Aaden
aaden
was her age, in her level at high school. Short, stocky, dark-eyed, dark-haired, he had the easy, magnetic charm of a bartender who could lean on the counter listening to your problems or break up a fight and toss you out the door. In Irish, meant “fire and flame, warmth of the home,” and the moment Blythe saw him, she flushed with heat.
He had only that year moved to Arlington, but he was handsome, athletic, and smart. He quickly became part of the gang of popular guys. He was in only one class that Blythe took—history—and he sat behind her and to the right, so she couldn’t see him except when he entered and left the classroom. But she was aware of him whenever they passed each other in the halls.
He had a great smile and broad, muscular shoulders. He wore cotton rugby shirts no matter how cold it got. He was almost always the first to answer in class, and the prettiest girls in her grade clustered around him, chattering away, trying to keep his interest. radiated a quiet masculine strength. Blythe wasn’t surprised to learn that he was a wrestler, the best in his league. That was their junior year. She’d giggled with her girlfriends about him. She’d given him a lingering smile whenever their eyes met.
One day, at the end of history class, she accidentally on purpose dropped her notebook, and had picked it up for her.
“Thanks,” she said casually. “I’m Blythe.”
“I know,” had said, smiling.
She’d blushed, become flustered, and babbled, “Oh, right, of course you know, we’re in the same class, Mr. Ruoff calls on me all the time.”
“True.” ’s gaze was like sunlight on a cold day. “But I’ve been asking around. About you.”
“You have?” Her breath caught. She was mesmerized, and she was never mesmerized. She was pretty and smart and popular. Lots of guys were interested in her. “I’m not always like this,” she told him.
“Let me take you out Saturday night and you can show me what you’re like.” suddenly blushed, and it was a gorgeous, sexy sight, the way the pink flooded up from the base of his neck to his cheeks. “That sounded wrong somehow.”
Blythe had shamelessly batted her eyelashes. “It sounded right to me.”
Students were pouring into the room for the next class. and Blythe cut through the crowd and went out into the hall.
“I’ve got to go this way,” she told .
“I’ve got to go that way. Look. I’ve got a car. Meet me in the parking lot when classes are over.”
“I will!” she promised and hurried down the hall with the few stragglers late for class.
She sank down into her seat, her heart pounding, and for all she knew, she wasn’t even in the right classroom, and it didn’t matter where she was, because she had waiting for her at the end of the school day.
It happened so quickly between them. It wasn’t just physical, although that was fierce and compelling. was smart, too, super smart, and he didn’t hide the fact that he loved words, he loved poetry. Wait! Blythe had thought. A guy liked poetry and was also on the wrestling team?
It was his Irish heritage, he explained. Both his parents were Irish immigrants and his grandparents lived there still.
“I’ll take you to meet my grandparents sometime,” promised. “They’ll love you and you’ll see where I learned to love words.”
As their junior year progressed, they became that couple. They went everywhere together. They spoke on the phone before going to sleep. Blythe attended all his wrestling matches even though she’d never paid much attention to any kind of wrestling before.
And the wrestling! As they became more and more intimate, showed her different wrestling moves. The screw lock throw, the fireman’s carry, the takedown. First, he demonstrated the Irish collar-and-elbow grip when they were in Blythe’s bedroom—with the door open, always—and when he gently thumped Blythe onto her bedroom floor with its wall-to-wall carpet, her father came up the stairs demanding to know what was going on. After that, he showed his wrestling moves in the family room, where Blythe’s parents could watch. He was always gentle with Blythe, but she learned how strong he was, how powerful he could be, and how their bodies felt together, even in the strangest of holds.
Blythe’s parents liked . Her mother, a high school teacher, had insisted Blythe take birth control pills the moment she turned sixteen and her main concern was that she did not get pregnant or decide not to go to college because of . Blythe’s father liked but reminded Blythe that she was only a teenager, and that while teenage romances were passionate, they never lasted.
’s family also liked Blythe. He had an older brother, Donal, who was bigger and stronger than he was. He treated like a family pet and Blythe quickly realized that when ’s brother punched him in the shoulder or slapped his head, it was his way of showing affection. Brendan Sullivan, ’s father, owned Awen, an import company specializing in Irish clothing and gifts. He’d opened a branch in Boston with his own brother still living in Ireland, and for a few decades it was successful. By the 1990s, synthetic fleece was being made into blankets, sweaters, and sweatshirts, and people were stuffing their itchy Irish wool sweaters into the back of their closets. ’s father and his wife, Sheila, tried to modernize the business with scarves and capes and jewelry. They went to Ireland several times a year to meet with their family and business partners there and managed to keep the company successful, but not like it had been.
