Oh, yeah, and then there was introducing him as my boyfriend to my bossy and persistent neighbor; ambiguously giving in to Ronan’s demands about how I spent my time and with whom; the caveman dry-humping against the wall in my apartment; the orgasm in the dance club; and the make-out marathon in the taxi, in the elevator, in the hallway, and against the door of his apartment.
Ah, yes, and how could I forget meeting his mother and his sister immediately afterward? Or how I’d practically sprinted out of the apartment after introductions were made?
Lovely. Just lovely.
At least I hadn’t spat tea in anyone’s face…yet. Just my boyfriend’s.
Ronan…my boyfriend.
He was my boyfriend. We were a we, an us. I was part of a couple; I was more than just a one. I tried to ignore the way my heart thundered whenever I thought about it, how excited just the thought of seeing Ronan made me, of belonging with him.
As well I tried to suppress thoughts of our future, asking myself whether we would live in Ireland or in New York—I hoped Ireland. I wondered whether Joan would mind if I telecommuted from overseas, whether Ronan already had an apartment in Dublin or we’d pick one out together. I didn’t honestly care. Of course, getting shots of celebrities in Dublin might be an issue. But that didn’t really matter. I would give up the blog in a heartbeat if it meant being with Ronan….
I was completely mad, made insane by physical human connection.
WriteALoveSong had even commented on “Annie and Ronan’s connection.” I received a message from her early this morning with a fuzzy picture of Ronan and me at the bar last night.
@WriteALoveSong to @Socialmedialite: I know you’ve got a little crush on this rugby guy, so prepare yourself. He’s dating some hottie with a body and an epically pretty face. It looks very serious. One of my club contacts sent me the picture…If you need a shoulder to cry on, I can send you a blow-up doll. Just pretend it’s me.
I’d looked at the picture entirely too much, liking how we looked together entirely too much. It was genuine and serious and happening entirely too fast, but I didn’t care.
I was in desperate like with a real person. I couldn’t remember ever liking someone as much as I did Ronan. I liked him so goddamn much; I thought about him all the freaking time. It was more than just how epically sexy he was. He was fucking charming as hell, and funny, and smart, and sweet, and brave, and determined, and honorable….
“Debbie downer does Dallas, dammit,” I muttered under my breath, pushing these thoughts away before they started running away from me. I kept my eyes on the gravel path. How much I liked Ronan flustered and worried me, but I liked him more than giving into the temptation to worry. I wanted him. I wanted him so much it hurt.
And now, on this sunny and unusually warm Saturday morning in March, I was wearing makeup for the second time in two days, on my way to properly meet and spend time with my boyfriend’s family. I was twenty-three, but last night was the first time in my life I’d ever met the family of someone I was dating; and I was sure I’d made a terrible impression.
Well, I reasoned, at least I can’t sink any lower in their estimation. I have nowhere to go but up.
As well, I was wearing the necklace Ronan had given me. It felt warm against my skin, a gentle touch that made me think of him.
They were all there when I arrived even though I was five minutes early. My eyes were immediately drawn to Ronan, and my ability to hone in on his location even in a crowded restaurant was disconcerting. I took a moment to survey them from my spot by the front door.
Ronan’s sister, Lucy, had rainbow hair, meaning she’d dyed her hair in sections. The front was red and then came orange, yellow, and green. Blue, indigo, and violet merged to form an amorphous bluish-purple at the back. Currently, she wore it in a long and loose French braid down her back.
She was sitting in profile and shared Ronan’s attractive bone structure, but her features were exceedingly refined, elegant, and delicate. It was like his face but softer and feminine. Also, I remembered last night being startled by her eyes because they were cornflower blue.
Really, she was beautiful. But more than that, she had a friendly, carefree, spirited energy about her. During our very short introduction, she’d struck me as joyful, and I could see it now as she spoke to her brother. Her hands were animated as she talked, and her smile was enormous.
I shifted on my feet, allowing myself to lurk for a moment longer as I brought my attention to his mother. She was…well, she was beautiful. But hard. Even from this distance, I recognized in her a sort of kinship, a woman who’d had a difficult life, had been dealt an unfair hand.
She had the same blue eyes as her daughter, but—other than their coloring—Lucy and Mrs. Fitzpatrick looked nothing alike. Where Lucy was delicate, Ronan’s mother was exotic, her features sharp. Her hair was blonde; her lips were cushioned and full; her cheekbones high, leaving a hollow above her jaw. She was stunning.
But hard.
She held herself away from her children even as she sat at the table with them. She wore a smile like people wear a coat or a scarf. It looked foreign and bulky on her features.
I wondered briefly if I looked like that. I wondered if a smile and joy and happiness looked like transitory visitors on my face rather than like they belonged there.
…or was I like Lucy?
No, I thought sadly. I am not like Lucy.
A cold sensation slithered over my skin, a blanket of sorrow, an inkling that maybe Ronan deserved someone less messy, less reticent—because he still had joy. Yes, at times his eyes were sad, but he still had a brightness in him, one he couldn’t contain or hide. It was a part of him, and I loved it.
“Can I help you, miss?”
I started, turning my attention to the hostess who stood at my elbow. She was young, likely in her first or second year of college, and exceedingly pretty. Her eyes moved over me with solicitous curiosity.
“Oh, yes. I—uh, I see my party. They’re right there.” I pointed to the table where Ronan sat with his mother and sister.
The hostess’s gaze followed where I’d indicated, and I heard her murmur under her breath, “Lucky you….”
I should have smiled at this and chuckled. A normal person likely would have agreed, Lucky me. Instead, I felt cagey and irritated. This was how it would be with Ronan. Other women looking, liking, coveting. I didn’t have any desire to be waging a constant war against taller, sexier, slimmer, prettier girls. I felt a bit lost, in over my head. I didn’t know what I was thinking, what I was doing here.
Who did I think I was? That I would have a chance with this guy? I was living in a fantasy, one that would leave me abandoned—again—and heartbroken.
These were my cheerful thoughts as the hostess unnecessarily guided me to the table. Her steps were hasty, leaving me several feet behind. I noted how she touched Ronan’s shoulder and bent near him, whispered in his ear, how close she stood, how she lingered.
His eyes lifted as she spoke and fell on mine. Then he smiled.
And it was like the clouds parting.
I saw his joy, witnessed the happiness in his features shining like a beacon. He stood abruptly and must’ve not realized the hostess was still there because his chair hit her in the legs, and she stumbled back. He turned briefly to offer a hasty apology and then darted around the table to meet me.
He was…eager, excited, even. His excitement was palpable, contagious, and I found myself smiling broadly as he approached.
I opened my mouth to say hi, but he stopped me with a quick kiss, his hands sliding into my open coat and squeezing my bottom. I was glad the coat was long and hid his handsy liberties.
“I like your necklace.” His eyes were warm, told me that he was pleased. Then he added against my mouth, “I missed you.”
“It’s only been ten hours.” I smiled up at him, tilting my head back so I could see his face.