CHAPTER FOUR
An hour later, I pull up in front of the house Kieran shares with five other Loyola students.
The sun is just beginning to set, and the long shadows fall over the car, bathing us in a strange half light. Neither of us has said much since we left the restaurant; I figured Kieran needed time to decompress, and I was happy to simply keep him company while occasionally pointing out various buildings and businesses as I drove us around Bellevue. When I turned into this neighborhood, Kieran said his house was a few blocks over and I could drop him off now if I wanted to.
The truth is Idon’twant to. I want to stay in this quiet car, bathed in shadows and the soft glow of the sunset, just the two of us. I think it’s helped Kieran, and Iknowit’s helped me. My mind has been quiet for the first time in a long time.
“Do you want to come in?” Kieran’s voice is barely above a whisper. Maybe he’s afraid to break this spell too.
Instead of answering, I kill the engine and drop my keys into my purse. I have a second to see Kieran’s lips curves before he opens his door. I follow, trailing along beside him up the uneven sidewalk to the huge two-story red brick house. Old homes like this one are popular in this area of town, and have mostly been turned into student housing because they can hold so many people, which makes the rent cheap.
Kieran unlocks the front door and motions for me to go first. The entryway is dimly lit, and the smell of burned toast permeates the air.Ahh, student living, I don’t miss you.The thought makes me smile at the same moment Kieran glances at me. He returns the smile with a tilt of his head.
“My room is at the top of these stairs,” he says, motioning to the staircase a few feet away, “but I’ll take you through the house if you like.” I nod and he leads the way to the left into an enormous living room. My eyes widen as I take in the crimson walls and mismatched furniture. A guy in his early twenties is reclining on one of the couches, his eyes glued to the big-screen TV in the corner. He doesn’t look up as we pass through into what I assume was once a formal dining room but is now a rec room of sorts with a foosball table, a folding table and chairs with a game of chess set up, and a couple of squashy armchairs in front of a battered bookcase. Next is the laundry room, a bathroom, and then we’re in the giant kitchen, which looks like it hasn’t been updated since the 1970s. Hidden behind a wall at the far end of the kitchen is a staircase leading up to the second floor.
Upstairs, we pass by three closed doors and a bathroom before finally making it to Kieran’s room. He unlocks the door and steps back as it swings open. “Home sweet home.Céad míle fáilte.”
A hundred thousand welcomes. The Gaelic words are inscribed over the door of Connelly’s, my favorite pub in town. “You speak Gaelic?”
Kieran chuckles. “Not much beyond that, no. We all had to take Irish in school, and Teagan and Sean can speak it fluently, but I never had much of a head for languages. Another disappointment for my parents.” When I stay rooted to the spot, he reaches around the door to flip on the light before ushering me inside with his hand at the small of my back.
The room is about a third of the size of my own bedroom, and sparsely furnished. A single bed is pushed against the wall under the window. A nightstand, dresser, desk, and chair are the only other furniture in the room, and the closet appears to be about the size of my linen closet at home.
“I like to think of it as cozy,” Kieran says. “Serves its purpose anyway, and the rent is dirt cheap.”
I can imagine what his parents would say if they saw this place. It’s fairly typical as far as student living goes; in fact, I’ve seen smaller, and he’s right about it having a cozy feel. But I’m sure they’d question why he’s living here when he could likely have a place of his own in Ireland with the wages he’d make working for his dad.
“I like it,” I tell him, stepping into the center of the room and doing a slow spin. The only personal touches are a stack of books on the nightstand and a collage of what appears to be magazine cutouts of buildings and plans on one wall.
“Inspiration,” Kieran explains when he sees where I’m looking. He moves past me to straighten the stack of papers on his desk and sweep a pair of plaid pants off the floor. “Would you like the bed or the chair?”
For some reason the question makes my cheeks tingle. “Uh, bed, I guess.” I slip off my jacket and shoes and crawl onto the bed, propping one of his pillows against the wall to lean against.
He continues moving around the room, but there isn’t much to tidy, so he’s mostly just shifting things from one place to another. My mom would call it ‘puttering’. I call it stalling, since he seems nervous. “Would you like a cup of tea?” he asks, only now removing his own jacket and shoes. “I know you prefer coffee, but I haven’t got any. I suppose I could nick some from the kitchen.”
“Tea would be nice. Just not as strong as you like it.”
This finally draws a smile from him. His hunched shoulders lower a bit as he nods, going for his desk and pulling an electric kettle from one of its drawers. Before I can question the wholekettle in a drawerthing, he’s out the door.
He returns a moment later and plugs the kettle in, setting it on the desk. He glances at me over his shoulder and does a double take when he sees my expression. “I know,” he says with a laugh. “I know. But there’s no room in here for a microwave and we’re not allowed to have hotplates. A man needs his tea, though, so a kettle seemed the safest bet.” He rummages in the drawer he pulled the kettle from and withdraws a tin full of teabags.
When he bends to reach back into the drawer, he pauses, peering at me over his shoulder. “Promise you won’t laugh.”
“I didn’t laugh at the kettle in the drawer, did I?”
“Mm.” He looks uncertain for a moment. With a sigh, he reaches into the drawer, and this time when he straightens he’s holding two teacups. But not justanyteacups: dainty china teacups, complete with matching saucers.
I press my lips together. I didn’t actually promise I wouldn’t laugh, although considering the afternoon we’ve had…
“My mum sent them with me when I came over,” he says, setting them on the desk. “Said I should drink tea out of proper cups. She’d have a fit if she knew I was using bags instead of loose leaf.” His voice is faint. I can only see his profile, but he’s wearing a small, bittersweet smile. He opens what I assumed was a cupboard under his desk, but is actually a mini fridge. “I prefer a nice hearty mug of tea, or better yet a pot. Needs must and all that.”
His voice is still a soft murmur, and he sounds like he’s a million miles away. He pulls a mini carton of milk from the fridge and adds some to both cups, along with a teabag each. This doesn’t seem like the time to tell him I hate milky tea. He unplugs the kettle as it begins to whistle, and pours the water. From the depths of the seemingly bottomless desk drawer, he pulls out a package of shortbread cookies, along with a bottle of what appears to be whiskey. He holds it toward me in question and I shake my head. He adds a splash to his tea, pauses, then adds another before taking the teabag out of my cup.
Somehow he manages to balance both cups and the cookies as he joins me on the bed. “This okay?”
I look into the milky tea and try not to make a face. “Great. Thanks.”
“I meant me sitting on the bed with you. I can sit on the chair if you prefer, but…” He trails off, busying himself with opening the package of cookies. “I could use the comfort, I guess.”
