Chapter 3 #3
He stops himself, but the implication hangs in the air between us.
I feel a flash of anger on my brother's behalf, but I force myself to stay calm.
Grief makes people say things they don't mean, and Desmond has every right to be angry about his sister's death. I wish it hadn’t been brought up at all, on our first date… but I suppose it was inevitable, really. An elephant in the room that needed to be escorted out before we could find out if there’s really anything here.
"Ronan blames himself enough," I say quietly. "He doesn't need anyone else to do it for him."
Desmond reaches across the table and covers my hand with his.
"You're right. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that. It's just… sometimes the anger gets the better of me. She was so young. And pregnant—" He shakes his head. “She wasn’t the easiest person to get along with,” he admits. “And I know her marriage to Ronan wasn’t one of love. But sometimes I still can’t believe she’s not here. It’s only been a few months, and sometimes it feels like days… and years, all at the same time. Like it happened forever ago, and like it happened yesterday.”
His hand is warm on mine, and I can feel the smooth skin on his fingers. A rich man’s hands—no calluses or roughness there. His hand curls around mine slightly.
There's something possessive about the way he touches me, like he's claiming ownership, but I tell myself I'm reading too much into it.
"I understand," I say softly, and he squeezes my hand before releasing it.
The conversation moves to lighter topics after that.
Desmond tells me about his business ventures—he's involved in several legitimate enterprises, including a chain of upscale gyms and a real estate development company.
He's clearly successful and ambitious, and I find myself impressed despite my earlier reservations.
I’m sure he has a number of illegal ventures as well, but we don’t talk about those. I can’t help but wonder, if this relationship flourished and we were to get married, if he’d want me to be his accountant the way I am for my family. Somehow, based on his earlier comments, I doubt it.
It’s not like he said I shouldn’t be doing this work, though, I remind myself.
I’m just prickly about it. Too guarded, I think, too ready to condemn any man who says something slightly wrong as someone who only wants to cage me.
Desmond is still grieving his sister, and I’m sure he’s nervous about this date, too. I can excuse a few slipups.
The waiter comes back with our appetizers, and takes our order for the main course—the half duck with dried cranberry sauce and mushroom risotto for me, and the beef tenderloin with asparagus and horseradish whipped potatoes for Desmond.
"What about you?" he asks as he refills my wine glass. "Any plans to expand your role in the family business? Take on any other opportunities?”
I smile, shaking my head. "I'm happy where I am. I like the financial side of things. It's clean, straightforward. Numbers don't lie."
"Unlike people," he says with a laugh, and I nod in agreement.
"Exactly. There's something satisfying about making everything balance, making sure all the pieces fit together properly."
"I can see that about you," he says, taking a piece of the beef carpaccio from the plate between us. It’s so thin it’s almost translucent, and I reach for a piece myself, dipping it lightly in the truffle sauce drizzled artfully across the plate. "You strike me as someone who likes control."
There's something in the way he says it that makes me pause. "I like order," I correct. "There's a difference."
"Is there?" He chews thoughtfully. "With control comes order, and I, for one, think control is important.
Especially for people like us. We can't afford to let things get chaotic. Messiness leads to violence, arrests, blood. We need rules. Boundaries. Our own laws to follow even while we’re outside those of society. "
I'm not sure why, but his words make me uncomfortable. Maybe it's the intensity in his eyes, or the way he seems to be studying my reactions. I take another sip of wine and try to shake off the feeling.
"Tell me about Seattle," I say, changing the subject.
"I've never been, but you went there a few years ago, right? I remember hearing Siobhan saying something about it. Your father wanted you to work with some of his business partners." As far as I know, Desmond hadn’t moved back fully until their father passed away, shortly after Siobhan’s death.
A lot of tragedy, for one family—a father dying too soon of illness, and a sister brutally murdered. He’s been through a lot in the last year, I can’t help but think.
"It's a great city," he says, seeming to relax. "Different from Boston, but I enjoyed my time there. I was working with some associates, learning the business side of things."
