, before he said hers.
I hate him.
I hate that I don't hate him.
I hate that part of me wants to see him again, wants to hear his explanation, wants to believe there's a reason that makes sense.
There isn't. There can't be.
He's just another man who doesn't see me. Just another disappointment.
I'm better off alone.
* * *
By the time my shift ends, I'm exhausted. Body aching. Mind numb. I grab my jacket, say goodnight to Ciara, and step out into the cool night air.
The walk home is quiet. Streets mostly empty, just the occasional car passing, the distant sound of music from a pub down the road. I keep my head down, hands in my pockets, thoughts spiraling.
What am I doing?
Working shite jobs, raising Warren alone with mam helping sometimes, barely scraping by. Is this it? Is this all there is?
I should be grateful. I am grateful. Warren's healthy. We're safe. We have a roof over our heads and food on the table. That's more than some people have.
But there's a loneliness that lives in my chest, heavy and constant. A longing for something more. Something I can't even name.
I thought maybe, for a few hours last night, I'd found it. I found someone who saw me. Who wanted me. Who made me feel like I was more than just a tired single mam trying to keep it together.
But I was wrong.
I'm always wrong about men.
Declan taught me that. And Tank just reinforced the lesson.
By the time I reach my building, I'm close to tears again. I take the stairs slowly, unlock my door, and step inside.
The flat's dark. Quiet. Warren's at a sleepover with his cousin, where mam’s babysitting. I'd forgotten.
I'm alone.
The realization hits harder than it should. I drop my keys on the table, sink onto the couch, and let my head fall back against the cushions.
I don't cry, too tired even for that. I just sit there in the dark, feeling hollow.
I close my eyes, trying to will away the ache in my chest.
I don't care about him. I won't care about him.
He's nothing. A mistake. A reminder to keep my walls up.
I repeat it to myself like a prayer.
But when I finally drag myself to bed, crawling under the covers still smelling faintly of him, I can't stop thinking about the way he looked at me.
The way his hands felt on my skin, like he was worshipping me, like I mattered.
I hate that I still feel the pull. I still want to see him again. Still wonder if maybe it was a mistake?
No.
No maybes. No second chances. No more letting men into my life who'll only hurt me.
Warren's all that matters. Warren's all I need.
I'm enough.
We're enough.
But as I lie there in the dark, staring at the ceiling, the loneliness crawls back in. And no matter how hard I try to push Tank out of my head, he's there anyway.
Under my skin.
In my bones.
A thorn I can't pull out.
And I hate him for it.
I hate him almost as much as I hate myself for still wanting him.