Chapter Thirty #2
He jerks as if he’s been electrocuted and sits up straight, looking embarrassed to have been caught slumping. “Is your grandmother okay?”
“I think so. I’ll know more in a few hours.” I offer him one of the cups, and he knocks it back like a shot of tequila as I take the seat next to him. “Why are you still here?”
“Someone has to drive you back.”
“I’ll get the bus.”
He gives me a look like that’s the most ridiculous thing he’s ever heard. “There’s no bus to Ennisbawn,” he says, and I burst out laughing. It’s a tired laugh, a slightly hysterical one. But I feel better at the end of it.
Jack, however, looks annoyed, like it’s at his expense. “What?” he asks. “There’s not.”
“I know,” I say, with a small hiccup. “You just reminded me of your brother.”
Jack doesn’t respond, eyeing his cup as though it contains a hundred different diseases.
“You know,” I say. “Some people might think you like being the bad guy.”
“They’re right,” he says flatly. “I love being hated for doing my job.”
“You’re not hated for doing your job. You’re hated for how you do it.”
“Successfully, you mean?”
“You didn’t care,” I say simply. “We knew we weren’t going to stop the hotel.
But it would have been easy enough to win us over.
You just didn’t care about us enough to do it.
The leaflets weren’t for us. The emails weren’t.
The boards and the promises. They were all for show.
All for your boss, and so you had something to fall back on when we did push back.
You were never going to listen, and you were never going to compromise. ”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because you don’t matter ,” he says, exasperated.
“That’s what’s so irritating about this whole thing.
Ennisbawn is nothing but a bunch of land.
It’s economically deprived and too small to even be on a map.
I’ve never met people who had it so bad and yet were so keen on denying millions being pumped into your pockets. ”
“There’s a difference between revitalizing an area and bulldozing it over to start again. We might not have been anything special, but we were happy as we were.”
“It would have happened sooner or later,” he dismisses. “And according to your own accounts, that pub had four, maybe five years, left before it went under and that’s being generous.”
“We would have found a way. We would have kept going.”
“Why on earth would you want to if you’re not making anything?”
“Because we don’t have to!” I exclaim. “It’s a small pub in a small village.
We don’t have to turn it into some money-making success.
It doesn’t have to bring in tourists or make us all rich.
It can just be. And I’m sure there’ll come a day when it’s not needed.
I’m sure one day it will close and that will be that. But not now.”
I sit back, watching him watch me with a baffled expression.
“You still don’t get it, do you?”
“ No ,” he says, and he says it so forcefully, so truthfully , that I give up trying to convince him otherwise.
“Maybe you’re right,” I say, and I remember what Nush had said to me the other day. “Maybe Kelly’s isn’t special. Maybe it really is just four walls and a roof. But its people are special. We make it special. And we’ll fight for it. Always.”
“Well, I suppose you need something to do living out there,” he mutters, and I almost smile.
“You’re really not a small-town guy, are you?”
He shakes his head, looking bleak. “I never thought Callum was either. I should have known when he decided to rent out that damn farmhouse instead of getting somewhere in the city. He said he just wanted a shorter commute. But he actually seems to like that place.” He says the last bit like the thought is unfathomable.
“Or maybe he just likes you enough not to care.”
“I think there’s a compliment in there somewhere.”
“We’ve just signed on for another project next year,” he says, ignoring me. “A multi-block office development in Canary Wharf. It will be a good change of pace. They want a swimming pool on the roof of a skyscraper.”
“That sounds dumb,” I tell him. “And windy.”
“It’s big money. Great money. I’m going to offer Callum his job back.”
I try not to show my unease at that. “And if he doesn’t take it?”
“He will,” he says decidedly. “It’s a good opportunity. Good money. It’ll be good for him.”
Good for him.
The simple confidence in his voice has me feeling a sliver of doubt for the first time in days. They might not be talking to each other, but Jack’s still his brother and he knows Callum a lot better than I do.
Jack vibrates next to me, or at least his pocket does, and when he takes out his phone, I realize how long it’s been since I’ve checked my own.