He doesn't elaborate on what kind of business, and I don't ask. In our world, there are some questions you don't ask on a first date. Talking about a funeral is more acceptable than asking what kind of laws he broke while he was in Seattle.
The rest of dinner passes pleasantly enough.
Desmond is charming and attentive, making sure my wine glass never empties and asking thoughtful questions about my interests.
He tells funny stories about his travels and his business dealings, and I find myself laughing more than I have in months.
He has a quick wit, his timing impeccable, and I’m enjoying the night as much as I’d hoped I would.
By the time we finish dessert, I'm feeling more relaxed.
Maybe I was being too critical earlier. Desmond is clearly trying to impress me, and he's succeeding.
He's intelligent, successful, and undeniably attractive.
And most importantly, he seems genuinely interested in me as a person, not just as Ronan O'Malley's sister.
"Ready for the theater?" he asks as he signals for the check.
"Absolutely,” I say with a smile, taking a last bite of wild blueberry tart. “What are we seeing again?"
"Hadestown," he says with a grin. "I managed to get us excellent seats. I hope you like musicals."
"I love them," I say, and his smile widens.
The theater is only a few blocks away, so we decide to walk despite the cold.
I feel like I’m on a high after dinner, warm all the way through despite my thin, silky dress and bare knees.
Desmond offers me his arm, and I take it, grateful for the warmth and stability as we navigate the icy sidewalks in my heeled boots.
I can see Leon and the other guards following at a discreet distance, as well as a few others who I think are Desmond’s security—especially since they don’t seem to alarm Leon—and I try not to think about how this must look to other pedestrians.
"Does it ever bother you?" Desmond asks, apparently reading my thoughts.
"What?"
"The security. The constant surveillance. Never being able to go anywhere alone."
I consider the question. "Sometimes," I admit.
"But it's the price of who we are. I've never known anything different." I bite my lip, not wanting to bring down the mood by mentioning Siobhan again. But after her death, especially, I’ve been grateful for my security, no matter how invasive it might feel sometimes. I never want to be in a situation where I’m threatened because I wanted to be alone.
"Still," he says, his grip tightening slightly on my arm. "It must be frustrating. Never having any real privacy."
There's something in his tone that makes me glance up at him, but his expression is neutral. "It can be," I say carefully.
He chuckles. "I imagine it makes dating difficult.”
I laugh at that. I can’t help it—I’ve thought that more times than I could count. It’s the reason that I’m twenty-eight and have only ever been kissed. Nothing more than that. "You could say that."
"Well," he says, stopping suddenly and turning to face me. We're standing under a streetlight, and the golden glow makes his hair look molten, like copper slicking his scalp. "For what it's worth, I think you're worth the extra complications."
Before I can respond, he's leaning down, and I realize he's going to kiss me. It’s a good moment for it—the streetlights overhead, the snow underfoot, the stretch of street where the theater is lit up in neon just beyond us.
I almost let him, on the verge of leaning in and letting him push us this tiny bit forward.
But then, a sudden flash of Elio darts across my mind.
Two images, almost at once—him at seventeen, his lips brushing against mine as he kissed me for the first time…
both his and mine, and the image of this morning, when he walked into my brother’s office a decade older, confident and sure of himself.
I turn before Desmond’s mouth can land on mine, moving forward as if I didn’t realize what he meant to do. But of course I did, and I think he knows it.
His hand touches my back, and I almost shrug it off. But there’s no reason for me to. He hasn’t done anything wrong. And if I wasn’t thinking about a man who walked away from me years ago, a man I can never have and whose feelings now I’m completely unaware of, I would have let him kiss me.
"Sorry," Desmond says after a moment, though he doesn't look sorry at all. "I couldn't help myself."
He takes my arm again, leading me toward the theater entrance, and I don't have time to process my feelings. The lobby is crowded with well-dressed theatergoers, and I'm grateful for the distraction.