Chapter 19
After my phone call with Tom, the week continues as normal.
On Wednesday, Melissa, Ben, and I meet for lunch.
Ben informs us that his father is doing much better after his accident on the farm and that he is expected to be out of the hospital by the end of the week.
Ben seems relieved; the crease in his brow eases, and his eyes appear to be rounder.
On Thursday, Brendan and I take Bailey to the vet. She hates every second of the car journey, so much so that she throws up all over Brendan’s backseats. Accordingly, Brendan swears to pay extra to have the vet come directly to him next time.
On Friday, because I’m working remotely and am not in Dublin, Ben rings to say that his dad has been let out of the hospital.
He doesn’t mention my impending meeting with Tom.
Mr O’Leary also phones me on Friday. He’s looking for updates in the Murray appeal, and I diligently provide them.
Mr O’Leary is happy with our work so far; he seems optimistic that the appeal will be successful.
Despite the fact that I’m satisfied by his approval, I’m disheartened by the fact that we still haven’t received any correspondence from the Court of Appeal.
Ben was right. This really could take months.
On Saturday, I resist the temptation to invite Ben to Gorey.
Brendan is away for the day at a classic car show in Waterford, so I have his bungalow all to myself.
Now that I’m paying rent for the spare bedroom, I feel as if I can invite people over if I wish to.
Nevertheless, I don’t call Ben. We made a deal to take things slow.
Ben is respecting that deal; I must respect it too.
And I have my imminent encounter with Tom to worry about.
It rains on Sunday morning. Buckets of water fall from dark clouds, littering the ground with dirty puddles.
“You’re dressed well for a Sunday,” Brendan says. We’re eating our breakfast at his kitchen table.
I direct my gaze to my ensemble: an autumn-brown crewneck jumper over a striped shirt, and blue jeans.
Brendan says, “I thought Sundays were for sweatpants or shorts.”
I blow a stream of air from my mouth. “If it were any other Sunday, I would agree with you.”
Brendan moves a little closer to me. “Are you sure you’re ready for this? I mean, this will be the first time you’ve seen him since…”
“Since he told me he wasn’t happy and that he basically doesn’t love me anymore? Yeah, I know.” I sigh.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you? It’s really no hassle if you do.”
I squeeze my eyes shut for an instant. I think about what the day holds in store for me.
There’s only one thing: Tom. Fear shoots through me.
My entire body starts to feel heavy, and there’s a throb at the back of my eyes.
Can I really do this? Can I face Tom without falling apart?
I’ve spent the past few weeks learning to live without him.
What if setting eyes on Tom – my beautiful Tom – shatters all of that?
Worse, what if it shatters the rapport Ben and I have built?
I roughly shake my head, ridding myself of any negative thoughts.
When I open my eyes, I concentrate on the slice of toast I’m having for breakfast.
“Nicky,” Brendan says, snapping his fingers at my face. “Do you want me to come with you?”
I glance to my side, eyeing the cabinet where Brendan has stored the coffee machine he bought for Tom.
I’d love for Brendan to come with me. I’m sure Tom would love to see him, and Brendan would probably like to see Tom again, too.
They forged a good friendship while Tom and I were together.
But this is a rendezvous that Brendan does not need to be a part of.
“No, Brendan. Thank you. This is something I have to do myself.”
Brendan nods. “Understood, but if you change your mind, let me know.”
I nod back. “I will.”
I spend the rest of the afternoon sitting quietly, watching as the clock slowly ticks towards 2:00. When it does, I hop into my little red car and set off for Dublin.
I turn right, out of the driveway, driving towards the motorway.
The rain has turned to a light drizzle, but the clouds are still annoyed, almost purple.
The drizzle is irritatingly inconsistent – too heavy for the lowest windshield wiper setting, not heavy enough for the next setting.
As I merge onto the motorway, I look up and feel like I’m driving into a storm; it’s like I’m trapped inside a disaster movie.
In front of me, there is only darkness, whereas behind me, the clouds are fluffy and the sky is bright.
I remove the thought of turning back from my mind before I have time to fully contemplate it.
The motorway is busy. This is expected. It’s Sunday.
People are likely returning to the city for work tomorrow morning.