Donal refused to join the business and instead went into construction. He married young and often came to Sunday dinner at the Sullivan house with his wife, Maeve. By the time they were seniors in high school, Blythe had every Sunday dinner at the Sullivan’s. She and were with each other every moment they could be. They could argue fiercely, at school or a coffee shop or their own homes, but they would always make up. If Blythe had a cold, caught it. If went to a school football game, Blythe went with him. She learned a lot about families by watching and his brother and parents argue and insult one another and then sit down to dinner and talk and laugh. When Blythe argued with her parents, or when they argued with each other, it always ended with each person going into another room to sulk or think or nap, returning after an hour or so wearing their hurt feelings wrapped around them like an invisible cape, refusing to speak and going to bed mad. Because of his family, Blythe felt safe in arguing with , knowing that they would always make up.
learned to fit in with Blythe’s parents, who were always more formal. Their discussions tended to touch on current weather in the area or the newest movies and television shows. Watching them together, Blythe realized how different her small family was. They never argued at the table, but gently changed the subject. They used cloth napkins, gravy boats, and good glasses, not, like ’s family, paper napkins, or in a pinch, paper towels, and beer or cola cans right on the table. But the families were more or less equal financially, and that made things easier.
Blythe and applied to the same colleges and agreed to go to whichever one accepted them both. wanted to major in business administration so he could take over his father’s business. Blythe chose education. An only child, she enjoyed being around kids of any age.
Thanksgiving Day, which they each spent mostly in their respective parents’ homes, Blythe and met by the salt-and-pepper bridge over the Charles River. The day was clouded and chilly, and they walked along Memorial Drive with their coats buttoned up and gloves on their hands.
“So,” Blythe prompted. “What did you want to tell me?”
cleared his throat. “The family is going to Ireland at Christmas. They only just decided. My grandmother is ill, her son Sean, my father’s brother, you’ve heard us talk about him, he’s an alcoholic and useless, but their daughter, Sarah, wants to keep the business going and begged us to come help her sort it out. And Liam, my father’s other brother, has seven children and works hard but he’s getting old.”
“How long will you be gone?” Blythe asked.
“A month. Maybe a bit longer.”
“You can’t miss your final semester.” She was shrinking into herself from the cold wind and her fear.
“I know. I’ll be back by then.” He took her hand in his. “I’m sorry. I have to do this. I know it ruins our Christmas, but we have years of Christmases ahead of us.”
“I could go with you,” she suggested softly, afraid to say it, knowing what his answer would be. “You’ve told me I should see Ireland.”
“I did think of that, but no. Not now. Not like this. It will be a mad crush, because we’re a large family and we’ve got to sort things out. First, we’ll have to have a good drunken brawling reunion with all the worst memories spread out and then some of us will have to spend days looking at the company’s records and helping Sarah.”
Blythe was shivering. “I’m so cold. I need to go inside.”
“Come on.”
took her hand and led her across the street and into the heart of Cambridge. They found a coffee shop, a warm, dark room smelling pleasantly of wet mittens and mufflers. took her to a booth and helped her slide in.
“I’ll be back with drinks.”
The room was cozy, but Blythe was still cold. She folded her arms across her chest to keep the warmth against her. Her parents had told her, her friends had warned her, high school romances never last. They’re like fireworks, instant, explosive, gorgeous, and doomed to fade and disappear.
returned. He scooted into the same side of the booth as Blythe, his warm body touching hers, shoulder to shoulder, thigh to thigh. He’d brought her a coffee, thick with chocolate, sugar, and cream. He was wearing a Red Sox cap and his high school letter jacket which made a crackling sound as he moved next to her.
She sipped the coffee and let it warm her.
put his arm around her and pulled her close. “Say something.”
All she could think about was how he had said, “The family is going to Ireland.” As if he did not exist apart from his family. As if being with his family was more important than being with her.
“This seems huge,” Blythe finally said very quietly. She couldn’t face him. She stared at the wall opposite. She didn’t want him to touch her. She would shatter like crystal. “A kind of turning point. Or maybe I mean a fork in the road.”
