Chapter 11 KATIE
KATIE
I wish I could say it was hard, or at the very least, challenging, to find information on Aiden. I was thinking that I’d be swallowed down by the wormhole that is Google search results; instead, his beautiful face is everywhere, and I mean EVERYWHERE!
I even came across some fan fiction about him written by several people, all fantasising about Dublin’s notorious bad boy.
I knew he looked somewhat familiar when I saw him in Dandelions; I must have scrolled past his pictures countless times without realising it.
There is even an article on that “alleged shooting” of the garda Ciara was talking about.
The picture headlining the article looks like something from a movie poster.
Aiden is in the back of a garda car, handcuffed but, all in all, maintaining a calm and composed demeanour.
I could swear that I saw a smile tugging at the corner of his lips as if he knew something the rest of us didn’t.
Pictures are dating as far back as his teens, an amateur boxer turned MMA fighter.
With a name I can place.
Craig Barnes.
As much as I try to avoid the news, there was no avoiding the headlines about Craig, and there sure as hell was no avoiding it when his now wife (then girlfriend) wrote a book about everything that happened with her stalker boyfriend and how Craig risked being skewered like a kebab to fight him off.
The book was an instant best-seller and trust the Bookstagram community to plaster the delicious carpenter all over their feeds.
It’s hard to picture Aiden in the same light.
It’s harder to imagine that they know each other and, according to the articles I could find, are friendly with each other, or at least they were. Apparently, it was Craig’s brother-in-law who Aiden “shot.”
A few more clicks and searches revealed that Aiden had a troubled past and was involved in some minor criminal activities.
“I mean, he’s fucking everywhere!” I hold the phone between my ear and my shoulder as I continue scrolling through the articles.
Maria, my best friend since childhood, all but chokes down the phone.
I don’t know what she finds funnier, the fact that I had no clue who Aiden is, his treatment of Ciara the other day, or the fact that he took it upon himself to arrange home security for me.
The new alarm was installed yesterday; my old one wasn’t good enough, apparently.
“How did you not know?” Maria finally manages to get out over her overdramatic cackling.
I land on articles about his ex-wife. “Fuck, she’s stunning,” I mutter under my breath. Maria’s laughter dies down immediately. “Don’t let his charm blind you.”
“Please,” I scoff. “I know he’s a walking red flag. I’ve got a knack for picking them out now.”
Maria and I have been friends for as long as I can remember. Unfortunately, or fortunately depending on your take on things, we had all too similar childhoods. We both grew up in addictive households; while my parents favoured the drink, her father favoured drugs.
We’ve both been raped, assaulted, and abused in more ways than we can count. We are both recovering from past eating disorders and body dysmorphia. Bulimia for me, anorexia for Maria. It’s amazing the lengths you go through to take control in a world that feels so out of control.
We have weathered every storm together, and I don’t think I’d be alive right now if it were not for her. She knows everything there is to know about me. She knows things that not even my family knows about me. She’s been my one constant in life, my sister from another mister. My soulmate.
I know most people claim that they would kill for their friends, but it’s not a false promise for me when it comes to Maria. If anyone tried to hurt her, I’d slice them from throat to ball bag, and much like Aiden in the back of the Garda car, I’d smile in my mugshot.
“Didn’t you say you were meeting up with him for coffee today?” She presses, and I imagine her eyebrow has shot into her purple hairline.
“Yes. Coffee, public place, twenty minutes tops. I have to give him back the clothes I borrowed.” Closing my laptop, I stand up and grab my clothes from the chair.
“I still cannot believe that you woke up in his bed!”
“Don’t even,” I grunt, popping her on loudspeaker while I get dressed. “I’m still trying to wrap my head around it.”
“So,” she continues, “how did it go with Cillian? Did you end up in his bed?”
“No thanks.” Why do they make skinny jeans so fucking tight?
The zip finally goes up with a struggle: “I’m finally at a place where I’m happy by myself; I’m not looking for anything serious right now.
” I grab my shoes from the rack at the end of the bed and slip them on.
“Besides,” I add, slightly out of breath from the acrobatics needed to get into these poxy jeans. “I’m broken, remember?”
I’ve been called it on more than one occasion by more than one person. It’s probably why it stung so much when Aiden said it to me in his kitchen. Someone who doesn’t even know me can see the damage I try to hide.
