Unfixable

Chapter Fourteen

The following day I avoid the Claymore Inn like the black plague. I’m dressed in my freshly laundered jeans and out the front door before Kitty even knocks on my door to serve tea. Yesterday, I’d inadvertently let Shane know that this thing between us isn’t quite as cut-and-dried as I’d planned. He’d hit me in my weak spot, bringing up Evan, and I’d been vulnerable afterward, or I never would have revealed such a weakness. Since I had, I wanted to put off any contact with Shane. Otherwise, I would see one of two expressions on his face.
Pity being the first one. It’s likely that Shane has zero problem having a purely physical relationship with me. I’m actually kind of a jackpot for him. I’m geographically convenient, since we’re currently living under the same roof. Plus, my imminent departure guarantees that he won’t have to suffer through a where-is-this-relationship-headed talk. Cha-ching. I’d rather walk around Dublin in a chicken costume than have that talk, too, but after what I said yesterday, he knows my detachment is an act. His, however, is not. If I see an ounce of pity on his face because of that, I swear I’ll expire of mortification.
The second option is far less likely. Shane might not pity me. He might feel the same way. This reaction is far more dangerous than option one, because I wouldn’t be able to stay away. He would suck me in like a vacuum cleaner, and I wouldn’t come up for oxygen until I have to pack for Chicago. A mere nine days from now. It would be emotional suicide.
Honestly, I’m not even sure these feelings are genuine, or just an illusion I’ve created to get over Evan. It’s possible I’m just fragile after our breakup and my fascination with Shane is a coping mechanism. I never thought I’d be the type of girl who could develop feelings for another guy so quickly. It’s fickle. A trait I’ve never equated with myself.
With a heaved sigh, I lean against a wooden piling at the end of the pier I’m standing on. Since I didn’t get much of a chance to take photographs yesterday while I was with Kitty, I’d come back to Howth this afternoon to remedy that.
Sitting on the north side of Dublin Bay, Howth overlooks a busy harbor, fishing and tourism boats passing each other through the narrow inlet. Students and families carry bags from Beshoffs full of fish and chips, plunking down on the pier to eat their late lunch. It’s another unusually warm day, and I’ve been told by several store owners that I should count myself lucky to witness such a long stretch without rain. I lift my face up to the sun, enjoying the weight of my camera in my hand, trying to think of nothing else.
Instead, I see Shane, as if his image has been stitched on the back of my eyelids. His relief at seeing his mother yesterday, the sound of his laugh, the feel of his hands. This can’t be a coping mechanism, because it’s doing nothing to help me. I might be thinking of Evan less, but those gaps are being filled by Shane in an altogether different way. When I think of Evan, I think of purple flowers. Irises. He was the first boy to ever present me with flowers, and that moment is imprinted on my subconscious. I think of hand-holding and lying on a flannel blanket in the Millennium Park. Playing Frisbee. Eating Italian ices.
I think of trying too hard, of forcing a smile onto my face. I think of failure. Regret.
Pushing aside those troubling thoughts, I let myself think of Shane. On cue, my pulse trips over itself, then grows loud enough to hear over the waves lapping against the side of the pier. I try to picture him on a blanket in Millennium Park, except instead of playing Sudoku like Evan used to do, his hand is tracing lazy circles around my belly button. He’s letting the Italian ice drip a little onto my skin, then licking it off slowly. He’s looking at me like he knows exactly what I’m thinking, instead of giving me that look I used to dread. The one that’s trying to puzzle me out.
Quickly, I raise my camera and discreetly snap an elderly couple watching their granddaughter toddling along the pier, holding her father’s hand. They look fierce in their pride, as if they share a heart and mind. Turning before they can catch me watching them, I snap two fisherman that sound like they’re arguing over a soccer match. At the end of their argument, however, they slap one another on the back and part ways with an, “I’ll see ya ’round, mate.”
Laughing softly, I sit down on the edge of the pier and let my feet dangle. It’s dark before I know it, all the boats returning to the harbor for the night. Yet I’m no closer to a solution for my Shane problem, I’m out of film, and I’m starving. I stand and dust off the back of my jeans, wondering where I can go next to avoid the Claymore.
My cowardice floods me with self-disgust. Why am I avoiding the inn at all? Taking a deep breath, I think of how Ginger would handle this situation. She would saunter in there, Southern attitude in every single step, and wink at the guy giving her trouble. Then she’d continue on right up the stairs without a backward glance, secure in the knowledge that he’d be staring after her.
I store my camera inside my messenger bag and walk back toward the bus stop, with twice as much determination as when I’d disembarked in Howth.
…
When I walk in the Claymore, it’s eerily silent. Shane isn’t standing behind the bar, where he would typically be at this hour. Orla is tapping a pen against a pint glass, staring nervously at the back hallway door. The few customers scattered around the bar appear subdued, watching the televisions but not really seeing them. My first thought is, oh no, something happened to Kitty. It feels like someone is stepping on my throat at the possibility, but I manage to walk to the bar and casually ask Orla what’s going on. I’ve never actually spoken to the perpetually late redhead, apart from an odd hello once in a while, but she answers me now without hesitation.
