The Rebound

Chapter 18

Jess spends her last two days in the café, helping me with interview prep in between redesigning Beth’s marketing plan and ordering a ridiculous amount of coffee and cake.

Because the thing is, Jess can be serious when she wants to be, even if she does flirt with Beth when she thinks I’m not looking.

I don’t see Luke, who I learn is on a clinical placement in Galway.

Otherwise, the only people we see are the trickle of usual customers.

But there are more the second day, all of them sending curious looks toward our corner, and I wonder if word of Jess has become the latest source of village gossip.

Beth certainly seems to think so, asking a little too casually if we’d like to sit at the bench by the window where there’s more natural light.

Jess proclaims it a brilliant idea and then compliments her earrings.

I let her get away with it, needing the help.

She’s in a good mood, already planning our lives when I return, despite my frequent reminders that it’s just an interview.

She doesn’t like that. But the self-confidence I’d adapted so eagerly when I first moved to New York now seems alien to me, even more so now among the realistic (or as Jess would say, pessimistic) Irish attitude of what will be will be.

But her presence is calming, bolstering even, and I find that, even though she’s sitting right in front of me, I’m already starting to miss her.

When it’s time for her to go, I don’t want her to leave.

And maybe that’s another reason I was so against her coming here in the first place.

I didn’t say goodbye the first time. But now I have to, and though she seems more than convinced it’s only a temporary one, I’m still not sure.

How can I be when each passing day it feels like the goalposts are moving farther and farther out?

She leaves for the airport at five a.m. on a gloomy June morning, the day before my interview.

And then she’s gone. Just like that.

The house feels very quiet without her. If we had a grandfather clock in the hall, I would hear it ticking.

If I were in the desert, I would see tumbleweed drifting.

But it’s only me alone, sitting on my childhood bed, in my childhood room, and wishing desperately I could follow her.

I stay there nearly all day, reading over my notes, and I know when evening comes I should go for a run to clear my mind but the rain pours as if to officially welcome in the Irish summer, so instead I wander down to where Tomasz slouches in the front room, mindlessly watching two soccer players dive over each other.

“Your friend gone?” he asks when I curl up on the opposite end of the sofa.

“Yeah. Thanks for putting up with her.”

“Of course. We put up with you.”

“Funny.”

“You and Louise seem better.”

“We’re just waiting for the right moment. Then we’ll be at each other’s throats, don’t worry.” I hesitate as he leans forward, muttering at the referee's decision. “You didn’t say something to her, did you?”

“Me?” He sounds amused. “I say things all the time. Doesn’t mean she listens to me. You think I asked her to be nicer to you?”

“Yes.”

He shakes his head. “She likes that you’re staying longer.”

“You mean she likes that I’m going.”

“Why would she want you to go?”

I almost laugh. “Because all we do is fight. Even when we’re being nice.”

“That’s just because she doesn’t know how to talk to you,” he dismisses. “And then you were so keen to leave again when she hasn’t seen you properly in years. She misses you, Abby. Isn’t it obvious?”

“ Misses me?”

He looks at me like I’m the confused one and turns back to the television. “You’re her sister, of course she does. She likes having you here. She’d never admit it but…” He shrugs. “I’m glad you took her on that hike,” he says. “You should do that more often.”

I watch him watch the game. “Tomasz?”

“Hmm?”

“Would you like a beer?”

He smiles gratefully and I stand, going to the kitchen.

The noise from the television is faint here and through the window above the sink I can see into the Baileys’ backyard and the light streaming out from their own house.

She misses you .

I won’t pretend that one of the reasons I stayed away for so long was Louise.

Every time I came home from college there would be some sort of fight and when I got the internship at MacFarlane she acted like I did it just to spite her.

Things got a little easier when she met Tomasz, when, because of the money I gave to Mam and Dad, they got the house here.

That’s when the emails started—the polite, infrequent I am well, how are you?

messages we used to send when we remembered to.

I thought she felt she had to, like she might have owed me after what I did, even though I never wanted her to feel that way.

But maybe they weren’t. Maybe they were her way of trying.

Trying badly but still.

