Christ.
Picking up my phone, I pull up the band account and tap on their latest photo dump. Some gig in Atlanta. Liam’s delectable. All sweat and sinew, head bowed over his guitar. Padraig’s in the back, steady as ever. Arleigh’s caught mid-note, arms outstretched, crowd roaring. They look powerful. Immersed. Beautiful.
There’s another of the three of them after the set. Arms slung around each other, eyes bright.
Clearly, I’m not needed. The twins have it under control and, truthfully, maybe it’s for the best. They can rely on each other, not others, for once.
I tap the screen until it goes dark.
My heart is broken.
Liam was my life. My family. My home. He’s living his best life and I’m stuck in a flat smelling of new paint, immersed in a corporate hell which makes my parents proud as punch, but doesn’t fit me.
The kettle clicks off behind me. I pour the water even though I don’t really want tea, and watch the steam rise.
I lie to myself most days. Tell myself I’m over him. Rationalize his behavior. Our relationship was his first true love, tour adrenaline, lust and sex disguised as something real. Then my mind drifts to the small things. How Liam would rest his forehead against mine before he went on stage to ground himself.
Yeah, the truth fucking destroys me. Liam was my fucking soul and he’s doing to me what he always does when he’s ripped apart. Burying it. Burying me. He used his bisexuality as an excuse to break up. Claimed he couldn’t be faithful.
Now he’s probably fucking his way around America to purge himself of our love while I’m still a celibate ghost hovering over Fireball’s social feeds, hoping for some small crumb.
I take a sip of the tea. It’s gone cold already. Figures. I shut my eyes, lean back against the counter, listen to the sound of car horns honking below.
Glancing down, I see an envelope on the table with The Merrion’s crest. Inside, my pay slip. I should feel grateful. My bank account is fat. Aside from rent, I don’t spend any money. This job is every hospitality major’s dream.
It’s not mine. I’m living someone else’s life. Every event I manage feels the same. Perfect, hollow, rehearsed. There’s no room for creativity. Or mistakes. Or messiness.
I glance at another stack piling on the table. Gig flyers from local pubs and indie venues I’m contemplating scouting on weekends. Wondering if building something for myself will take my mind off of my sorrow.
There’s even a name swirling around my head:Isis Management.
Isis is the goddess of restoration. If anyone needs restoring, it’s me.
I could take everything I learned from working with Niahm’s father and from my time with Fireball. Reimagine the bedlam into brilliance. Do it completely my way this time. Maybe in a year or two I’d have a roster. To start, a few Irish acts worth pushing abroad. Once I’m able to make enough to quit the hotel, I’ll be able to breathe again, maybe even feel alive.
Until then, my job at The Merrion will fund my company. Keep Mum and Da off my back.
Like clockwork, my phone buzzes.
Da. Dinner Sunday? Bring a girl this time, for God’s sake. Your mum’s worried you’ll turn into a priest. She tells me Niahm’s single again, maybe give her a call?
I snort under my breath. Typical. They don’t know about Liam. About who I am or what I want.
They don’t know me. Not really.
My da, John O’Donnell sits at Cabinet meetings and talks about housing policy and national heritage. Molly O’Donnell, my mum, volunteers on school boards and parish committees. Both of them believe faith is strongest when it never bends. My sisters, Bridget and Orla fall into this same line of thinking.
Early on, when I first suspected I was attracted to men, I learned early how to compartmentalize. My personal life had to stay private. Like the time I let a guy blow me on our family holiday. How this infidelity led to my breakup with Niamh.
None of them know about Liam. How I loved him, or how we talked, late into the night, about what it might mean to build a life with a woman we both shared. I don’t tell them I’m destroyed inside. Or how lonesome I am.
I suppose I could try. After all, I’m an adult who deserves to live life on my terms and have a family who loves me as I am.
Reality is, I’ve imagined it a hundred ways. Mum would cry and I’d never know if it was out of worry or disgust. Da would go silent, eyes fixed on the floor. He’s old-school, West-Meath born, the type who measures a man’s worth in pints and hurling scores.
At this point, why disappoint them for no good reason. There’s no one in my life now, so what does it hurt to let them believe I’m too busy for love? Give them hope someday I’ll bring home a nice girl from work. Or get back together with Niamh.
For now, I can’t fathom someone else in the space where Liam used to be. Until something real materializes, best to stay under the radar.