“Shane is in the office, talking to a man who walked straight in off the bleedin’ street. Brought his solicitor and everything.” She lowers her voice to a whisper. “They come to talk about buying the inn. They didn’t even have an appointment. It’s cheeky, if you ask me.”
“Cheeky,” I repeat softly. When I first walked into the Claymore with my suitcase, the thought of selling it was repellant. Now, it feels like a sacrilege. This is a home. A place to be proud of. It has character and memories. Good and bad, yes, but their memories. How could you walk away from something like this? On top of these rapid-fire thoughts, I’m keenly aware that this puts Shane one step closer to leaving Dublin. Back to racing and traveling around the world.
This is good. Knowing his time here has a specific deadline is good. It’ll make it easier to get on the plane, knowing he’s not standing behind the bar in the same place I left him, while I move farther and farther away.
Jesus, I’m turning into a really good liar.
“From New York, the bloke is. Not even Irish.” She lays a hand on my arm. “Nothing against your lot, it’s just that an American will ruin it straightaway. Put up a bunch of flat-screens on the walls and show American football on them. They’ll definitely want someone behind the bar with decent tits.” She pokes the side of her right boob. “These sad, old danglers won’t stand a chance.”
“You…they’re fine,” I stammer. Honestly, this is our first conversation and we’re already discussing her rack. “My bra is padded enough to double as a flotation device.”
Orla’s face clears of worry as she laughs. “Ah, I get it now. Why our Shane has the wee eye for ya.”
“The wee what?”
“He’s been jumpier than a bag of cats since you arrived. I doubt it’s a coincidence.”
“Maybe I give him indigestion?”
Orla leans forward on the bar, as if imparting a great secret. “Irish men are a complicated sort. That one more than most. Don’t judge by what you see on the surface, or they’ll knock you on your arse when you’re not looking.”
I stow that insight away for later examination. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Shoot.”
“Why doesn’t he fire you? You’re never on time.” When she bursts out laughing, I can’t contain my own smile. “I know from experience he doesn’t take anyone’s shit, so why—”
“Does he continue to employ me?” Orla sighs. “My husband lost the use of his legs in a factory accident last year. It’s been a difficult adjustment. When I’m late to work, it’s normally because I’m hauling him to physical therapy and back.” She shrugs. “Or we’ve simply had a bad morning.”
I’m staggered by this. Not only Shane’s generosity toward Orla, which he’s never uttered a word about, but it proves he cares about this pub and the people who work in it. He’s not as indifferent about the Claymore Inn as he presents to the world.
Orla is watching me process this, I realize. A customer walks into the bar, drawing Orla away, but before she goes to serve him, she taps a finger to her temple. “Irish men.”
Her words ringing in my head, I turn to leave, intending to take a hot shower and attempt sleep. Before I reach the door, Shane walks out with two men in suits. His blue eyes lock on me immediately, the somberness in them tugging at my heart. He opens his mouth to say something, to me, I think, when the kitchen door bursts open and Faith walks out. She’s holding a giant, silver ladle in her hand, her hair pulled back in a messy bun.
“Have you sold it, then?”
Behind me, the pub goes silent. It even sounds like the volume of the music has been turned down. Several chairs scrape back and without turning around, I know the regulars at the bar are watching with avid interest. Shane nods to a young, blond man holding a suitcase. “Faith, this is Joseph DeMatteo and his—”
“An Italian,” Orla shouts from the bar. “Running an Irish pub? Has the entire world gone mad?”
Shane pinches the bridge of his nose. “We’ve a week to decide if we want to accept the offer, Faith. We’ll discuss it later.”
“What’s to discuss? We all know what your decision is going to be.” She throws the ladle down on the ground with a clatter, remnants of soup splattering her shoes. “You hate it here. You always have. We might as well start packing, Ma and I.”
“Faith, this isn’t the place.”
“What is the place, if not here?” She swipes a hand over her eyes. “This is the only place I know.”
Both suited men shift in their loafers, clearly uncomfortable with the family drama playing out around them, although I sense a hint of satisfaction over Faith’s words. They obviously hadn’t been sure up until this point of Shane’s decision, something I find odd. I’d been so sure that the second an offer was made on the inn, he would be laughing his way out the front door.
Shane makes eye contact with me, and I know what he’s asking. He doesn’t even have to say it out loud. I give him a subtle nod, then walk over to Faith, putting an arm around her shoulders. “Why don’t we go upstairs? I’ll show you the pictures I took today.”
“Oh, that’s grand. You two are working together now.” She yanks herself away from me. “I’m not Kitty. I don’t need a babysitter. Piss off.”