It is, predictably, not good. My screen is filled with missed calls and texts from everyone I tried to call earlier.
But most of them are from Callum, who’s left me a string of messages on top of his missed calls.
Concerned ones at first, turning sympathetic once Nush must have spoken with him.
And then back to concern when I remained unresponsive throughout the day.
Shit.
Sorry , I start to text back before glancing at Jack, who’s now wiping his hand with a wet wipe he must just carry around with him because, of course he does.
I know Callum’s not going to like what I tell him next, but I don’t want to lie to him.
Granny’s doing okay. The nurse said she should be out by tomorrow at the latest. I tried to drive her to the hospital, but I couldn’t do it, and Jack gave me a lift.
I press send and drop the phone on my lap.
A second later, it starts to ring.
Jack looks down at it, his face settling into a scowl when he sees the Caller ID. “Someone doesn’t trust me,” he says, and then: “Aren’t you going to pick it up?”
I should. I know I should. I know he’s worried, but I cancel the call and text him instead.
It’s okay. It was really nice of him.
Call me. NOW.
“Better do as he says before I get punched again.”
“Stop reading my texts,” I snap. Jack just rolls his eyes, settling back in his chair like I’m not even there. Not wanting him to eavesdrop on our conversation, I go out into the busy corridor and find a corner to call Callum.
He picks up immediately. “Are you okay?”
I feel instantly guilty at how relieved he sounds.
“I’m fine,” I assure him. “We’re waiting to see if they want to keep her in overnight. How’s everything back home? Were people mad?”
“No, of course not. A lot of people were staying another night anyway. We’re going to do the fireworks tonight.”
“Thank God,” I say, relieved. Granny’s fall had put everything into perspective, but it was still my festival. “Are you alright to help Adam with the bar again?”
“He’ll get someone else,” he says. “I’m coming to you. Where are you? St. Mary’s?”
“No, don’t. I have no idea how long we’re going to be. I’d prefer if you were in Ennisbawn.”
“And I’d prefer to be with you. How are you going to get home?”
“Jack said he’ll drive me.”
Callum goes quiet. “He’s still there?”
“Yeah. We’re…well, we’re not bonding exactly, but we’re talking.”
“Talking?”
“I’m as surprised as you are. He’s a lot less of a dick when he loses.”
“Katie—”
“I’m okay,” I assure him. “Honestly. The nurse said they’ll know more in a few hours, and I’ll feel so much better if I don’t have to worry about things back home. Please, Callum. To make up for the pancakes.”
He huffs, but he sounds less worried now I’m making jokes. “Okay,” he says. “If that’s what you want me to do. But I want updates from you. Tell Jack to text me if you can’t. I’ll unblock his number.”
“You blocked his—” I cut myself off, shaking my head. Brothers. “I’ll text you,” I say. “I promise. I—” love you . The two words are on the tip of my tongue, about to spill out of me so naturally it’s almost frightening.
“Katie?”
“I’ll see you tonight,” I say, clearing my throat.
“Okay.” He sounds confused, but I hang up before I make my life even messier and return to the waiting room to find Jack where I left him.
“You really don’t have to stay here,” I tell him, but he ignores me, scrolling through his emails until I sit beside him again.
“You should see someone,” he says, when I do. “About your car thing.”
I frown, thinking back to the noise the engine made. “It’s a little old,” I say defensively. “But it works fine. And we don’t use it enough to—”
“Not a mechanic ,” he interrupts, like I’m an idiot. Which, yes, fine. “I mean a therapist.”
“A therapist?”
“For your anxiety,” he clarifies. “Have you seen one before?”
Not since I was a child. I did the usual “answering questions while I filled in a coloring book” thing and I’m pretty sure Granny took me to a grief counsellor, but no one since. “I don’t really like to talk about it.”
“You should,” he says. “It would help. I can give you the name of someone, if you want.”
His tone is offhand, his attention still on his phone, but I recognize an olive branch when I hear one.
“Thanks,” I say, settling back in the chair. “That would be great.”
And that’s how I start my truce with Jack Doyle.