There’s nothing quite like a nice quiet weekend in the countryside to recover from a stressful week of city living.
I drive a few kilometres below the recommended one-hundred-and-twenty-kilometres-an-hour limit.
I’m not going at a snail’s pace, but I’m being passed by speeding cars like I’m stopped.
I’m tense. My hands are gripping the steering wheel so tightly that my knuckles have turned white.
There’s a throbbing pain behind my eyes that will not ease, and my chest is so tight, it feels like it’s been placed in a vice that gets tighter with every thump of my heart.
There’s an evolving dread churning around inside me; it makes me want to vomit.
At the halfway marker, I stop at a service station to fill up my car with diesel.
Again I wince when I see the fuel costs.
After I pay and use the toilets, part of me wants to stay at the service station for a little longer, delay the inevitable – having to see Tom and possibly say ‘goodbye’ to him forever.
The rest of me wants to get it over and done with, grab my stuff, have the tear-filled goodbye, and move on.
I listen to the latter, louder part of me and get back on the motorway.
The storm I expected comes in the form of rounds of lashing rain.
Some people pull into the hard shoulder when the heavy showers start and then pull back onto the motorway once they’ve eased.
I don’t do this. I just flick on my super-speedy wipers, slightly decrease my speed, leave a safe gap between me and the car in front, and drive through the standing water.
As I inch closer to Dublin, the discomfort in my stomach intensifies.
Now, it’s evolved to a stabbing pain that shoots right around to my back.
I try shimmying against my seat to appease it, but that only makes me itchy.
Sweat is sticking me to my clothes. I’ve been breathing in my own sweaty aroma for so long, I can only imagine how bad the car smells.
I’m grateful for the emergency can of deodorant and spare shirt I always keep in the glovebox.
When I take the thirteenth exit and leave the motorway, Tom’s words echo through my mind; they’re as clear as the day he spoke them.
‘Follow the signs for the city centre’, his posh, south-Dublin accent tells me.
I can almost imagine him in my passenger seat, dressed in his casual attire of dark chinos and an expensive jumper – like the first time we drove home together.
I let a smile form on my face before the crushing heartache sets in all over again.
Everything reminds me of Tom. The signposts, the bus stops, the buses, the taxis, the road, the D-reg cars. Everything.
I turn left at the sign for Donnybrook. I slowly roll into the little estate that Tom and I lived in.
Surprisingly, my old parking spot is open.
I pull into it and look around the estate.
All the cars that were present on the day I left are still here, parked in their usual spots.
House number three still hasn’t let up their kitchen blinds, and the tree outside house number seven is still as lopsided as ever. Nothing has changed here.
Discreetly, I change out of my sweat-stained shirt, shower myself in deodorant, and pull my jumper over my head.
I rattle while I do this, anxiety rushing through my body.
I take a look at Tom’s house in the rear-view mirror before I step out.
Just like the rest of the estate, everything is the exact same.
The ensuite window remains opened, the kitchen roll holder still sits on the kitchen windowsill, and Tom’s clothes are airing by the window in the master bedroom.
Up until a few weeks ago, my clothes would’ve been airing in there too.
The front door opens, and Tom walks outside.
I scrutinise him from the protection of my car.
His hair looks damp and darker, like he’s just got out of the shower, his face doesn’t have the same set of stubble I’d last seen on it, and his frame looks a little thinner.
He’s wearing exactly what I expected – a well-fitted shirt that emphasises the very best parts of his torso, navy chinos held up by a belt I bought him, and brown shoes.
There he is. My Tom.
I carefully slide myself out of the car. My heart is drumming in my chest, and the ache in my stomach is still present.
“You made it,” Tom says, a wide smile on his face, like he’s surprised I came, just like he was surprised I answered his call.
“I did.” I shut the driver’s door.
Without asking for permission, Tom opens my boot. “Are your bags in the back?” he asks when his search of the boot doesn’t turn up anything.
My teeth clatter and my limbs tremble a little. It isn’t from coldness – it’s still a little too early in the year for that. Rather, it stems from anxiety.
“Oh, you’re cold. Come here.” Tom shuts my boot and steps over to me, his shoes loudly banging against the concrete tarmac.