The driver passes through the gate at the landing strip and taxis toward the awaiting private jet. It’s a matte black that matches the matte black yacht and McLaren in Los Angeles, with the matching matte black Cadillac in Boston. I was able to get my plane to Concordia, but had to use a private limo service.
If only the neighborhood kids who’d teased me about being poor could see me now.
As we walk up the stairs and get on board, Maggie doesn’t seem the slightest bit impressed. Something like resignation or disappointment replaces the expression of awe, widening her eyes when we drove through the Concordian villages. She’s stiff and almost seems prickly, irritated.
Luxury impresses most women I encounter. Getting on a private plane might be considered a Cinderella moment for some. Not Maggie. Her crimped brow suggests the opposite...or maybe it isn’t her first time flying private. Being best friends, I imagine I’d know about that—until recently, even though we hadn’t seen each other in ages, we text regularly and going on a luxury jet qualifies as textable material.
Then again, she said she changed. I suppose I have too. But I still can’t be sure about what’s changed between us.
23
DECLAN
Iscuff my foot and almost stagger. Perhaps Maggie is upset because I’ve forgotten my manners—I guess I’m used to women fawning over me and my wealth.
Clearing my throat, I say, “Welcome aboard. Please, make yourself comfortable. The flight attendant can provide any beverages or food you may like. There is cake.”
She tilts her head and narrows her eyes as though that was the wrong thing to say.
“Did you forget something? Did I?” I ask at a loss. “Is there something I can get for you?”
She lets out a sigh as she plunks into the leather seat.
The interior is cream and gold, everything shiny and polished.
“You wanted to come with me, right?”
“I didn’t know we’d be using such ostentatious means of travel.” She snorts.
I can count on one hand the times Maggie and I have fought. Usually, it was over something stupid and resolved in less than five minutes. But this is different. She seems genuinely upset or disappointed in me.
“You know that I like to make an entrance. Not going to lie, I like the luxuries my life affords me. I’ve worked for it and didn’t grow up some privileged, entitled goldie.” I snort.Goldiehad been Keefe’s expression, meaning those who lived a charmed life. Will he catch word that I’m back? Likely. The two of us could sniff each other out in the dark. But we haven’t spoken since I left Dublin and Keefe went to jail.
“A goldie? Ironic.” Maggie likely remembers me using the term when we’d privately tease the entitled students senior year who’d been born with gold spoons in their mouths, never mind silver ones.
Maggie gazes out the window, locking me out and leaving me to walk back in time. Memories flood my mind as the plane hurtles past a golden sunset that stands in contrast to our darkening moods.
When I lived in Dublin, my reputation was right up there with the roughest of the street toughs. No one would mess with me. But inside, I was soft. Weak. Vulnerable. But I kept it hidden.
Right now, I feel like I’m balancing on the knife-edge of being tough and tender as memories slice through my mind like the clouds whispering by outside the oval window of the jet.
I left Dublin years ago. A pause button had been pressed, preserving all of my emotions like baggage left behind. They’re frozen in time, cryogenically stored in well-worn luggage. Now, with the prospect of returning, I’m afraid they’ll all come rushing back and spill out.
More than anything, I don’t want Maggie to see the other side of me—the guy that isn’t the fun-loving goofball jokester. The side that I’d left on the streets. Any dangerous behavior that managed to tag along with me abroad to the US, I’d beaten out of myself during my training as a mixed martial artist. And let’s behonest, there were countless times when I had to check my ego at the door and take a big bite of humility.
When the lights of Dublin city come into view, stretching in every direction and then ending abruptly where it meets the sea, I sense a pair of hazel eyes flit to me and remain fixed there.
My stomach lurches and it’s not because of turbulence. Before we touch down, I have to make this right. “Mag-ookie, I’m sorry if this is too flashy. I figured you’d like it rather than having a kid kicking the back of your seat the entire commercial flight or the attendant forgetting to bring you water or a broken vent blasting lavatory air at you the whole time.”
“It’s just so posh.”
“What’s wrong with living large? Wouldn’t you if you had the chance?”
“I did, Declan,” she says, almost in a whisper.
It takes me a moment to follow. “Oh. I didn’t know.” Maggie’s expression is closed as I try to peel back the layers of understanding.
“Growing up, I was wealthy. I had everything except—it doesn’t matter. I’ve since made my own way and don’t take handouts. Unless it’s a cupcake. Won’t say no to one of those.”