Okay, after talking to her like a petulant child, I guess I deserve that. It was a move worthy of an inept boyfriend, the equivalent of telling a woman to, “Calm down.” Since I have only a passing knowledge of how to comfort someone, though, I cut myself a tiny bit of slack. I change tactics, hoping to appeal to the pride she takes in good service, the running of the pub. All the while, I’m battling the painful squeeze in my stomach over the tears brimming in her eyes. “You making a scene isn’t going to change anything, Faith,” I whisper. “It’s only going to give people something to talk about.”
She seems to snap back to herself, then, attention landing on what I suspect are rapt customers, observing the scene with interest. With a frustrated sob, she pushes off me and runs through the hallway door. Shane starts to follow her, but I put a hand on his arm.
“I’ll go.”
His eyes are on Faith’s retreating back. “Thank you.”
I’ve never been inside Faith’s room, nor do I know which one it is, but I see a door slam just beyond the base of the stairs. I pause outside for a moment, take a deep breath, then push inside. Faith is lying facedown on the bed, face buried in a pillow. Surprisingly, she’s not crying. Her body is completely still. From a tightening in her shoulders, though, I know she’s aware that I’ve entered. It takes her a moment to sit up and face me.
“I hate him.”
My first inclination is to say, “No, you don’t,” but I stay silent. Faith doesn’t have the capacity to hate anyone, especially her brother. I know that, but telling a female how she feels, right on the heels of asking her to calm down, might get me stabbed with the letter opener I see on her bedside table.
“This place, it represents our da to him. That’s why he can’t stand it here. Can’t stand to remember what it was like.” She swipes a hand under her nose. “They couldn’t even be in the same room, the two of them. Then what happened six months ago—”
Quickly, I cut her off. “What was it like? With the two of them here?” It’s not that I don’t want to know what happened six months ago. I do. It’s that I sense it’s the piece of the puzzle I’ve been missing and I want Shane to be the one to tell me. What sense does that make?
Faith yanks the rubber band from her hair, letting her dark mane fall around her shoulders, a kink in the middle where the rubber band held it together all afternoon in the kitchen. I notice the slump of her shoulders, the dark circles around her eyes and I’m slammed with guilt. All day I’ve been feeling sorry for myself when Faith is about to lose everything she has ever known. I’m a horrible friend. I don’t even know how to be a friend.
“We couldn’t do anything right. None of us.” She blows out a breath. “But Shane got it worst of all, being the son. If I ever did something right, it came as a shock to my father. Shane’s mistakes were unacceptable. When he was younger, he tried harder. Wanted to do better. He worked himself to the bone. It was never good enough. Nothing was ever good enough.” A sob works its way free of her mouth. “I take it back. I don’t hate my brother.”
The image of a young man, eager to impress his father and failing, prevents a smile from forming on my face over Faith’s confession. Instead of making me sad, it makes me livid. It makes me wonder where some parents, mine included, get off on being so shitty.
“Shane got older and the fighting started. He started driving to Kildare on his day off, working with a racing trainer. Took every bit of his pay to afford it.” Faith shrugs. “My father demanded he quit. He threatened to kick Shane out so many times…one morning we woke up and he was just…gone.”
“I’m sorry.” I don’t know what else to say. Part of me understands Shane’s actions completely. He broke up with his family before they could break up with him. It’s something I might do in the same situation. To save myself the pain from the final blow of being kicked out.
“God, part of me envies Shane,” Faith continues. “He wanted to race. Always did. So he went out and bloody did it. I never had the guts to stand up to him. When I leave the inn, I still hear my da in the back of my head telling me to get back to work.”
“But you do it anyway.” My voice feels rusty, so I clear my throat. “You’re the girl who conned me into going to O’Kelly’s. You brought me to see the street performers in the park. Those are the two best days I’ve ever had. You did that for me. I never would have done it on my own.” As I say the words, I realize they’re true.
She stares, wide-eyed. “Really?”
I suddenly feel the need to convince her how irrepressible her spirit is, even if she can’t see it for herself. It’s important to me that when I leave this room, she looks less defeated than when I arrived. It’s a lofty goal since my usual advice would be to rub some dirt on it. “Yeah, Faith. Really.” I fidget with the drawstring of my hoodie. “You’re the bravest of all. You’re the one who stuck. The one who busts her ass making this place run. And you do it with a smile on your face. I could never do that. I would have ran.”
Her lower lip starts to tremble and I check the urge to back through the door. “Thank you, Willa.” She stands and in two steps, she’s thrown her arms around me. Slowly, I put my arms around her, too. “You’re wrong, though. You like to think you’d run, but you wouldn’t. You’re a sticker, same as me.”
I look at the ceiling to prevent the damnable moisture in my eyes from leaking out. I need to get out of here, so I can find something to take my mind off what she’s telling me. With one final, awkward pat of her back, I pull away. “All right, well…”
She laughs, and I feel a flash of triumph. I’ve managed to repair some of the damage and its way more rewarding than I would have expected. “Go on, Willa. You’re off the hook for tonight.”
“Good night, Faith.”
I turn and walk out of her bedroom into the darkness. Right into Shane.