Chapter 15
FIFTEEN
RORY
I hear her car door slam, and the engine start.
I mute the TV I wasn’t even watching, and listen to her wheels crunch over the gravel as she leaves.
I throw the remote control all the way across the room, and it smashes into the wall, the batteries flying loose and the back cracking.
Shit. I’ll regret that later. I’ll regret a lot of things later, I’m sure.
I’ll regret letting her come here in the first place. I’ll regret letting her back into my life. I’ll regret being so dumb that I expected her to stay once Beth had gone. I’ll regret ever meeting her, all those years ago.
Mainly, I realise, getting up and gathering the pieces of the remote, I’ll regret letting her leave.
I let her walk out without saying a word.
‘See you around, Jane’ – was that really the best I could do?
A former barrister, the man Moira says has French-kissed the Blarney Stone? That’s all I could come up with?
In that moment it was. Seeing her leaving felt like a punch to the gut.
We hadn’t discussed it, and I hadn’t expected it.
I knew it might be awkward without Beth, but I suppose I thought we’d find our way through it, like we have so far.
She seemed to be enjoying it here, working with Moira and Kate, planning the art project.
Watching her ideas for the murals in the bookshop come to life. Was I wrong?
No, I decide. She was enjoying all of that.
It was the Rory Callaghan part that she was struggling with.
I place the broken pieces of plastic on the table, and feel like slapping myself across the face.
She’s only been here a week, but I was already getting used to having her around.
Already getting used to the lingering floral smell of her perfume in the hallway when I got home, the sound of her singing to herself when she thought nobody was listening.
Finding the pretty doodles she’d done on a sketch pad and left in the kitchen.
Living with the signs of her all around me.
It was torture. It was hell. It was heaven. And now she’s gone – as though it meant nothing to her, seeing me again.
Except… she’d been crying, I could tell.
Her normally tidy hair was dishevelled, and she looked shocked when she saw me in the doorway.
She’d left the door wide open, and was listening to the music from that damned film again.
None of this, once I calm myself down, seems like the behaviour of a woman who didn’t care.
A woman this meant nothing to. I didn’t really even give her the chance to explain, or to talk it through – I just overreacted. Gave her the cold shoulder.
‘Fuck!’ I say out loud, because sometimes only a swear will do, especially if you’re Irish. Why did I freeze her out like that? Why did I turn my back and walk away, pretending to be so cool? Aren’t I too old these days for pretending to be cool?
It’s not too late, I think, grabbing up the keys to my bike.
It’s a Harley, big and powerful and most importantly fast. If she’s leaving, she’ll have to go back through the village, and I know she drives like a granny – still getting used to the curves and turns.
If I go further up the hillside and back down the other way, maybe I can head her off.
It’s a stupid idea and I know it, but it takes root – if nothing else, it’ll do me good to feel the wind blowing against me, to feel the freedom of the open road.
It’s got to be better than sitting here smashing inanimate objects and cursing.
I put on my leather jacket and helmet, and I’m away. Up and over the cliffs, taking the small roads that cars can’t access, cutting over tracks and fields and finally emerging on the far side of Bonnie Bay, and the road that leads away back to Aberdeen. Back to bloody Watford.
I hit the crossroads, and look in both directions – just as she passes me, her blue Hyundai tootling off into the distance.
The road is quiet at this time of day, and I swoop behind her, then around her, the bike easily catching up.
I go on in front, and drive infuriatingly slowly.
I have no idea if she realises it’s me or not, but eventually she beeps her horn at me.
I grin beneath my helmet, imagining the names she’s calling me right now, and zoom off to get some distance.
I pull the bike to a stop right across the road, blocking her path completely, and boot the kick stand into place.
She beeps me again, but luckily isn’t annoyed enough to plough right into me.
I take my helmet off and leave it on the saddle as I stride towards her.
I see her eyes widen through the windscreen, and her hands grip the steering wheel so hard her knuckles whiten.
I knock on the driver’s side window and she stares at me for a few seconds, understandably confused.
Eventually she opens the window, and looks me up and down. ‘Rory,’ she mutters. ‘What are you doing?’
‘I’m lodging an official objection.’
‘To what precisely?’
‘To you leaving without us talking. To the way we left things. To you crying, and me being so bloody furious all the time.’
‘I’m not crying!’ she snaps, the moist tracks on her cheeks telling a different tale. ‘Much…’
She sighs, and bites her lip. ‘So this is your plan? To block the only way in and out of Bonnie Bay while we have a conversation?’
I glance at the completely empty road and shrug. ‘It’s hardly rush hour now, is it? But fair play – you’re right. Come back to the house. You’re upset. I’m upset. I have things I need to say. Stay for another night, so we can at least end things on a pleasant note. Be civilised.’
I grimace inside at the words coming out of my mouth. Pleasant? Civilised? I don’t feel either of those things. But telling her what I really feel will definitely scare her away.
Because as I look at her, chest heaving nervously, blonde hair stuck in damp strands to her soft cheeks, big brown eyes darting away from mine, I realise how much I want her. That I never stopped wanting her, and probably never will.