Chapter Thirty-Nine
Rory
Ihaveno idea what I’m doing here tonight. I wasn’t invited, that’s for sure. It’s not even like Kit is here. For the good of the business, he’d said, we politely decline. That she might not have been lying; that she might really have lost the baby. But he doesn’t know her like I do. She’s certifiable and only dropped her psychotic plans when it became obvious I wasn’t playing along.
That night and many, many other times following, I’d told her I’d step up. That I’d father our child, but that would be the extent of our relationship. Next thing, she’s calling me from a fucking restaurant telling me the baby is no more. That’s it—not lost or terminated just,leave it Rory. You’re off the hook. What the hell am I supposed to make of that, other than she’s callous as well as fucked in the head?
Then a couple weeks ago she announced her engagement to some other chump. She fucked me over. In more ways than one. Drove away the only woman I’ve ever loved, but I’m not here, skulking in her garden for revenge. That would make even less sense, because no way I want to be a target again. I just want... God, I don’t fucking know! Maybe I’m here to make her to suffer a little of what I did when she turned up at the house?
I followed Fin, of course, ran after her, only to see Kit bundle her into his car. The bastard gave me a look as dark as the devil before climbing in himself. He refused to answer his phone and fucked off to London afterwards. He wouldn’t even say where he’d left her—refused to tell me for weeks—until it became obvious I was a mess. Fin’s face that night, I can’t get it out of my head; the anguish and betrayal. Do I want to make Beth’s fiancé feel the same? Kit may say a lot of things, and most of them to piss me off, but he was right about not coming here tonight. Whatever the fucked up reason, I shouldn’t be here. I think I’d rather have a root canal, or a prostate exam from a proctologist with huge great sausage fingers than ever see Beth again. In fact, I’d rather rim a fucking—
‘Oof.’ As I turn someone catches me right in the guts. The ball of something that’s partially winded me murmurs an apology, attempting to pull her elbow from my grasp. ‘Where’s the fire, hen?’
Her reply is incomprehensible noise made through gulping breaths. The words might be garbled, but the voice? The voice I know.
It can’t be, can it? It has to be my mind playing tricks on me again. It’s been weeks since I’ve chased her ghost through the street only to find some other girl’s elbow in my grasp. Why the fuck would she be here? It’s like some fucking conspiracy.
‘Please,’ she whimpers. ‘Let me go.’ Her voice brings me back to the moment, though I do the exact opposite holding that particular joint so tight I know it must hurt.
‘The fine fucking Finola.’ My words are more than merely hard edged and her body stiffens under my grasp.
‘Please.’
She gasps as I drag her closer, pulling us both under the glow of some kind of garden light. Her hair is a little longer and a little darker, pulled tight to the nape of her neck, her once blunt fringe now pinned back. Other than these small differences, she looks the same—feels the same—other than maybe the paleness of her face.
‘So you do remember?’ Her expression morphs through shock and mortification to something angry and resolute.
‘I wished to God I didn’t.’ Full of piss and vinegar, the phrase jumps to mind. It’s a pity her voice doesn’t follow through. Because it’s reed thin.
‘Ah, there she is. My little viper.’ Someone choke me—choke the words right out of my fucking throat. I’m hurt, yes. I’ve hurt for months, but if I carry on like this, I’ll blow it for good.
‘I...’ Her chest begins to heave, her breaths matching my own. We’re both emotional—fuming—but I’ll take being fucked before I let her go this time. ‘Rory...’ To hear her call my name again. ‘Rory, I... I’m going to... barf.’
She twists in my arms, a stream of vomit raining down and narrowly missing my shoes.
‘Ah, Jesus! Are you pissed?’ I jump well back from the upchuck. Hands braced on her knees, she doesn’t answer, her body suddenly wracked by huge great sobs. I step closer, tentatively laying my palm on her upper back. When she doesn’t stop me, I begin to rub small circles against her shirt when she suddenly stares up at me from under her lashes, and this isn’t as sexy as it sounds. Her eyes are watery, her lashes wet and spiked, but none of this diminishes the glare she’s giving me. Let’s just say, if looks could kill, I’d be feeling more than a mite unwell myself.
‘Yeah, pissed,’ she repeats, still glaring. ‘But not in the way you mean.’ Pushing herself upright, she jerks her shoulders from under my hand, her body swaying like a jakie—like a drunk. Oh, fuck. She looks about to faint.
‘Fin?’ I pull her against me, threading my arm around her waist. I wished to God I could take it all back; press rewind. Begin this encounter all over again. ‘Are you not well? Jesus, you’re burning up.’
‘No... shit,’ she manages between small gulps of air.
‘Where the fuck have you been?’ It’s like I can’t help myself, but though my question is harsh and angry, my fingers reach out to curl a loose tendril of her hair. ‘What are you doing here?’
In answer, she plucks apathetically at something pulled across her thighs. An apron?
‘You—you’re never a waitress?’ Why?
Fin barks out a laugh bending forward quickly, beginning to retch again. I rub her back again, more forceful this time, keeping to myself the fact that I’m a sympathetic vomiter. But for the fact that I haven’t eaten since lunch, I think I’d be joining her.
Second round over, she pulls away with less violence, sliding her back against the stucco wall of the house.
‘Please, Rory.’ She tips her head to the darkened sky, her words weary, and understandably, hoarse. ‘Please, just leave me alone.’
‘How can I?’ Fists balled at my side, I step closer, for no other reason than to see her better in the light spilling from the kitchen window. At least, that’s what I tell myself. ‘How can you ask me to go?’ Doesn’t she know how I’ve searched for her?
She holds her arm out as though to ward me off, her trembling hand suddenly—tentatively—cupping my cheek. ‘A jealous boyfriend?’ she asks, her voice wavering in a poor imitation of a laugh.