Beside her, nodded. “I know. But things are always going to change, aren’t they? We’re graduating from high school in a few months. We have to be adults and face the future. I suppose I mean we need to face the present.”
She couldn’t speak. She didn’t want to face the present, not with half a world away.
“Just tell me you’ll come back,” she whispered.
“I’ll come back,” promised.
—
He had kept his promise. He had come back. He’d finished his final semester at the high school.
But he was going to return to Ireland. She had known that the moment she set eyes on him when he returned from Christmas vacation.
That January evening, when picked her up to go out to dinner, he’d entered the house to say hello to her parents and to chat politely like he always did.
Blythe and didn’t speak as they walked to the car, but already Blythe sensed how had changed. During his few phone calls over vacation, he’d been ebullient, unable to talk fast enough to tell her all the reasons Dublin was amazing. She had wanted him to return home so badly that she’d almost told him she’d had a car accident and was in the hospital, but of course she couldn’t lie to him, she could only tell him how happy she was that he was having a great time, even though that was really a lie. When she saw him, his first evening home, he’d seemed taller, larger, more confident, and he had always been confident.
They settled in the car. It was very cold, and switched on the ignition in order to turn on the heater.
Before they pulled on their seatbelts, Blythe turned to .
“You’re going back to Ireland.”
He didn’t lie. “I am. I wish I could explain how it is over there. For me. It’s home. The people, the food, the weather, the architecture—I’ve applied to Trinity in Dublin for next year. It’s where I want to be.”
Her heart stopped. She couldn’t think. “, could we drive somewhere? I mean, if my parents glance out the window, they’ll wonder why we’re still parked here.”
“Sure.” They both hitched on their seatbelts and he drove the car away from her house and onto Mass Ave, a wider, busier street leading into Cambridge and toward the Charles River.
said, “Are you hungry?”
“No.” Blythe couldn’t look at him.
kept his eyes on the road. “Blythe. Listen. I want you to come with me.”
Softly, Blythe said, “I can’t.”
“Yes, you can!” suddenly pulled into a parking spot in front of a deli. Turning to her, he said, “Blythe, you’d love it there! You love books, you love poetry, Ireland is all about poetry. You know that.”
“I’m not brave like you.” Blythe leaned away, against the door, not wanting him to touch her, to pull her toward him. “I like it here. I don’t want to live in a strange world.”
“Ireland is not strange!” objected.
Embarrassed, hurt, and all at once angry, Blythe finally faced him. “It is to me.”
“But I’ll be with you,” argued.
“You’ll be with your friends, your family. I won’t know anyone but you.”
“You’ll meet people,” said. “You’ll make friends.”
“I have friends. Perfectly wonderful friends.”
“You’ll make new friends.”
She looked away from him. “, stop. I’m not like you. I want to stay here. Go to Ireland, but don’t expect me to go, too.”
spoke softly, gently. “I don’t want to be away from you.”
She shook her head. “Go to Ireland.”
“Blythe, I’m sorry. I want to hold you.”
She wanted that, too. She was so confused. She pressed the button, making the seatbelt slide away from her. She leaned toward and sank into the security of his strong embrace. She laid her head on his shoulder, feeling the strength of his arms, the bristles on his jaw, the swell of muscles beneath his coat. Feeling the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. kissed her hair and then kissed her mouth, but it wasn’t a lover’s kiss. It was a soothing kiss.
“Let’s go eat,” he said. “Let’s talk things over.”
“Okay.” Blythe pulled away from him.
As he drove, suggested, “Tell me about your vacation. Did you go skiing?”
She tried to be as calm as he was even though she felt like a raging Irishwoman in one of their tragic plays, gesticulating and weeping and gnashing her teeth and wanting to die. She blew her nose heartily and sniffed back her tears. “Not skiing. Jenna and I went skating at Frog Pond on Boston Common. It was the most beautiful cold day with bright sun and snow covered everything like a fairy tale. Oh, and we went to an amazing Moroccan restaurant. We went shopping…”
She couldn’t keep up the pretense.
“Oh, , is this going to be the end of us?”
The road was congested, vehicles swerving in and out, changing lanes, their lights flashing across ’s eyes. He didn’t look away from the traffic; he couldn’t. But he said, “Blythe, there will never be an end to us.”