I take out two cans from the fridge, trying to imagine myself slotting in here.

Try to picture what it would be like, maybe getting an apartment in one of those new blocks near the beach or one of the houses around here.

I’d get my coffee at Beth’s and go to Roman’s on special occasions.

The idea doesn’t fill me with horror the way it had a few weeks ago but nor do I feel any particular pull either. Just confusion.

The front door opens and I hear Louise and Tomasz call to each other before she enters the kitchen, her shoes squeaking on the floor as she flicks on the overhead light.

The rain is heavier now and even in the short walk from the car to the door, her hair is plastered to her head, her jacket sodden.

She looks like a drowned rat and, because I’m her younger sister, I tell her just that.

“Thanks,” she says, dumping her purse on the table as I take a seat. “It’s really coming down out there.” Tomasz, too impatient with my procrastination, comes in to take the can from my hand before kissing Louise on the forehead and going straight back to the football.

“Is there another one of those?” she asks, nodding at the fridge.

“Sure.” I get up to get her one but she’s already moving.

“Bad day?” I ask, because this could be a thing we do now. Chat.

“Terrible day. What do you want for dinner?”

“I can cook something.”

Louise side eyes me as she opens the can. “You cook?”

“A little.”

She doesn’t look convinced. “We’ve got some lamb. I’ll just do a roast.”

“At least let me help. I can be the gravy tester.”

“Meaning you’ll just drink the gravy.”

“I haven’t done that in years,” I protest but she just snorts, taking out pans and dishes and everything else she needs. “Let me help,” I repeat.

She looks confused, which is understandable given how I’d usually have left the room by now, but she’s too tired to argue.

“Fine. Do you know how to chop?”

“I know the general principle of it.”

“Then you’re in charge of the potatoes. Do know how to boil a potato?”

“ Yes. ” Kind of.

“Wash. Peel. Chop evenly. Start with that.”

At least she lets me boil the kettle by myself.

“Did you have a chef in New York?” she asks when I’ve managed that feat.

“No,” I say, not raising to the bait. “I either ate at the office or got takeout. And when Tyler was there, Tyler cooked.”

There’s silence as I root around the drawer for a peeler.

“I can’t imagine him cooking,” Louise says eventually.

“He was a good cook. He was nuts about nutrition, so he kind of had to be.”

“Ah. One of those.”

“One of what?”

“You know,” she says. “NutriBullet smoothies, micro-balanced salads. Did you ever see him eat butter?”

“Have you eaten the butter over there?” I ask. “I had to pay through the nose for a stick of Kerrygold.”

“Did he ever cook for fun?”

I pause, a lie on the tip of my tongue, but not a single memory springs to mind. Tyler spent a lot of time in the kitchen, but Louise is right. It was always because he was measuring out grains and proteins.

“He could have fun other times,” I say. “We used to have a lot of fun.” Parties, vacations… we did a lot at the beginning, like any relationship.

Louise opens her mouth to respond but a frustrated shout from the living room interrupts her and she turns to wash the vegetables instead. For a few minutes we’re quiet, working side by side. I add the potatoes to the pot.

“This is a good knife,” I announce, just for something to say. “Hefty and sharp.”

“Are you making small talk or are you threatening me?”

“It’s like a proper grown-up knife,” I insist, examining the handle.

“Because I’m a proper grown-up. Except not really because it’s Susan’s. She let me borrow it months ago.”

“So, you stole it.”

“In a neighborly way, yes. But she still has Dad’s old crutches, so really we’re even.”

“Why did she take his crutches?”

“For Pat,” Louise says absently. “After the accident.”

I slice neatly through the final potato, frowning at her. “What are you talking about?”

“Pat’s thing.”

“Stop being vague.”

“I’m not.” She glances over in surprise. “Didn’t Mam tell you? He was in a car accident.”

“ No. ”

“Calm down. It was years ago. He was driving back from a match and one of those boy racers came out of nowhere. Smashed right into him.”

“And no one thought to mention this to me?”

“He’s fine now.”

“I meant when it happened.”

“We were a bit more concerned about him when it happened,” she says pointedly, and we glare at each other.

This time, she’s the first one to back down.