Broken is the word previous lovers have called me. I can’t say that I’ve ever had a relationship—not a proper one, at least. Nothing ever lasted longer than six weeks before they glimpsed the cracks in my facade and decided I was too damaged to handle. Good for a fuck, but not for anything more.
I’m broken because I get attached too quickly. I later found out after I was diagnosed with ADHD that that’s a common trait. I’m jittery and quick to anger, and my psychologist is still on the fence about whether it’s caused by CPTSD or ADHD. I’d say it’s a lovely blend of both.
I’ve got rejection-sensitive dysphoria, which means that I tend to take rejection very personally, and it affects me deeply.
I wanted to pack in being a cover designer because one girl left me a scathing review.
It didn’t matter that I have hundreds of positive reviews; that one negative comment hit me hard.
There are a lot of ways in which I’m damaged; I get that. But the broken thing I’m referring to is about sexual trauma that I experienced in the past.
I can get myself off as much as I want, but as soon as a partner is involved, my body just refuses to cooperate. No matter how much I want it, I just can’t reach an orgasm with another person.
It didn’t take a genius to figure out that after several partner changes, I was the problem and a bitch for not stroking their ego and faking it, so yeah, there’s that.
The thought of having another person come into my life to point an accusatory finger at me and try to figure out what the fuck is wrong with me because I can’t achieve orgasm with them is terrifying.
It’s not that I haven’t tried to communicate my struggles; I really have.
I told one of my partners about it—someone I thought cared for me, someone I foolishly trusted.
I told him that I had been raped at fifteen; I didn’t even divulge the rest of the sordid details, and do you want to know what his advice was?
Get over it.
I wonder if he’d tell me to get over it if I added that I was forced into giving someone oral when I was a child.
It’s funny how I can’t remember what age I was; I can’t remember how we went from watching TV in my sitting room to the act itself.
I can’t remember a lot about that incident or most of my childhood, but it’s the details I do remember that have my eyes stinging with angry tears, my throat constricting, and my palms trembling at the memory.
My dad was drunk as usual and talking on the house phone just outside the door to my granddad.
I remember being fucking terrified that he’d walk in, and I’d be on the arse end of a hiding.
I remember the back of my head being forced down, the weight of his hand pressing against my skull, and the tears streaming down my face.
I don’t remember how long it lasted or what happened next; I simply don’t recall anything after that moment. The fear and pain consumed me, leaving a blank void in my memory as a defence mechanism against the trauma.
Is it cold in here, or is it just me?
“Don’t listen to those arseholes!” Maria’s voice rings out over the phone.
I’m on the landing; I don’t remember coming out here. I’m fucking freezing. My teeth begin to chatter, and my hands shake uncontrollably. Fuck. I can’t go out like this.
I’ve triggered myself again.
I’ll have to text Aiden and cancel.
Oh my God, I’m going to throw up!
“I won’t,” I reply, trying to keep my voice steady.
I could tell her what’s going on, but I don’t want her to worry about me.
I’ll be fine in a minute. I’ll just text Aiden to cancel, get into bed, and wrap myself in a cocoon of blankets.
That usually does the trick. Hiding from the world is what I do best.
“Are you alright?”
Of course she can tell something’s wrong.
“Yeah, I’m just, eh, not feeling great; I think I’m getting a migraine,” I fib. “I’m going to text Aiden to cancel and head to bed for a bit.”
“Do you need anything?”
“No, I’ll be fine once I get into a dark room and take an Imigran,” I reassure her, hoping she won’t press further. She doesn’t, thankfully. I promise to call her later and end the call.
“Come on,” I beg my trembling hands. Tears spill down my face as I struggle to keep my emotions in check. I strike my cheek in frustration, trying to snap myself out of it. “For fuck’s sake!” I growl, feeling like I’ve swallowed a razor blade. “It’s been over twenty years; stop it!”
I just about have the text message typed out when I hear a knock on my front door.
Please, God, don’t make me answer that door right now.
I freeze on the top of the stairs, hoping that if I don’t make a sound, whoever it is will think I’m not home and go away.
They don’t.
Of course they don’t.
Why would I be granted even a tiny fucking mercy?