What the hell happened to you, Mate? Did things go to shit with the Italians? A woman? You’re telling me a woman did this to you?
With that irritating vision in his head, he turned on his heel and marched out of the bathroom. Throwing his towel onto the bed, a heavy roll of steam followed Kilian out of the bathroom, curling up towards the ceiling of his bedroom like fire licking at unburnt wood.
What did he care if people talked? She was a fierce opponent, which was evident by her face, and the state of Ron. He shouldn’t be ashamed, if anything, he needed her, and everyone else to know, that he wasn’t bothered by it. She was nothing he couldn’t handle.
Kilian stepped out the front door of his flat. When he’d first woken up this morning, he had intended to make the short drive to the restaurant. It would only take a few minutes, even if there was traffic on the main street where people tried to cut ahead of each other when the two lanes reduced to one. As soon as he felt the cool, morning air against his burning skin, though, Kilian decided to walk.
He kept his hands in his jacket pockets as he marched along the streets, keeping his head down and his chin tucked into his collar. He looked up as he crossed a way, peeking his head out of the collar to nod at a motorist for slowing down in front of the crosswalk.
God, he loved this town. He could travel the whole wide world, he mused, but never find anything as beautiful, or as comforting, as the Irish coast and his beloved Galway.
Once, his brother Daniel had run off to Dublin for school, he thought he was crazy, but there was no talking him out of it. Nearly broke their mother’s heart, but Dad knew he’d be back soon, and swore up and down that it was for the good of the family. They all had their parts to play, didn’t they? Someday Daniel would understand his too.
A large gust of icy wind blew hard, whipping up the stray leaves from the ground and smack into his face, startling him so that he jumped back in surprise, and swatted, striking himself square in the nose. The pain was as instant and as violent as the sudden urge to vomit all over the freshly swept sidewalks.
The once frigid fall air that soothed the sharp aching of his bruised face was now as irritating as the throbbing sensation that radiated through his face. Christ, it was like being hit all over again.
Forcing his eyes open, and himself to breathe deeply, he stepped up onto the other side of the crosswalk and ran his fingers through the center of his hair, shaking out the partially dried strands. It was fine, he just needed to remain focused on the journey, and eventually the pain would stop again.
Passing by a collection of shops, Kilian passed various shop owners as they prepped their stores; setting up outdoor seating and unfolding the chalk signs that detailed their daily specials.
Cutting around a two-lane road, Kilian approached the front of the family restaurant. The familiar glint of the sign’s twinkling lights reflected in the small puddles of rainwater that had collected in the cracks of the sidewalk throughout the night.
Pushing through the revolving door of the restaurant, Kilian greedily inhaled the peppery scent of the poppyseed dressing the family used on their signature house salad. For whatever reason, the more robust smells that poured from the kitchen never lingered in the restaurant as strongly as that vinaigrette—each time Kilian was sure it would be permanently masked, he found himself twitching his nose at the spicy note in the air.
He stepped out of the revolving door, stopping to hang his jacket on one of the hooks behind the bar. A grey wool sweater—one Kilian himself had purchased during the holidays the year before—hung on the far hook limply. The image of it left him smiling, not because of his continual absentmindedness (what his mother would term laziness) but because it was another sign that this restaurant was home.
Turning away from the sweater, he faced the bustling restaurant, crowded with tourists and locals for the brunch special.
He didn’t have to look, he knew where his family would be. Dodging a young mother and child, he strode on long legs toward the corner booth reserved for family only.
“Kilian,” Liam’s familiar voice called as he glanced up from the paper, barely meeting his eyes before looking back to the printed words.
“Liam,” he replied before sliding in next to his brother.
“What the hell happened to your face?” Liam demanded as he did a double take back at his brother.
“Well, isn’t that rude. I take after our mother you know,” Kilian said, and reached for Liam’s glass of water and drank deeply.
“The hell you do, I’ve never seen Mom with a shiner like that, or a nose, Jesus Christ, Man, what the hell happened?”
“Grace Walsh,” Daniel said as he slid across from them, a sly smile spread across his boyishly handsome face.
“A girl?” Liam exclaimed, and Kilian’s eyes rolled.
“Not just a girl, a Walsh Girl.”
“Walsh, Murphy, MacPherson, who the hell cares what her surname was, a damn woman broke your face in.”
“It’s not that bad,” Kilian muttered as he reached for the little basket of bread at the center of the table.
“Not that bad?” Liam scoffed as he folded the paper neatly and tucked it into his briefcase. “Have you seen your face?”
Kilian turned to glower at Liam, all pretty and clean in his lawyer’s suit, his black hair trimmed neatly, his manicured hands drumming on the table. Looking at him, no one would know the violence that those hands were capable of, nor how easily those amused blue eyes could turn as hard, and as sharp as glass.
“When you meet her you’ll understand,” Kilian stretched out in the roundest section of the booth, throwing his arms up to rest on the top of the leather backing, and turned away from Liam, signaling that the conversation was over.
They sat and waited for their father in silence. As time drug on, he drummed his fingers on the table’s surface, tapping the to the beat of the song that played lightly overhead. Even though he couldn’t make out any of the lyrics, Kilian was certain that he knew the song that was playing.
