Chapter Thirteen ~ Nathan
I don’t know what possessed me to invite Fiona inside.
Half an hour in the confines of my truck, surrounded by her mango scent and the sound of her voice, should have been my limit.
Yet here we are, in my entryway, removing our shoes.
I take her sad excuse for a jacket and consider asking if she wants me to hang it up or throw it straight in the trash.
“Please tell me you have a better raincoat in London, considering England is famous for its rainy days,” I say.
She chuckles. “I do, and I stupidly left it in London in my haste to leave. I found this thing in Mum’s closet, and didn’t realize it had seen better days.” A full-body shiver rolls through her as she says the last words.
Since she put my sweater on over her wet shirt, I’m guessing she’s still damp, so I offer to get her something dry to change into.
Upstairs in my bedroom, I choose the first hoodie I see in my closet.
I ignore the memories that flit through my mind’s eye of teenage Fiona, the unapologetic sweater thief.
I swear part of my sexual awakening happened the first time I saw her in my favourite hoodie and nothing else.
The sight of her shapely legs and bare feet imprinted on my brain—and other places—that day.
With that in mind, I grab a pair of sweatpants too.
They’ll be way too big, but it’s better than the alternative. Safer.
Back downstairs, I’m surprised to find Fiona exactly where I left her. I expected her to be wandering around the living room, checking things out. Instead, she’s staring into space, her eyes unfocused. She snaps out of it when she sees me, and accepts the bundle of clothing, murmuring her thanks.
When she heads for the stairs, I point to a door partway down the hall. “There’s a bathroom down here now. Liam and I installed it a few years ago. There are towels in there if you need them.”
Her eyebrows lift, but she only nods and disappears down the hall. First things first: whiskey. I pour two glasses and take a sip from mine that turns into another sip, and another, until the glass is empty. I refill it and set both glasses aside to get a fire going.
Flames are leaping to life in the hearth when a tingling at the back of my neck tells me Fiona has returned.
I stand slowly and turn to face her. Her gaze is moving around the room, taking everything in, which gives me a chance to do the same with her.
Her damp hair, which had been in a messy topknot before, is now cascading around her shoulders, the auburn tresses a striking contrast against the black of my hoodie.
Her hands are tucked into the too-long sleeves, the hem hits her mid-thigh, and the rolled bottoms of the pant legs pool around her bare feet.
Just like it did when we were younger, seeing her in my clothes stirs something possessive within me.
“Part of me expected everything to be the same in here,” she says, her eyes still sweeping the room. “Frozen in time, like my childhood bedroom.”
“It was frozen in time until a few years ago,” I say.
“I looked around one day and realized it was still my grandparents’ place, not mine.
” My grandparents bought this house in the 1960s.
My mom and I moved in with them when I was a toddler, after my dad left for good.
Until a few years ago, the last major updates had been done in the ’80s.
“Ugly carpet, wood panelled walls, and busy wallpaper, oh my,” Fiona says with a fond smile.
“Exactly. Plus their furniture, artwork, and knick-knacks. I was tempted to sell the place and start fresh, but I love this house and the neighbourhood. Liam and I weren’t all that busy with the Handymen yet, so we took this on as our first big project.”
“It’s incredible, Nathan.”
Her soft, almost reverent tone fills me with pride.
I wrestled with feelings of guilt over basically gutting the place, but my family had been gone for a long time, and I knew my mom especially wouldn’t want me to stay stuck in the past. So instead of some misguided sense of betrayal, I imagined how much she’d love the renovations we could never afford to do when I was growing up: replacing the hideous carpet with hardwood floors; taking out the panelling and wallpaper in favour of neutral-coloured paint; replacing the run-down furniture with new pieces, many of which I made myself; updating the kitchen and upstairs bathroom, and putting in a powder room downstairs.
Fiona comes to stand a few feet away from me, meeting my eyes with a nod. “It’s very you.”
“I’m almost afraid to ask what that means,” I say. “Will it make me sound like a dog again?”