“I thought you knew,” she says, and turns back to the vegetables.

“You’ve seen him. He’s grand now but he was in hospital for a few weeks and when he left Susan couldn’t look after him by herself.

Luke had to come back from Dublin to help. ”

“Luke was in Dublin?”

“He worked there for a few years after he finished his degree. But then the accident happened and he decided to come home. It was really good of him. I don’t think they would have managed without him.

Anyway, you can ask Pat about it if you like.

He doesn’t mind. He’s got a bit of a limp some days but he’s fine.

A few pints down and he’ll tell you the whole very dramatized story. ”

I turn up the heat on the stove, mulling over this new piece of information. “Luke never told me he lived in Dublin.”

“Best friends now, are you?”

“I just didn’t know he’d left, that’s all. He always seemed like someone who would stay here forever.”

“Boring, you mean?”

“ No. ” I stab a potato, testing its firmness. “Did you ever want to leave Clonard?”

“I did leave.”

“For college. That doesn’t count.”

“Then no.”

“Not even to Poland? I bet Tomasz must miss home.”

“He does. But he hasn’t lived there in years. He says this is home now.”

“Right.”

“Starting to get homesick?” she asks casually.

“Not for here if that’s what you’re thinking. It’s just… I used to think you were mad at me for leaving.”

She snorts. “I was mad that you went to work for MacFarlane, not that you left. How could I be mad at you for that?”

She turns to me when I don’t answer, something in her expression softening slightly.

“Abby, you were eighteen. And you ran off into the world with your arms wide open. You didn’t look back because you didn’t need to.

But not everyone is like that. For me…” She sighs.

“I know Clonard isn’t perfect. I know it’s small and shabby but I can’t imagine living anywhere else.

It’s home. I’ve never needed more and I’ve never been mad that you did. Turn the temperature down.”

“What? Oh.” I lunge for the stove as the water starts to spill over, hissing down the side of the pot.

“Great job.”

“Shut up,” I mutter, and she smiles as Tomasz lets out another wail in the next room.

It was the nicest evening we had in a while though Louise is right.

I can’t cook. But she lets me stir the gravy.

Afterward, I go to bed early, scrolling through Stewarts’ website before I awake a few hours later to an earth-shaking, heart bursting boom of thunder.

It’s like nothing I’ve heard before and for a few moments, I simply lie there, staring at the ceiling where the twisted shadows of the trees outside don’t so much dance as they do contort above me.

When it sounds again, I reach blindly to flick on the light, but nothing happens. One look at my alarm clock confirms it. The electricity is gone.

I fling off the covers and go to the window to see the rain coming down in sheets, almost sideways with the force of the wind.

A noise from the hallway draws me outside and I peek my head out to see Tomasz standing by his bedroom, dressed in old flannel pajamas.

“I have to be up at five,” he says when he sees me.

“I have to be up at seven.”

“So I win.”

I grab a cardigan from the end of my bed as I step out. “The electricity is gone.”

“I’ll check the fuse box. Do you want coffee? I don’t think we’re going to get any sleep tonight.”

“Can you make coffee with no power?”

He pauses, face falling. “No.”

I give him a sympathetic smile and head into their bedroom to see Louise in a mirror image of the position I was in, her hands on the windowsill as she stares out at the storm.

“What time is it?” she asks when I join her.

“No clue. Either very late or very early.”

We both gasp as the room lights up as bright as a camera flash and we count in unison, waiting for the thunder.

“It’s right above us,” Louise murmurs when it sounds.

“Do you think the trains will be okay?”

Her slight hesitation speaks volumes, but she follows it up with a convincing yes. “They’re used to this kind of stuff,” she adds. “It will be gone by morning.”

Another flash of lightning and we both jump.

“I hate storms,” she mutters.

“I think they’re romantic.”

We turn to see Tomasz in the doorway, a packet of crackers in his hands.

“What?” he asks. “I do.”

Louise rolls her eyes. “I think I have some earplugs downstairs,” she says, leaving the room. “We’ll try and get some sleep. Don’t worry, Abby.”

“I’m not,” I lie, and turn back to the window to watch the apocalypse.