She lets out a low laugh. God, I love that sound. “No. It’s…” Her mouth twists to the side as if she’s choosing her words carefully. “It’s…comforting. Masculine and understated, with a hint of softness to it. The whole place has a homey, comfortable vibe.”
“I can live with that,” I say lightly, hoping she can’t tell just how much her words please me.
I motion for her to take a seat. She looks between the couch and the armchairs before curling up in the chair closest to the fireplace.
I hand her a glass of whiskey and take a seat on the couch across from her.
I wish I had some Hawkins Cheezies stashed away somewhere that I could offer her.
Fiona has barely settled into the chair before she’s back on her feet, moving to the mantelpiece, which is lined with framed photos.
She scans them, smiling to herself between sips of whiskey.
Her smile falters when she comes to the picture of Murph and me in Ireland.
She lifts a shaky hand and picks up the frame, studying it for several long moments before turning to me.
The tears swimming in her eyes make my stomach clench.
Fiona hides her sorrow well, especially around Mae, but I’ve seen it come through in quiet moments, like that day in the treehouse, or when she thinks she’s alone and she gets that far-off look in her eyes.
This is something different, though. It’s sadness, but also… hurt?
“W-when did you go to Ireland?” she asks in a wavering voice.
I rise from the couch and join her in front of the fire. “Two, maybe three years ago now.” I look at the photo in her hand, and the full weight of her question hits me. “Wait, you didn’t know?”
She shakes her head, the movement sending a lone tear down her cheek. “I had no idea. No one ever told me. He never told me.” Her brows are drawn together tightly as her gaze darts over the picture, taking in every detail.
I’m not sure what to say. Part of me wants to apologize, but for what? She typically only comes home once a year, and we’re not in contact otherwise. I assumed Murph or Mae would tell her about the trip. I can tell she’s working through something in her mind, so I remain silent.
“I can’t believe you went to Ireland.” She lifts her head to meet my gaze again, and her eyes have not only cleared, they’ve brightened.
I’ve seen that sparkle of curiosity countless times between her and Murph.
“How did it feel to travel? I mean, considering I didn’t know about this trip, you could be a globetrotter, and I’d be none the wiser.
But what did you think of Ireland? And the cottage? ”
Her rapid-fire questions make me chuckle. The only thing Fiona loves more than travelling is talking about travelling. Murph was the same way. Something about that storyteller blood, I guess. “Let’s sit, and I’ll answer all your questions.”
Unable to resist the urge to touch her after seeing her cry, I grip her shoulders and guide her back toward her chair. She takes the photo with her, the frame still clutched tightly in her hands. I top up her whiskey before returning to my seat.
“First, Ireland is the only international trip I’ve done, so I’m not a secret globetrotter,” I tell her.
“Murph was invited to some big book festival in Dublin that year. He and Mae were supposed to go together and then have a mini holiday afterward, but there was an emergency at the café, and Mae didn’t want to leave.
Everything was already booked and planned, so Murph asked me to go with him.
I waffled for a bit until I realized there was no good reason not to go. ”
“And?” Fiona asks, shifting to the edge of her seat.
I haven’t seen her this animated since she got home.
It’s like she anticipates that whatever I’m going to tell her will fuel her, maybe even soothe the ache in her—the one to travel, but also the one caused by Murph’s loss.
It hit me the other day that there’ll be no more new memories or stories with him, so I understand wanting to hear about anything connected to him, and hoarding it away like a squirrel storing nuts for winter.
“Saying I loved it feels like a massive understatement,” I say.
A modicum of the heaviness that settled in my chest when Murph died lifts at the way Fiona’s whole face lights up.
“It was all so overwhelming at first. Dublin was crowded and noisy, with all these unexpected sights and sounds and smells that seemed so foreign. I ended up loving it, but it wasn’t until we headed away from the city that I really started to relax.
That’s where…” I trail off, hesitant to sound too starry-eyed and flowery.
And yet the words that come to mind are exactly what Fiona would want to hear, and I’d do anything to keep that sparkle in her eye.
“Where what?” she prompts.